Page 121 of Face Off
How are you spending the big night?
Me
Lounging around with a book. I’m about to have a bowl of ice cream then head to bed.
What are you doing? Are you at some fancy party on a yacht?
Instead of an incoming text, my phone rings with a FaceTime call.
Maverick’s contact photo—the one he took at practice last week of him shirtless and holding eight hockey sticks above his head—flashes across my screen.
A small smile works its way across my mouth when I answer.
“There she is,” he says, and he waves at the camera. There’s a bruise on his cheek, a purplish red spot from when he got punched in the jaw during our game on Saturday. “Hey, Hartwell.”
“That doesn’t look like a yacht. Are you celebrating by yourself?”
“No way.” He tilts his phone down, and June is sitting in his lap. She’s painting the nails on his left hand, and they’re wearing matching party hats that say HAPPY BIRTHDAY! “I have my best girl with me. She’s giving me a makeover.”
“What color did you go with?”
“Pink. It’s her favorite,” he says, and the camera pans back to him. “Are you home alone?”
“Yeah. Piper and Lexi went to a club. They invited me, but I’m tired. Plus, the thought of putting on real clothes sounds absolutely miserable.”
“Do you want to come over and celebrate with us? We also have ice cream, so you wouldn’t have to abandon your plans.”
“And champagne,” June adds, and I laugh.
“Champagne, huh? Are you being a bad influence, Miller?”
“Me? Never. The kid version is grape juice, but I have the adult version too. Come on, Red. You’re right next door. You can be here in five minutes. No one should start off the New Year alone.”
Suddenly, the apartment is too empty. That quiet I craved is too loud, and I feel unsettled and restless. A change of scenery sounds like the perfect idea.
Mavericksounds like the perfect idea.
“Okay,” I say, and his whole face brightens. His eyes crinkle in the corners, and his smile could light up a whole room. “Let me brush my hair and change. I’ll be there soon.”
“Who cares what your hair looks like? Get your butt over here.” Maverick flashes the camera to his thighs and the joggers that hug his muscles. I salivate a little, a natural reaction to seeing a man in gray sweatpants. “We’re keeping it casual.”
“Not all of us look that good in sweatpants.”
“Wear a pair and let me be the judge of that. I’ll give you a thorough inspection.”
I roll my eyes, but I’m already halfway to my room and yanking off my thick socks. Unraveling my hair from its messy bun and opening my dresser drawers. I knock over a stack of folded laundry, and I leave it on the floor, making sure to grab the small gift bag sitting on my bedside table.
“I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
“You can do better than that, Emmy girl. Make it eight.”
“Do I get a prize if I win?”
“Yeah.” His eyes gleam. “A midnight kiss.”
Never one to back down from a challenge, I flash him a smile. “Deal.”
I make it to his apartment in seven minutes and thirty-two seconds.
