He chuckles again and casually turns his hat around. The movement is too damn small to have such a large effect on me.
“I probably would have made something. I mean, nothing beats a glizzy post Rowdy’s,” he says. “But when I have the time, I’m a pretty good cook.”
I mime pulling out a pen scribbling against my palm.
“What are you doing?”
“Just adding to my list of things I know about my fake boyfriend.Plays hockey. Chews gum. World-renowned chef.Got it.”
He leans back with his arm stretched on the wheel aheadof him, and he looks over at me. “I like it when you’re mouthy.”
I run my tongue along my teeth, biting back a smile. I’ve never pretended to be someone else, but most people have already decided who I am once they read the bullet points on my resume. Sweet, perfect Chloe.There’s nothing she can’t do.For whatever reason, though, when I’m with Maverick it feels different. Maybe it’s because he knows what it’s like to be labeled as something—whether the title is warranted or not—but I don’t feel this need to filter myself or worry about failing or messing anything up with him. It just feels…easy.
“Have you been out this way before?”
“I’ve driven through Fernwood, but I’ve never stopped. We used to spend a week every summer out in Bayview.”
“You and your family?”
I nod. “And Savannah.”
“Do you have any siblings?”
“Nope. Not unless you count the Alvarez twins.”
Maverick switches his hands on the wheel, leaning his right arm on the center console. The shift is slight, but rather than leaning toward the window, his body is angled toward me now. I run my palms over my jeans, before turning the vents away from me.
“You guys are close,” he says. “I mean, you and Sav, obviously, but like, her whole family. I don’t think Coach would have been so cool in the locker room that day if you were anybody else.”
I just nod because how do you explain over a decade of loyalty to someone in one breath—especially to someone I’m only supposed to be pretending to date. And definitely not now that he’s taking up more space in my head than either of us agreed to.
“I love my brothers,” Maverick pipes up, cutting through my thoughts. “But sometimes, I wonder what it would be like to be an only child. You’re not constantly or unconsciouslybeing compared to anyone else, but I guess without siblings…”
“All the attention is on you,” I finish for him.
He runs the hand that’s not on the wheel across his mouth as he contemplates that.
“How many brothers do you have?” I ask.
“Two.”
“Are you the baby?”
He laughs. “Surprisingly, no. Mason is six years older. I think my parents had their hands full with him and weren’t sure they wanted anymore. But then my mom had me and a year later my brother Myles was born.
“What do they do?” I ask, curious about what kind of pressure they must feel being related to a man who just got drafted into the NHL.
“Mason is the CEO of his own computer tech company.”
“Show off.” I roll my eyes sarcastically and Maverick meets me with a small huff of a laugh.
“And Myles,” he continues. “Is getting his aerospace engineering degree at MIT.”
“Holy shit,” I breathe.
“Yeah.” He laughs again. “It’s an odd thing at Thanksgiving when the professional hockey player is the least successful guy at the table.”
Boiled down to the most simple version, I think people would describe Maverick as either a playboy or a hothead. But I’ve seen the quiet parts of him—and those quiet parts are loud, if you bother to pay attention. He laughs off being ‘the least successful’ but I’ve seen the parts of him that he doesn't advertise. The parts of him that make him incredible, and I can’t ignore the ache I feel in my chest that he doesn’t give himself the same credit.
