Page 30 of Face Off
“Don’t get me started on Miller.” I sigh and flip my braid over my shoulder. “He’s hell-bent on us becoming friends, and I don’t know why.”
“He wants his squad to do well, Emmy, and camaraderie with his teammates, even the cactus-like ones, is important to him.”
“Thanks for the reminder that I need to water my plants.” I grab my helmet off the floor and hold it against my hip. “I should get going. Showing up late to my first game will probably earn me a stern talking to from Captain Know-It-All.”
“Have fun tonight. Remember how much you love the sport, and it’ll be a blast.”
“No pressure whatsoever. Thanks for the pep talk, Grady.” I wave. “I’ll text you tomorrow.”
I click off my phone and take a deep breath, buckling my helmet under my chin. I grab my stick off the wall and slip into the hallway, surprised to find it empty. The noise from the arena echoes down the tunnel, and I smile at the voices of fans filing in to their seats.
“Hartwell,” a voice barks out.
I look over my shoulder and see Maverick leaning against the wall in all his gear. One ankle is crossed over the other, a lazy slouch to his tall frame.
“Yes?” I ask, turning to face him.
His eyes sweep me up and down, from my jersey to my skates, and even from here, I can see his dimple pop. He motions me forward, and my feet move on their own. I trudge toward him, wondering what he has to say, and I brace myself for the worst.
We’re sending you to our AHL affiliate.
You’re headed back to California.
Finn Adams had a miraculous recovery, and we don’t need you anymore.
“You good?” he asks when I get close.
“I’m fine. What did you need to tell me?”
“Need to tell you?” Maverick pushes off the wall. He looks down at me and frowns. “What would I have to tell you?”
“Some bad news or something.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“I don’t know.” I shrug and slip my hand under my jersey to fix my shoulder pad. “Why else would you be looking for me?”
“Uh.” He wrinkles his eyebrows. “To wish you good luck. Today is a big day.”
“Oh.” I pretend to inspect my gloves, not wanting to look him in the eye. “Really?”
“Yes, really. You and your self-doubt, Red. We’re going to have to work on that,” he tuts. “Do you want to hear about my first game?”
“I know you’re going to tell me anyway,” I say, and I am curious.
Maverick laughs, and it unknots the string of tension in my spine. “I spent thirty minutes before puck drop barfing in the bathroom. My coach at the time couldn’t find me, and when I finally dragged myself out to the ice during player introductions, my pants were on backward. But the worst part came eight minutes into the first period.”
“What did you do?” I ask, unwillingly captivated.
“I scored on the wrong goal.” He giggles, a high-pitched noise that almost makes me smile. “Sent the puck straight at my own goalie because my nerves got the best of me. The ESPN headline the next day wasMiller’s Mishap,and I hid my face for a week.”
“Shit.”
“I know.”
“How did you survive with all the attention?”
“It was tough, but I persevered. I’m not a quitter, Hartwell.” He grins, and there’s an unexpected swoop low in my stomach. “All that to say, you’re going to be fine. I’m not sure how much Coach is going to use you tonight, but as long as you skate the right way down the ice, I think we can consider it a success.”
