“She’s sitting with her parents, so I’ll make sure to bring her by the table. She’d love to see you.” Off to the side of the crowd, someone calls out his name. “Save me a dance, Red. If I don’t get my hands on you tonight, I think I might die.”
“We’d hate to see that.” I pat his chest and step past him, swaying my hips as I walk up the stairs. “You’ve turned into a liability since you stole my favorite pair of underwear, Miller. You should know I’m not wearing any tonight.”
His mouth goes slack, and I grin all the way to my seat.
THIRTY-TWO
MAVERICK
WatchingEmerson all night has been torture.
Her knee brushed against mine when we were listening to Coach’s opening remarks, and I swear it was like she was on top of me.
Her fingers grazed up my thigh when she stood up from the table to use the restroom, and I forgot where I was for a few minutes.
No underwear.
A dress that hugs her curves.
A cocky little smirk that tells me she thinks she’s winning whatever game it is we’re playing.
She really is a redheaded assassin.
People have been vying for her attention since the minute she walked into the ballroom, and I can tell she’s close to tapping out.
Her eyes bounce to the exit every few minutes like she’s planning an escape. She keeps trying to step toward the buffet line, and I haven’t seen her take a bite of food all night.
It’s time to intervene.
I push back my chair and shrug off my tux jacket, making a beeline for Emerson. I work my way around the crowded dancefloor toward her. I get stopped a handful of times by some of our corporate sponsors and season ticket holders. They tell me how much more fun it is to cheer for a team who’s winning, and I laugh when I’m supposed to laugh.
I shake hands with all the important people who pay a lot of money to come and see us play, but the whole time, I keep an eye on her.
When I finally break free from a conversation about the All-Star team this year, I make a pitstop at the buffet line. I load up on chicken tenders and a helping of mashed potatoes. I shove a stack of napkins in my pants pocket for good measure—I’ve seen how the woman eats. She’s going to make a mess, and it’ll be the cutest thing in the world.
“I’m so sorry to interrupt.” I slide up next to Emerson and rest my free hand on her lower back. “I need to steal my winger for a second. There’s an urgent matter involving stick lengths, and her opinion is very important.”
“Oh.” The reporter—Stewart, his name tag tells me—widens his eyes. “That sounds important.”
I nod, really wanting to sell this. “It’s gravely important. Thank you so much for being so understanding, Stewart. I’d love to send you a jersey.”
“Wow, really? That would be wonderful.” He fumbles in his pocket and pulls out a business card. “Here’s my contact information.”
“I’ll have our merchandise folks get in touch with you on Monday. Thanks, man.” I pat his shoulder, and he beams. “You’re a good one.”
“Nice talking to you, Stewart. Have a good rest of your night,” Emerson adds, and I guide her to a table tucked behind a speaker and a huge potted plant. No one should bother us over here. “Stick lengths, huh? Please tell me that’s not a really corny innuendo, Miller.”
“It could be.” I drop my voice and brush my knuckles over her bare shoulder. She shivers, and I want to touch her everywhere. “You look incredible in that dress, Red.”
“Thank you. I don’t get a chance to wear clothes like this often, and I wanted to take advantage of it.”
“You should.” I point to the empty chair, and she drops in it. I hand her the plate and napkins and sit beside her. “You wear business casual to the arena anyway. Why not wear a ballgown every once in a while?”
Emerson pops a fry in her mouth then licks the salt from her finger, and I’ve reached a new low in life: I’m officially jealous of a fucking appendage. “I wish it were that easy.”
“It’s not?” I frown and drop my elbow on my thigh, staring at her. “Enlighten me.”
“I don’t want to make this a whole sexism thing, but women are held to such a double standard. I wear a skirt to the arena that shows off my legs, and people call me a slut. I wear a jacket and a buttoned-up shirt, and I get called a prude. I’m sure when pictures of tonight make the rounds online, people are going to think I’m a bad role model for young girls just because you can see my cleavage.”
