He glares at me, but he knows it’s all tough love. Sullivan has been the best goaltender in the league the last four seasons, and his preferred feedback style doesn’t include having his ass kissed. He wants to know what he’s doing wrong, which is why he dips his chin in a nod. Gently bumps my shin with his stick and heads toward Trevor with Richie Davenport, his backup.
“Coach.” Grant skates up to me and fixes his helmet. “Have you talked to my sister yet?”
“Nope.” I bite my tongue so hard I swear I taste blood. I gesture for him to follow me to the guys forming two lines. “I’m busy with you all and trying to be a present parent on top of everything else.”
“Oh, yeah. Makes sense.” He grins and takes the spot behind Maverick, glancing my way. It’s really fucking unfair how much he and his sister look alike, down to the way he cocks his hip to the side. “I told Hannah you were going to reach out, and it’s been a week. Don’t make me look bad, Coach.”
“Thanks, Everett,” I say, painfully aware of how many days it’s been since he passed along her number.
I’ve typed and deleted a hundred messages to her. Each one has gotten progressively worse, and I stayed up all night last night wondering how the hell I’m going to ask her to do something for me when the last time I saw her, I was telling her to forget I ever had my head buried between her legs.
Fuck.
Those goddamn thighs have haunted me. So has her creamy, smooth skin and the smell of her perfume.
I hear her moans when I’m alone in my hotel room during away games. I see her hair scattered on the pillows and her knees opened wide when I try to fall asleep, and, come to think of it, I’m not sure I’ve been right in the head since I left her apartment.
Who could be after being in the presence of someone who is so perfect, it makes you feel so goddamn unworthy?
I pinch the bridge of my nose to clear the memory and crouch low, lining up a puck.
“You’re first, Miller,” I call out, happy for the distraction.
“Huh?” He blinks, pushing himself to a standing position from where he’s leaning against his stick. “Sorry. Did you say something to me?”
“Where’s your head?” I pass the puck to him, narrowing my eyes when it bounces off his skate. “If you showed up to practice under the influence, I’m going to bepissed.”
“What? No. I’m notdrunk. I haven’t had alcohol in—shit. Weeks? Months?”
“Makes book club way less fun,” Ethan chimes in.
“Care to share why you’re off in your own world then?” I ask. “I hope it’s for a good reason, otherwise we’re ditching the drills and your teammates will skate laps while you watch.”
He taps the puck with the blade of his stick and gives it a lazy hit. “It’s Emmy.”
Grant gasps. “I swear to god, if you’re divorcing my second favorite woman in the world, you’re going to get an earful from me, Miller. And probably a fist to the face.”
“You better not have fucked up,” Ethan warns. “You can’t do better than her, but she can dowaybetter than you.”
“I’m not as fast as I used to be, but I can still kick your ass,” Riley says.
“Mav. Why didn’t you tell us the two of you were having problems?” Hudson asks.
“Will all of you calm down? We’re fine, and no one needs to kick my ass. My wife could do that just fine on her own.” Maverick’s lips twitch. “It’s the baby. Emmy isn’t due until December, but she woke up this morning in pain. I’m worried about her.”
I know Emerson Hartwell, his pregnant wife, well. I was the one who scouted her from the ECHL and signed her to the Stars’ roster a few years ago, marking the first time a woman has ever suited up for a regular season NHL game.
She’s a complete badass who played with us before an end-of-season trade sent her to Toronto. She wound up in Baltimore as their starting left winger after another move, but she’s not expected to play this season after finding out she was pregnant earlier in the year.
Maverick has mentioned her struggle with infertility during our player-coach meetings in the past, but it never interfered with the effort he gave on the ice. His distractedness is new, and when I take a second look at him, I notice the exhaustion lining his face. The sunken cheeks and unshaved jaw he runs his knuckles over.
He looks like shit, and my chest pinches tight.
“Is Emmy okay?” Grant demands. “Has she been to the doctor?”
“Thedoctor? Something like that warrants a trip to the hospital,” Ethan says.
“Never thought I’d see the day when Richardson was right about something involving a woman’s health.” Hudson chuckles. “But he’s right, Mav.”
