Page 141 of Face Off
Redheaded Assassin
No one’s. My dad told me he’d disown me if I picked a favorite, so I’m being neutral and not wearing one at all.
Are you wearing your Lemieux jersey?
Me
Nope. Someone else tonight.
Redheaded Assassin
You can’t wear your own jersey, Miller.
Me
Try and stop me, Hartwell.
“Hey, Bill.”I whistle at the retro Gretzky jersey he has on. It looks decades old, and I’m jealous as hell. “Damn. Is that authentic?”
“It is.” The security guard turns around and proudly shows off the memorabilia. “It’s from his rookie season.”
“Shit. I would’ve loved to have seen him play back then.”
“I saw him in his first year and knew he was going to be special. I thought the same thing about you. Still do.”
“Nah, man.” I shake my head. “You can’t do that. I’m nowhere near as good. I’ve been in the league almost half the time as he was, and I don’t have anything to show for it. No Stanley Cups. No game sevens, and no playoff experience. We’re not on the same playing field.”
“Wins don’t mean everything, Maverick. You’re the same kind of leader. You have that same kind of passion for the game. That’s the stuff that matters more than goals and assists.”
“Come on, Bill. You’re making me all emotional, and I have a game to get ready for.”
“Sorry.” He gives me a sheepish grin. “Who are you wearing? I can’t see under your jacket.”
“It’s a surprise.” I wave and head for security screening. “All I’ll tell you is it’s my favorite player to date.”
I throw my phone and keys in a bowl and make small talk with the officer standing at the metal detector. He picked one of my jerseys for tonight, and I happily sign the back of it for him.
I whistle as I walk down the hallway toward the locker room, a lightness in my step.
Everything’s been sogoodlately.
I got to play in the All-Star Game and competed on the same team as some of the guys I went to college with. Our schedule for the second half of the season is lighter than the first, which leaves me optimistic about our playoff chances.
Emmy has been over almost every single night this week, and when we had a road game in Phoenix two days ago, we spent the afternoon walking around downtown in a pair of baseball hats, soaking up the sunshine.
I know it’s not dating, but it’s exactly what dating would be like.
Dallas was right—this other stuff is really fucking fun.
We sleep together and eat meals together. We hang out when we’re not at practice or on the road. She calls me when she’s watering her plants, and I call her when I’m at the grocery store. Sometimes we chat for ten minutes. Sometimes it turns into an hour.
It’s like we’re stuck in the murky middle between friends with benefits and boyfriend and girlfriend, and I think it’s time to have a talk with her. I don’t know if she wants to keep going down this road of constantly being in each other’s lives, but I do. And I want to put a label on it so there’s no confusion.
“Smile, Mavvy,” Maven calls out, and I grin as she snaps a couple photos of me in the players’ hallway. “Take your coat off so I can see who you’re wearing, please.”
“So bossy.” I shrug off my jacket and drape it over her arm, turning around so she can see the name stitched on the back. “What do you think?”
“Oh, shit.” She laughs, and her camera clicks two dozen times. “You’re going to break the internet.”
