“You are, Emmy. I know you don’t like to boast about your accomplishments, but it’s okay to own it.” Piper braids my longhair into two pigtails and adds a tiny ribbon to each side. “Besides, how hard can it be to play on an NHL team? Boys do it.”
“Yeah. Boys do it. Thanks, Piper.” I reach over my shoulder and squeeze her hand. “I mean it. Thank you for being here.”
She loops her arm around my chest and hugs me. “There’s nowhere I’d rather be.”
“Do you know when we’re doing the signing?”
“After practice. Coach Saunders decided to put together a panel of players to join you in talking with the media. Maverick will be there. Hudson Hayes, too. I’m trying to corral Liam Sullivan, our goalie, to come, but he has a giant stick up his ass. He doesn’t like interviews.” She fixes my left braid. “You won’t be alone, so you’ll be able to deflect a little bit.”
“Until Maverick makes me look like an idiot in front of everyone.” I pull away from her and stand up. “I can’t believe what an ass he was during our first meeting. He thought I wanted to sleep with him.”
“Definitely not a meet-cute,” she agrees. “And, to be fair, most women want to sleep with him. You’re an anomaly.”
I snort. “In his dreams.”
“At least things can only get better from here. The press love Maverick. He does a good job of telling them just enough information to keep them off his back. Don’t worry about him,” Piper says.
It’s hard not to worry about him when he’s the best guy on the team. When he’s the biggest, fastest, most intimidating specimen in the NHL whose opinion also happens to carry the most weight in the locker room.
He might drive me up a wall—and I’m going to have to change my phone number—but Maverick Miller is the key to keeping my position on the Stars.
I don’t have to pass to him.
I don’t even have tolikehim.
I just have to keep things professional so the people who write my checks think we get along well enough to keep me around.
“You’re right.” I grab my stick and shuffle toward the door. “It’s going to be fine.”
“Look at you.” Piper claps her hands together, and I think she’d find happiness even on the gloomiest, rainiest day. “You’re going to do great. It’s the same practice you’ve done hundreds of times. Worry about the media after, and tonight, we can stuff our faces with Mexican food.”
“And wine?” I ask, and she grins.
“Bottles and bottles of the stuff. I haven’t gotten tipsy since the night I signed my divorce papers, and I’m overdue.”
“Wasn’t that a year ago?”
“Yeah.” She shrugs. “I don’t like to drink alone.”
My stomach drops to my feet. “Shit. I’ve been a horrible friend.”
“You have not. You’ve been busy living out your dreams, just like I thought I was living out mine. We’re here together now, and that’s what matters.” Her smile is kind and full of encouragement that I feel deep in my soul. “Give them hell, Emmy.”
My first day of middle school, I ate lunch in a bathroom stall by myself.
I’m worried today is going to go the same way.
The core group of these guys have been playing together for years. They might suck, but they make it obvious from interviews and photos they love each other.
It’s hard to wiggle your way into a team’s already tight-knit circle of trust without coming across as trying too hard.
I’m purposely the first one on the ice so I can shake out some nerves, and I take four quick laps around the rink. By the time the rest of the team shows up, that lingering self-doubt that’s pounding in my chest starts to quiet down. I pull off to the bench and grab my water bottle, not wanting to look like an overeager showoff.
A few of the players nod my way. The guy decked out in goalie gear—Sullivan, his jersey tells me—gives me a grunt for a greeting that sounds like he’s either pissed off or in pain.
Piper was right—he does seem to have a stick up his ass.
Grant Everett, a five-foot-ten guy who barely looks legal to drink, asks if I could sign a towel for his sister after practice. I’m so flustered by the number three pick in last year’s NHL draft wantingmyautograph, I miss my mouth when I try to take a sip of water and drench the front of my practice jersey.
