Page 31 of Face Off
“The bar sure is low,” I say, surprising myself with a laugh. Maverick’s grin grows brighter, and I narrow my eyes. “Stop it.”
“Stop what?”
“Stop smiling at me.”
“I forgot how much you hate it when I’m nice to you, Red.” Maverick knocks my helmet with his knuckles, and a fire flickers inside me. “Are you ready to get this party started?”
“Yeah.” I nod. “I’m ready.”
I received a standing ovation when I took the ice for the first time, and I didn’t miss the way Maverick encouraged the crowd to cheer. I played three minutes in the first period and four in the second.
When I’m not in the game, I study the Stars’ transitions. I’m sloppy tonight, and I don’t want to make the same mistakes again.
Maverick spends more time on the ice than anyone, shaking his head when Coach tries to replace him with Grant late in the third period. Watching him fly past me, a blur of blue jersey and white helmet, is nothing like seeing him at practice.
He’s a beast on the ice, determined to help his team win and ready to sacrifice his body in the process. I knew he was competitive, but in a game environment with the clock ticking down, he’s lethal.
It’s easy to see why he’s one of the best players in the league. Nothing is half-assed, and I admire the way he makes skating lookeasy.
“Hartwell,” Coach says, and I lift my chin. “You’re in.”
“There are two minutes left,” I say, and I buckle my helmet with a shaky hand.
“And?”
“And… and nothing,” I say, knowing better than to push back on a coaching decision.
Coach Saunders nods, and I stand up. When Presley Donohue, our left winger on the second line, glances toward the bench, I make my move, tumbling onto the ice and taking off with the offensive attack.
“There she is,” Maverick calls out. He shoulders a defender into the glass and grunts. “You looked a little bored sitting for so long.”
I catch a pass from Hudson and cross the blue line, my eyes scanning the ice. I spot Ryan Seymour open to my right, and I send the puck toward him.
“Maybe I was bored from watching you,” I say.
Maverick’s laugh wraps around me as he skates past, a towering mass of man charging toward the goal. Seymour passes back to Maverick who toys with the defense for three seconds before rearing back and netting a perfect snap shot that sends the hometown crowd into a frenzy.
“Still bored? That one was for you, Hartwell,” he says, adding a wink.
“Such a showoff,” I say, joining the guys huddled around him.
“Think you can score one more?” Ethan asks, his arm slung over Maverick’s shoulder. “I’ve won every face-off so far tonight. I can win another so you can really bring this home, Cap.”
“Let seventeen have it,” Maverick says, nodding my way. “We’ll set her up for a shot.”
“What? No way,” I say. “Coach is about to take me out and?—”
“No, he’s not,” interjects Riley Mitchell, Hudson’s defense partner. “He never takes out players in the last minute, especially if it’s after a goal. You’re in until the final buzzer, Emmy.”
“You’re fine,” Hudson says gently, and he nudges my side.
“Unless you don’t think you can handle it,” Maverick adds. “Grant can step up.”
“No,” I blurt out, and his smirk tells me he was trying to egg me on. “I can do it.”
Our huddle breaks, and Ethan does win the face-off. The puck goes to Hudson then Maverick, a cruel game of keep away from the opposing team as they charge for the attacking zone.
“Red,” Maverick calls out, and he taps the puck my way. “Let’s go.”
