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 MAXIM
A CAROLINA REAPERS NOVEL
SAMANTHA WHISKEY
 CONTENTS

Also by Samantha Whiskey

Now Available in Audio!!!

1. Maxim
2. Evie
3. Maxim
4. Evie
5. Maxim
6. Evie
7. Maxim
8. Evie
9. Maxim
10. Evie
11. Maxim
12. Evie
13. Maxim
14. Evie
15. Maxim
16. Evie
17. Maxim
18. Evie
19. Maxim
20. Evie
21. Maxim
Epilogue

Connect With Me!

About the Author
Acknowledgments
Copyright © 2022 by Samantha Whiskey, LLC All rights reserved. This book or any
portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without
the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief
quotations in a book review. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters,
businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s
imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons,
living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. This book is licensed for
your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to
other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please
purchase an additional copy for each person you’d like to share it with. Thank you
for respecting the author’s work.
A L S O B Y S A M A N T H A W H I S K EY

The Seattle Sharks Series:

Grinder
Enforcer
Winger
Rookie
Blocker
Skater
Bruiser
Wheeler
Defender
The Carolina Reapers Series:
Axel
Sawyer
Connell
Logan
Cannon
Sterling
Briggs
Caspian
Brogan
Maxim
The Raleigh Raptors Series:
Nixon
Roman
 Hendrix
An Onyx Assassins Novel:
Crimson Covenant
Crimson Highlander
Crimson Warrior
Crimson Truth
Crimson Kiss
A Modern-Day Fairytale Romance:
The Crown
The Throne
 N OW AVA I L A B L E I N A U D I O ! ! !

Grinder
Enforcer
Winger
Rookie

Let the Seattle Sharks spice up your morning commute!

For those who need to be seen
 1
MAXIM

“W hat’s up, Mila?” I asked, holding the cell phone between

my cheek and shoulder as I finished tying my skates.
There were very few people I’d take a call from in the locker room,
especially since the service was shit in here, but the only soft spot I
had in my entire soul belonged to my little sister, Mila. And fine, that
spot extended to her best friend, Evie, but only because the blonde
was as loyal as they came to my sister.
Loyalty was something I respected above all else.
“I might need a teensy favor.”
“Teensy, huh?” I huffed a sarcastic laugh. Whatever she needed
wouldn’t be small. Mila didn’t do small.
“Itty bitty,” she said, her tone so sweet that my brows rose in
suspicion.
“Right. Spit it out.”
“Just promise me you’ll say yes.” If she was hesitating, it had to be
big, considering she knew there wasn’t anything I wouldn’t do for
her.
“You want me to say yes before I even know what you’re asking?” I
finished tying my skates and sat up, watching my teammates head
out of the locker room.
Jansen Sterling stopped on his way out, his helmet perched under
his arm, a look of concern on his face. I put my finger up in the
universal gesture of hold on, and he nodded, holding the door as
more of our teammates headed toward the ice.
“Yes. That’s exactly what I’m asking,” Mila said with zero hesitation.
Confidence definitely wasn’t a characteristic she lacked. “And you’re
going to say yes.”
“Fine. Favor granted.” The corners of my mouth tugged upward and
I shook my head.
“Sweet! Thank you! I’ll see you at home!”
“Wait!” My eyes flew wide. “What do you mean home?” But she’d
already hung up. Mila and I didn’t live together. She had an
apartment in downtown Charleston, close to her graduate school,
and I had a house in the subdivision we jokingly called Reaper
Village, where most of our team lived. So what the hell did she
mean by see you at home?
“Everything okay?” Jansen asked as I tossed my phone into my
locker.
“Mila needs a favor,” I explained, grabbing two of my sticks from the
rack.
“Anything I can do to help?” he asked.
I paused just before the door and stared at him, taking in the
familiar shape of his build, the set of his eyes, the harsh line of a
chin I knew all too well…because it was mine, too, a gift from the
man who had given his genetics to both of us, but “fathered” only
one. If you could call being raised by Sergei Zolotov fathering.
Sterling stared back at me.
Ah, there it was, the awkwardness that still reared its head between
us every now and then, even after being on the same team for the
last two years.
Two years ago I would have ignored his question. Hell, I would have
told him to go fuck himself and then reminded him that Mila was my
sister, and not his. Two years ago I fucking hated him. Fine, two
years ago I was an even bigger asshole than I was now.
We were a work in progress.
“No,” I answered him, shaking my head as I walked through the
door, slapping him on his shoulder. “But I’ll let you know if it’s
something I can’t handle.” I wouldn’t, of course, but it was the
thought that counted, right?
We headed out to the ice and proceeded to get our asses smoked by
Coach McPherson. It didn’t matter that it was New Year’s Day, or
that the rookies were noticeably hungover—McKittrick had been up-
chucking in the bathroom right before we dressed—we were the
team to beat this year, and Coach was doing his best to make sure it
stayed that way.
The losses had come all season, but the wins were far outpacing
them, and it was evident in the amount of fans currently in the
stands, watching us practice.
No one was ready to jinx it, to even allude that we were headed
anywhere that resembled a shiny, silver…chalice, but there was a
feeling in the air, a palpable excitement that none of us could deny,
even when sweat dripped from every inch of skin on our bodies and
every muscle screamed in protest like they did now.
Coach blew the whistle and we all stopped, our chests heaving with
exertion as we turned toward where he stood at center ice.
“Good job,” Coach finally said. “Hit the showers.”
“Thank God,” McKittrick muttered as his shoulders dipped. “I need to
go die now.”
“That’s what you get for drinking like it’s the off-season,” Sterling
replied as he skated by.
“He’s not wrong,” I added with a shrug before skating off toward the
bench. I stepped onto the mat and headed through the tunnel
toward the locker room.
I’d been a little slower than usual today, but I chalked that up to
only getting six hours of sleep last night. Maybe I hadn’t been
throwing back shots with the rookies, but I’d definitely stayed out
celebrating later than I should have.
But my backhand was a little off today too.
Maybe I needed to spend an hour in the basement tonight—
Sterling paused ahead of me, throwing his arm out to block me like
a forty-year-old soccer mom with a kid in the front seat.
“What the fuck?”
“Ten o’clock,” he whispered, nodding down the hall.
My gaze jumped to where another hallway intersected the one that
led to the locker room and my stomach lurched.
Leaned up against the wall like he fucking owned the place was our
father—my father.
“What the hell is he doing here?” Sterling asked under his breath, his
entire body tensing.
“No clue.” He usually showed up once or twice a season, which
fucked up my game and then earned me an hour-long lecture about
why I’d never be as good as he was in his day.
“Holy shitballs, is that Sergei Zolotov?” McKittrick asked, his eyes
going wide with the same hero worship I’d seen all my life.
“Yep,” Sterling answered.
“Think I can—” McKittrick started.
“No,” Sterling and I answered simultaneously.
Dad spotted us and pushed off the wall, headed our direction.
“Run while you can,” I said to Sterling.
He nodded and took off.
“Jansen,” Dad said as Sterling passed by him.
“Asshole,” Sterling snapped and kept walking, pulling McKittrick with
him.
Pure envy shot through my veins that Jansen could mouth off like
that and walk away. You can, too.
That little voice in my head had grown louder over the last few
years, but it had yet to drown out the eighteen years I’d spent under
his roof, having the shit beaten out of me every time I missed a shot
in our backyard rink.
The best days of my life had been the ones where he’d been gone
for away games.
“Guess you two have gotten friendly,” he said in way of greeting,
nodding toward Jansen’s back.
“Why are you here?” I asked, leading him into the connecting
hallway, away from nosey ears.
“Why won’t he say hi to me?” Dad pondered, his gaze narrowing
slightly.
“Because he thinks it’s bullshit that you didn’t speak to him for the
better part of twenty-five years and only do so now because you find
him worthy of your time.” I took a drink from my water bottle.
“Ah, he’s still jealous of you.” Dad shrugged. “Not that I blame him.
You were given everything a child could want, and he…” Another
shrug.
I so was not up for discussing how my father had knocked up
another woman while my mother was pregnant with me and then
abandoned her. But at least Sterling had been raised by a loving
mother who was absolutely dedicated to her son. “Honestly, that
jealousy goes the other way, Dad. Let me ask you again, why are
you here?”
His jaw ticked, but he kept his anger restrained. No doubt he would
have let his temper fly if we’d been in private. “Your backhand was
shit today.”
“Well aware.” My chest tightened. What the fuck was it about this
guy that always had me chasing his approval? I wasn’t a kid
anymore. I was a successful NHL star in my own right. I owned my
own home, had never been arrested, and was single by choice, not
force. For the most part, I had my shit together, and yet here I was,
wishing he’d started in with anything but criticism. “Nice to see you,
too, by the way.”
His gaze narrowed. “You’re getting sloppy. I’ve always told you that
the second you get cocky, you’ll start to slip, and then where will you
be? In the minors, playing for a crowd of a hundred.”
“Did you really fly all the way down here just to hurl insults?
Because we’re doing pretty well this year if you haven’t noticed.” My
chin lifted an inch or two as I stared down at him. At least the
skates gave me a couple inches on him.
“I have noticed that your team seems to be thriving. Not that you’re
helping it along.” He folded his arms across his chest.
Fuck him, I was the leading point scorer on the Reapers.
“Which is why I’m here,” he finished, brushing a piece of imaginary
lint off his jacket.
“I don’t follow.”
He sighed like I was a disappointing kindergartener. “Your team is
finally interesting. Even ESPN is saying you’re headed for the Cup
this year.”
Damn it, he went and said it.
“So you thought you’d come down and watch practice?”
“Hardly.” He scoffed. “But I figured if your team is going to excel,
then I should be here to make sure you don’t fuck it up for them.”
I fucking hated him. Hated every gray hair that made the magazines
call him distinguished. Hated his accented voice that constantly
reminded me that he’d had to skate uphill both fucking ways in order
to succeed while I’d had my career handed to me. Hated the sight of
his hands, which had left so many bruises on my body that I’d never
bothered keeping count. Hated the judging look in his eyes that had
always led to taking shot after shot at two a.m. when I was a kid.
But mostly, I hated that he was here, invading the team I’d come to
think of as family, stealing the solace I’d found here in Charleston.
“And you are going to fuck it up for them,” he continued, folding his
massive arms across his chest. “I can see the signs of it in your
footwork. Lazy.” He shook his head. “I taught you better than that,
Maxim. Seems we might need to have a little practice session later.
Shall we meet at your house?”
Mila. Mila was at my house. And Dad might rip me apart for shitty
footwork, but it was nothing compared to the way he ripped her
apart for her choice of pursuing her masters in art history. He’d
never laid a hand on my sister—my brother and I would have killed
him if he’d even tried—but his words were just as sharp as his fists,
and Mila wasn’t immune.
“You’re not getting near my house,” I ground out through clenched
teeth.
Dad blinked. “I’m sorry?”
“I said, you. Are. Not. Getting. Near. My. House.” I bit out every
word, keeping my eyes locked on his. “If you’re here to watch us
practice or hell, even follow along like a groupie, that’s on you, but
I’m not playing along.”
His face turned beet red.
“Hey there, Sergei,” Coach McPherson said, coming up behind us. “I
didn’t know you were in town.” His assessing gaze swept between us
and he took a step closer to my side.
The two had played against each other for years in the league, so it
wasn’t like Coach wasn’t well aware of my father’s temper. His skill
and his inability to contain his feelings was legendary.
“Gage,” my Dad said, turning up the charm as they shook hands.
“Glad to see you’re still coaching.”
“What can I say?” Coach shrugged. “Found my calling.” He threw his
arm over my shoulders. “Speaking of which, we need to have a little
players meeting, so I’m going to need Maxim in the locker room.”
“Of course.” Dad nodded graciously. “I’ll see you later, Maxim.”
“Where are you staying?” I asked, hoping to drive home the point
that it wasn’t with me. “I’ve heard there are some good hotels
nearby.”
Dad’s jaw clenched. “I’ll look into renting something. I’d rather have
an apartment of my own for my…extended stay. I figure June is a
safe bet.”
June, when the Stanley Cup Finals were scheduled.
Fuck me, he wasn’t kidding. He was going to stick around and haunt
me like a motherfucking demon from my worst nightmares.
“Locker Room,” Coach reminded me.
“See you around, son,” Dad said before turning around and walking
back down the hallway.
“You okay?” Coach asked, two lines forming between his eyebrows.
“Are all our practices open?” I asked.
“Yep. Always have been.”
“If I ask Asher Silas to close them, will he?” Our team’s owner had
always made the players his first priority.
“Consider it done.”
I waited for the relief to hit, but it didn’t. Somehow I’d wound up
under Dad’s microscope again, and nothing good could come of it.

I drove too fast, too recklessly, and turned my music up way too
loud on the way home, but I needed to clear my head, especially
if Mila was waiting for me.
There was no part of my little sister that deserved any of the shit
Dad was throwing my way, but at least she wouldn’t be in his sights
for long. She was due to fly out for her semester abroad in Italy
tomorrow, and it wasn’t like Dad was going to follow her over there.
They didn’t have hockey.
I pulled my Aston Martin into the driveway and felt a little lighter at
the sight of Mila’s SUV as I drove past it, parking in the garage.
My steps were heavy as I got out of the car and went into the
house, hanging my keys on the rack of the mudroom. I liked
everything in its place, neat and tidy.
“Mila?” I called out once I hit the kitchen, already digging into the
fridge for a drink.
“Hey!” She came skidding into the kitchen, her socks helping her
slide a good foot before she bumped into the island. Her smile was
bright, but it was definitely nervousness that had her tucking her
dark brown hair behind her ears. “You’re home!”
“I do live here,” I reminded her, leaning back against the counter.
“Of course you do!” She nodded. A lot.
“What has you too nervous to ask me?”
She swallowed. “Geeze, just get right to the point, why don’t you?”
“Mila.”
“I mean, you didn’t even tell me how practice was or anything.”
“It was practice. Now spit it out. Do you need tickets to a game?”
“No.” She shook her head.
My gaze narrowed. “Did Dad pull a power trip and cut you off again?
Because you know I have enough money to cover your entire
semester and then some.”
She softened. “No. He didn’t cut me off. It’s not that.” She tugged
her lip between her teeth and I heard another set of footsteps
coming from the entry. “Be nice, okay?”
“I’m always fucking nice.”
Evie, Mila’s best friend, came around the corner, her blonde curls
bobbing around the box she carried. The box that was blocking her
eyesight.
I moved quickly, taking the box from her hands and setting it on the
counter.
“Maxim!” Evie sucked in a breath and then her face flushed the color
of a tomato. “You’re home!”
“Why does everyone keep saying that like it’s a surprise?”
Evie swallowed and glanced at Mila, her bright green eyes flying
wide. Her eyes had always been a showstopper for me—the kind of
green that sucked the breath out of my lungs if I looked too long…
not that I noticed my sister’s friends. That was a line I never
crossed, and while Evie was a beautiful girl who was curved in all
the right places, even if she hid her figure behind giant sweatshirts,
I’d never even put my toe over the Mila’s-friend line.
Both women were silent, and I glanced into the box. It was all…
food. Cereal and granola bars and Pop-Tarts—the kind of processed
shit I never ate. “What the—”
Then I looked past Mila and Evie and saw three suitcases lined up in
the hallway and a stack of boxes next to them.
“I told you this was a bad idea,” Evie whispered to Mila.
My gaze swung to my sister’s. “What the hell is going on?”
 2
EVIE

T he minute I stepped inside Maxim’s house, I was

immediately hit with all things him—his intoxicating scent of
pine smoke and larkspur hung in the air, filling my head with
dizzying fantasies I’d entertained since he helped us move into our
dorms our freshman year at Dartmouth.
“If I pull one more box of shoes out of the moving truck, I swear to
God, Mila, I’m going to throttle you with one of them,” a deeply
masculine voice said just as our dorm room door flung open.
The breath caught in my lungs as a tall, muscled male hugged a
large moving box against his chest.
No way. That’s not who I think it is.
“You can’t kill me, Maxim,” Mila said from where she was still
organizing her almost non-existent closet space. She spun to face
him. “Then you’d have no one left in our family you actually like.”
Something intense and almost painful flashed in his eyes, but it was
gone in a blink. He sat the box down on the floor next to the one
Mila had brought up. “You’re not wrong,” he said, shaking his head
as he offered her the barest hint of a smile. “But don’t push me.”
Mila laughed, returning to her work on the closet.
I’d known Mila since kindergarten, so I knew her family fairly well.
They were always traveling and most of the time they were spread
across the world at any given time, but I’d met her older brother
Maxim more than a few times. I remembered him as a quiet kid who
never stopped for a minute to relax or have fun. He was always
entirely too focused on hockey, like his dad.
But this man…he was not the broody young boy I remembered. How
long had it been since I’d actually seen him? Heard his voice? Six
years?
He turned to face me, his eyes widening as if he’d just realized there
was someone else in the room, and I swear my heart stopped
beating for a few breaths.
God, his eyes.
They were the richest shade of cobalt I’d ever seen, framed with
thick lashes, and a strong jaw finished what I quickly decided was
the most gorgeous face on planet. He’d grown out of the lanky boy
with a scowl and into a fully formed Greek god.
“Who is this?” he asked, glancing from me to Mila.
“No one,” I said faster than I could catch my breath. I hurried to
turn around and busy myself with something, anything to stop
gawking at him like I was a love-struck girl.
“Omigod Maxim stop,” Mila chided him as she crossed the room and
flung her arm around my shoulders. “You’ve known Evie as long as I
have.”
Heat rushed to my cheeks and I pushed my glasses up my nose,
suddenly finding the floor very, very interesting. I mean, how much
more mortification could I possibly take? Maxim didn’t even
recognize me. Not that we’d ever been close, but I’d sat at his family
dinner table more than a hundred times over the last seventeen
years.
“Evie,” he said, drawing out my name as he nodded. Warm chills
burst along my spine, butterflies flapping wildly in my stomach.
No one, and I mean no one, had ever said my name like that. Like
he was testing it out on his tongue and wrapping nothing but primal
dominance around it. But that was just his voice, and from the look
of him, that was just Maxim. The determined boy was long gone,
and now nothing remained but a grown-ass man with a hell of a lot
of muscle and enough anger in his eyes to set our dorm room on
fire. Anger that burned blue behind the mask of indifference he
wore.
“Right,” he said, blinking a few times after I looked up at him. “It’s
been a while.”
Mila rolled her eyes and left me to open the box Maxim had just
brought up.
I spun around, grabbing the remaining novels spread across my twin
bed, and holding them against my chest. Juggling the pile, I moved
toward the lone shelf on my side of the room, reaching up to place
one of the books on it—
And proceeded to dump the rest of the books all over the floor. I
groaned, rolling my eyes at myself as I knelt to gather them, having
to practically crawl for one that had half slipped under my bed. My
fingers grazed smooth skin, fire licking up my spine at the contact,
and I instantly jerked my hand back, gasping as I locked eyes with
Maxim.
He’d bent down to grab the book, a brow cocked as he stood back
up.
I cleared my throat, tucking some stray hair behind my ears as I
clung to the remaining books like a lifeline.
“You need some help?” he asked, stepping only an inch away from
me.
My heart raced so hard in my chest I was sure he could hear it. I
wet my lips as I looked up and up at him—he was so damn tall.
“I…”
I couldn’t form words. Couldn’t remember words. He smelled like a
fantasy, the kind where you’re enjoying a walk through an
enchanted forest and suddenly a dashing, rogue warrior sweeps you
up into his amazing life and rescues you from the boredom of your
own.
Great. Now I’ve well and truly lost it.
“Here,” he said, placing the book he’d picked up onto the shelf
before extending his arms.
Omigod, I couldn’t help but picture walking into those arms to see
what it would feel like to have his body pressed against mine.
What. The. Hell. Was. Wrong. With. Me?
He tilted his head at my lack of response, my lack of movement, and
finally my brain screamed at me to do something.
I shifted my weight, prepared to tell him I had it, but he just shook
his head and gently took the rest of the books out of my arms.
“Any particular order you want these to go in?” he asked.
“By color,” I said, my voice cracking.
I swear the tiniest hint of a smirk shaped his lips before he faced the
shelf. “Color it is,” he said, and proceeded to organize my books in
the perfect order of the rainbow. “Have any more?” he asked when
he was finished, glancing around the room as if another box of
books would appear.
“That’s it,” I said. “Thanks.”
He nodded, then crossed the room toward our opened door. “Mila,
I’m going to grab the rest of your shoes.”
“Can you grab coffee at the same time?” Mila asked without looking
up from her work.
Maxim huffed, then glanced at me. “How do you take yours?”
“Black,” I said.
“Easy enough,” he said, then looked behind me at the books. “Let
me know if you need any more help. Apparently, I’m good at
everything. Even color-coding books.”
Did he just make a joke? Am I supposed to be laughing? God, kill
me now.
“Okay then,” he said and spun around, shutting the door behind him.
And that was the day I’d fallen in love with my best friend’s older
brother.
I blinked out of the memory as I carried in a box to Maxim’s kitchen
—
Strong hands grabbed the box from me and set it on the counter.
“Maxim!” I gasped, then felt my cheeks flush from just the sight of
him. “You’re home!”
“Why does everyone keep saying that like it’s a surprise?” he asked.
I looked at Mila, my stomach in knots.
Maxim was pissed. I could always tell when something was wrong
because the blue in his eyes hardened in a way that his mask
couldn’t hide. He didn’t even know what we were doing here and he
was already mad? Or had something gone wrong at practice?
He glanced inside the box of snacks I’d salvaged from our
apartment. “What the…” His voice trailed off as he spotted my three
suitcases I’d left in the hallway behind us.
“I told you this was a bad idea,” I whispered to Mila.
Maxim looked at Mila. “What the hell is going on?”
“Evie needs a place to crash while I’m in Italy,” Mila said as casually
as if she were telling him she needed a lift to the airport.
Maxim folded his arms over his chest. “What’s wrong with your
apartment?”
“We need to sublet it while I’m studying abroad. Evie is staying here
to finish her MFA, and we’re going to use the money to open our
gallery when I get back. It’s the perfect plan.”
“And you’re just now telling me?” he asked, shaking his head as
finally opened the water he’d grabbed from the fridge earlier and
drained the contents in two gulps.
Damn. He was so not in the mood for this. I’d told Mila a thousand
times this was a terrible idea. Sure, we needed the money, and this
was the fastest way to get it, but I wasn’t too keen on being Maxim’s
burden for the next five months.
Mila sighed, something twinkling in her gray eyes that screamed
mischief. I parted my lips to stop whatever she was about to say, but
it was too late.
“If it’s a big deal, I can just ask McKittrick,” she said, and Maxim’s
brow furrowed. She shrugged. “He’s always been super nice to us. I
highly doubt he’d mind sharing his place with Evie for a few
months.”
And now my cheeks were ridiculously hot. Great.
“No,” Maxim said, his voice so damn deep that it did things to my
body. It always did things to my body. The way he moved, the way
he spoke, the way his eyes darkened when he went internal for too
long. “You can stay here,” he said directly to me, and I swallowed
hard. “The house is big enough for two of us.”
“Thanks,” I managed to say.
“Perfect,” Mila said, giving a little clap. “The last of her things are in
my car.”
Maxim sighed. “I’m guessing you want me to go get them?”
“Could you?” she asked.
“No,” I said. “I’ve got it.” I moved to head back out to where we’d
parked in his driveway, but Maxim shook his head.
“I’ve got it, Evie,” he said, not entirely annoyed but something was
definitely bothering him. He glanced at Mila. “Did you know our
father was in town?”
Oh, that explained his tone.
“What?” Mila snapped. “He’s here?”
“Take that as a no,” Maxim said, rubbing his palms over his face.
My heart clenched for him. He’d never had a great relationship with
his father, but it’d gotten worse over the last few years. Not that he
ever spoke about it. I just picked up on it whenever we were around
him.
“So that’s why you’re in a mood,” Mila said.
“You would be too if he’d given you a surprise visit.” Maxim gave her
a warning glare.
Mila huffed a laugh. “Yeah, like that will ever happen. He doesn’t
give a shit about the gallery or what Evie and I are building. What
we’ve been working on and saving for since we started college. He’s
way too wrapped up in living through you—”
“He’s not living through me,” Maxim said. “He’s trying to turn me into
him.” A muscle in his jaw ticked, and I had the urge to step into his
space and smooth my fingers over the strained muscle. Wanted to
soothe this old hurt, wanted to help him carry the weight and
pressures his father constantly placed on him.
But, since we weren’t even close to that kind of friendship, I stayed
right where I was and did my best to become invisible. It wasn’t that
hard, seeing how Maxim didn’t look at me as anything other than
Mila’s best friend. I wasn’t on his radar in the way I’d secretly hoped
for years and I never would be. Maxim had a type—tall, leggy,
model-worthy, and camera ready.
I was the exact opposite. Curvy, glasses, and I loved to take the
photos, but never be in them. And that was fine with me. It was
safer to never be noticed, because then I never ran the risk of being
hurt.
“You’re nothing like him,” Mila said, and Maxim blinked out of the
cold stare he’d drifted into. “Maxim, you’re—”
“Give me your keys,” he said, reaching out his hand.
Mila sighed and tossed them to him. He spun on his heels, the
muscles in his back tensing as he walked out of the kitchen.
Mila turned to face me, a bright smile on her face. “See,” she said.
“This is going to be perfect.”

“D id you have to pick the room directly across from him?” I

asked Mila a few hours later as we finished unpacking the
last of my essentials—clothes, my favorite books, and my
camera equipment. The rest of my stuff was in storage for the next
five months until Mila returned and we could go back to Operation
Open Gallery.
It’d been our dream for longer than I could remember and with us
both so close to finishing our MFA programs—hers in art history and
mine in photography—we were closer than ever to achieving that
dream. I’d hustled all first semester, taking over the max load of
classes in order to finish the program in a year. This semester was
much lighter, thank God. Plus, all the money we’d bank from me
living rent-free at Maxim’s, while subletting our place, would put us
way ahead.
“Yes,” Mila answered, helping slide one of my suitcases into the
oversized closet. “This is the second biggest room. Of course, I’d
pick this one for you.”
I chewed on my bottom lip, sinking onto the edge of the king-sized
bed covered in blue bedding that was almost the same shade as
Maxim’s eyes. “I still don’t feel right about this,” I admitted.
“Shouldn’t I at least pay some rent?”
Mila waved me off then sank next to me on the bed. “Maxim makes
like a zillion dollars a year.” I rolled my eyes at that, and she
laughed. “What? He signed a crazy ass contract with the Reapers
and besides that, he has tons of endorsements. He could buy four
houses like this and still not feel the hit to his bank account if he
wanted.”
I shook my head, amazed at the life Maxim led. Not that he didn’t
work his ass for it, because he did. He absolutely deserved
everything he had.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes,” she said, slightly exasperated with me.
“I’m going to miss you,” I said, leaning against her shoulder. She’d
traveled for months at a time before, but it never got any easier.
Mila squeezed me. “Me too,” she said. “But we’re almost done and
then it’ll be non-stop leveling up for us when we launch the gallery.”
I swallowed the lump in my throat and smiled at her. “Five more
months.”
She grinned at me as she rose from the bed, heading toward the
door. “Make sure to have a little fun while you’re living the good life
on my brother’s dime,” she said, her eyes lighting up. “Rack up his
grocery bill for sure. It’ll be good for him to take care of someone
other than himself for a change.”
“I’m going to do my best to stay out of his way,” I said.
“You probably won’t see him much,” she said. “But if you do see
him, it couldn’t hurt the cause.”
My lips popped open as she waggled her eyebrows at me. “Mila!” I
chided her, but laughed when she winked with so much
exaggeration she looked ridiculous.
“Just saying,” she said, then flashed me a genuine smile. “Love you.”
“Love you,” I said, managing to keep the tears at bay as I watched
my best friend leave.
The silence of the house quickly engulfed me and I took a deep
breath. If I was being honest with myself, this place felt oddly
familiar and comforting, like coming home after being away for a
long time. Which was ridiculous, since I’d never even set foot here
before, and I wasn’t even paying rent.
I wasn’t one for charity, but this would help us in ways nothing else
could. And, of course, I’d make sure I wouldn’t get in Maxim’s way,
regardless of Mila’s teasing, and I’d cook and clean and do all the
things a proper roommate should do...
Roommates.
I was officially Maxim Zolotov’s roommate.
The same Maxim Zolotov I’d been hopelessly in love with for years
now.
What could possibly go wrong?
 3
MAXIM

T he noise of the crowd swelled around me as I took center

ice for the puck drop against Chicago. Usually this was the
moment where my pre-game nausea took a backseat to the
adrenaline, and yet here I was, fighting back the bile rising in my
throat.
I couldn’t see him, but I could feel him.
My father was somewhere in this rink, ready to catalog every
mistake I made so he could list off my faults one by one in the name
of making me a better player.
“What did I tell you would happen if you didn’t get the puck up off
the ice?” Dad handed me my stick and dumped the bag of pucks
onto our backyard rink.
“But Dad, I scored! I had eight goals today!” I shivered in my
hoodie. It was only three degrees out here according to the
thermometer on the deck.
“Five of which were through the five hole. Now remind me, Maxim.
What did I tell you would happen if you didn’t get the puck up off
the ice when you shot?” He didn’t bother arching an eyebrow at me.
His face was unreadable as ever.
“Dad, it’s almost midnight,” David said from the edge of the rink,
wearing his worried-big-brother face and a thick coat.
Midnight. And I was so tired. We’d played three games today to win
the President’s Day tournament, and my arms and legs felt like jello.
“I wasn’t asking you, David,” Dad snapped.
“He’s only ten.” But David wasn’t. He was fifteen and so much
bigger…and better.
“What. Did. I. Say?” Dad ignored David’s plea.
“A hundred shots for every one that wasn’t lifted off the ice,” I
repeated, my shoulders drooping. There was no getting out of this.
There never was.
“Seems like you owe me a hundred shots, Maxim. Every single one
of them had better be airborne.” Dad turned his back on me and
walked off the ice, steadier on his feet than I could ever dream of
being, and I had my skates on. “And if I see you taking one shot for
him, he’ll start all over,” he warned David before walking the
shoveled path back to the house where our mother waited with Mila.
“I fucking hate when he has a bye weekend,” David muttered,
skating out onto the ice.
“Don’t say that.” I separated one puck from the pile and readied my
shot at the net.
“Why not? It’s true.” He picked up the empty puck bag.
“Dad said you can’t help.”
“He said I couldn’t shoot for you.” He shrugged off his coat, then
shoved my arms through the sleeves. “He didn’t say I couldn’t help.
Start shooting. I’ll bag the pucks once they’re in the net.”
I sucked in a lungful of bitterly cold air and then started shooting.
The whistle blew, dragging me from the memory, and I flicked my
wrist, battling for the faceoff…and lost it.
What the fuck? I had one of the best faceoff ratios in the league.
And now the puck was headed into our zone.
I took off after Chicago’s forward, my feet cutting up the ice as I
charged after him, deftly sweeping the puck off his stick and cutting
back out of our zone. My heart pounded as I passed it to McKittrick,
who was flying up the boards.
He caught the pass and showboated his way around one of their
defenders.
I would have scoffed, but hell, it worked. The kid had some of the
best puck-handling skills I’d seen, especially for a rookie, and one
day getting all fancy might bite him in the ass, but not today.
He skated it up, and once he’d taken the puck over the blue line, I
crossed into the zone, wide-open. McKittrick faked out the other
defenseman and hurled the puck in my direction.
It hit my stick with a satisfying smack, and I faced down the goalie.
Three strides and I shot, aiming for just above his shoulder,
stickside, where he always left a neat little hole.
It hit the rail.
I’d…missed.
I blinked, confusion causing me to miss the obvious rebound that
was quickly scooped up by the defender. What the fuck had just
happened? It wasn’t like I didn’t miss shots occasionally, but never
one that clear-cut.
“What the hell was that?” Cannon asked during the shift change,
flying off the bench before I could answer.
“Shake it off, Zolotov.” Coach ordered.
But I didn’t.
Every single shot I took for the rest of the game hit the post or the
rail, the sound dinging in my ears like an alarm bell.
Something was wrong with me.
We won, three to one, but it wasn’t because of anything I’d done.
Somehow I’d gone from being the leading point scorer on the
Reapers to being…a liability.
“Let it go,” Sterling ordered as we marched toward the locker room
after the game. “You had a bad game. Shit happens.”
“Not to me, it doesn’t.” Shit like this never happened.
Dad appeared at the juncture of the hallways, just like he had at
practice, and the set of his jaw told me that I would have worn his
handprints if I was ten years younger.
But I wasn’t.
So why the fuck did my stomach twist up in knots?
“Great game, wasn’t it?” Coach said to Dad, appearing between us
like he had some magical radar for when bullshit was about to go
down.
Dad’s eyes narrowed on me and Sterling moved left, blocking out
the sight of our father with his massive goalie pads.
The logical side of me thanked him for the consideration, but the
confused-as-fuck, irrational portion of me wanted to shove Sterling
out of the way so Dad didn’t think I was scared of him. Besides, if
we were going to get all family technical, I was the bigger brother
here. Maybe it was only by three months, but still.
David would have done the same, not that Sterling had even met
our older brother. Funny how their mannerisms were so alike…
except Sterling could still skate.
“I need to speak to my son,” Dad growled.
“Well, neither of your sons want to talk to you.” Sterling flipped him
the middle finger and we continued down the hallway.
“I’m sure he’ll catch up with you at some point,” Coach said from
behind us.
“I don’t need you to run interference with Dad,” I snapped at
Sterling. “I can fucking handle him.”
“Never said you couldn’t.” He held open the locker room door like I
wasn’t being a total, insufferable asshole. “I just think you shouldn’t
always have to.”
I grunted and headed in, barely restraining myself from throwing my
gear into my locker with the force of all the rage I felt.
“Never let your temper rule you. You didn’t pay for that gear.” My
mother’s voice popped into my head.
“I’d rather you break your stick in a fit of anger than be passionless
about your performance,” Dad’s motto countered.
I followed Mom’s advice, since when she did voice an opinion about
my performance—which wasn’t often—it was usually to steer me in
the opposite direction of my father’s mannerisms.
“Dude. You were so off tonight,” McKittrick said from down the
bench with a shit-eating grin.
I shot him a glare. And this was the fuck that Mila thought Evie
should live with? Not that he was a bad guy. He was just an
overgrown frat boy who fucked any girl with two legs and a
heartbeat. He would have charmed the panties right off Evie—sweet,
smart, completely naive Evie. He would have added her notch to his
bedpost and moved on the next morning, leaving her wondering
what she’d done wrong. A surge of red-hot…something…raced down
my spine.
You’re just protective of her because she’s Mila’s best friend.
Right, which was exactly why she was at my house right now and
not his.
“It’s one game,” Sterling countered, but that was definite worry in
his glance. “Everyone has an off game once in a while.”
Everyone except me.
I was the fucking Disney World of professional hockey—I executed
my job with consistent excellence and always made sure that
everyone looking for a ride had a damn good time.
Shit, I missed Caspian. My best friend had traded to be with the love
of his life, which was all well and good, but at least he’d have some
advice as to what the hell just happened out there.
It was only one game. Right?
Panic shot through my veins. What if it wasn’t? What if the curse
that should never be named had set its sights on me?
“You think you have the—” McKittrick started.
“No!” Half the locker room shouted, and Brogan slammed his hand
over McKittrick’s mouth.
“Don’t fucking say it,” Axel warned the rookie, but I felt the concern
in his glance slice straight into my jugular.
“He’s fine,” Sterling argued.
But I wasn’t, and we both knew it.

M y house smelled like apples and cinnamon as I walked in the

door an hour after the game. Thank God Coach had spared
me the post-game press conference, and Axel had taken the
hits about why I’d been so off tonight. I blinked twice at the key
holder in the mudroom. Evie had put her keys on my hook. Not that
she knew it was my hook, but still.
Routines mattered. Structure mattered. Superstitions mattered.
So where had I screwed up? I kept my keys in the same place. I’d
given up women at the beginning of the season to keep my focus
where it belonged—on my game. I’d tossed back a can of Dr Pepper
as I walked into the arena and taped up my stick with the same
methodical precision as my routine demanded. I’d done everything
the same.
I moved Evie’s keys over one peg and hung mine on the correct
hook before heading into the kitchen.
The place looked like a flour and sugar bomb had gone off.
“You’re home!” Evie flashed me a shy smile from the destruction that
used to be my kitchen. There was a thin coating of flour on every
surface, and a pile of discarded apple peels amid the bowls and
beaters. “Sorry about the mess. Your mixer is way more powerful
than mine and well—” She gestured nervously down her body,
motioning to the flour-coated apron that was tied neatly around her
curves.
Holy shit. Evie had…curves.
You already knew that, asshole.
Right, but I’d known it in the way I knew her hair was blonde and
she liked to read. But without the usual bulk of the oversized
hoodies she hid behind, her curves were right fucking there. An
hourglass had nothing on Evie. Her hips were generous, perfect for
grabbing onto while I slammed into her, her waist made my hands
itch with the need to stroke the slope, and the globes of her
breasts… My mouth watered. Those had to be double-D’s rising
against the V-neckline of her shirt, speckled with flour that I
suddenly had the urge to lick off.
“Anyway, I’m sorry for the mess, and I’ll get it cleaned up in a few.
Do you want one?” She took a muffin from the cooling rack and held
it out to me, completely oblivious to the fact that I was trying to find
a way to pick my jaw up off the floor. “They’re good, I swear.”
I blinked and took a step backward. This was Evie. Thinking sexual
thoughts was…I shook my head. It was Evie. She’d been in my life
for ages, inseparable from my little sister, and sure she’d grown up, I
wasn’t that fucking blind…but it was…Evie. Why the hell would she
cover up those incredible curves all the time? Or was it only around
me? Or was it the opposite and she was comfortable here, so she
didn’t hide herself away?
Or maybe she’s just baking and hoodies are too cumbersome for a
hot kitchen, you asshat.
“You don’t?” A streak of hurt went through her eyes.
“Don’t what?” I managed to say through the fog of my thoughts. I
was going to hell, right? That’s where guys went who ogled their
little sister’s best friend’s tits.
“Want a muffin?” A little line of confusion appeared between her
brows and she huffed an errant curl that had come loose from her
topknot out of her face.
“Muffin.” For fuck’s sake, the least I could do was eat one of her
muffins. “Yeah. Absolutely. Sounds great.”
The smile she gave me lit up the damned room and was gone before
I could even be sure it happened. She ducked her head, turning
toward the cabinets, then grabbed a plate and plopped the muffin
on it, sliding it across the wide kitchen island. “Sit,” she ordered,
nodding toward where the stools sat tucked beneath the granite
overhang.
I sat and stared down at the muffin.
“They’re scrumptious with a little butter, too.” She slid the butter dish
and knife toward me.
“Right.” I caught them. “Thanks.”
“I always forget just how fast your reflexes are,” she said, her
emerald eyes meeting my gaze for all of a second before jerking it
away. “Not that I think about your reflexes, of course. Or you. Or…
anything.” A blush worked its way up her neck. “I mean, you’re a
professional athlete, of course you have fast reflexes,” she ended in
a mutter, shaking her head.
A smile tugged at the edges of my lips. At least I wasn’t the only one
thrown for a loop around here. “It’s awkward right?” I split the still-
warm muffin in half and slathered a pat of butter between the two
pieces. “Living together,” I continued when she looked puzzled.
“Oh, that.” She nodded, then started scooping more batter into a set
of silicone muffin tins that weren’t mine. “I mean, it’s only been a
couple of days, so…” She shrugged, then paused, glancing up at me.
“Thank you for letting me stay. I really didn’t want Mila to ask, but
staying here means that we can save enough for a deposit on a
small gallery.” Her nose wrinkled. “I mean, Mila hopes it will be a big
gallery, but I’m more of the realist between us. We have to start
small.”
“Mila’s always shot for the stars. And don’t thank me again.
Seriously. I’m happy to help you guys, especially if it means she
doesn’t have to go to our father for start-up money.” My stomach
soured at the thought of Dad tainting something Mila loved. “And
you both know I’d be willing to help you. It’s not like I can’t afford to
invest.” I took a bite of the muffin and barely bit back a groan. “Holy
shit, Evangeline, these are amazing.”
She grinned and pushed her glasses up her nose. “Thanks. Baking is
my favorite hobby. They’re my mother’s recipe.”
“Well, they’re ridiculous.” I took another bite, and my stomach
settled.
“And thanks for the offer to invest. Mila and I are really trying to do
this on our own. We both have some money saved up, and I’ve been
taking weddings and family shots the last couple of years to add to
that account.”
“Well, my offer stands, but I think it’s badass that you guys are
doing it on your own.” I noted her camera bag on the far counter. It
was worn and had long since seen better days. Hell, I vaguely
remembered it from helping her move into the dorms her freshman
year of undergrad. A smile played across my face.
“What has you smiling?” She finished filling the tray.
“I was thinking of all those books tumbling onto the floor while we
were moving you in.” I polished off my muffin. “And yet the girl who
loves the books is the more practical one in the business
partnership.”
She scoffed. “Just because I enjoy a little escapism doesn’t mean
that I don’t have my feet on the ground in the real world.” The timer
beeped and she took out a tray of muffins before putting the other
one in.
“I thought it was cute.” I shrugged and reached across the expanse
of the island, snatching another muffin from the cooling rack.
Evie noticed but she didn’t say a word as she moved the hot muffins
to the cooling rack. “Yeah, well every girl on our floor thought you
were cute, so I guess that’s fair.”
I laughed. “Hey, it’s not my fault that you two chose to go to the
same college where I was playing.” We’d only had a year at the
same school, but I’d steered clear of Mila’s dorm floor at her
request. “How is your masters coming, anyway?”
“Actually…” She paused and took a steadying breath.
My attention jumped from my muffin to her, and saw she was
chewing on her bottom lip. “Evie?”
“I was hoping for a little help.” She swallowed, then lifted her chin.
“I have to do a whole unit this semester about capturing movement,
and my professor just signed off on my proposal for studying the
photography of the human body in motion.” A corner of her mouth
rose into a smirk. “And I mean, it was a great proposal. I worked on
it for weeks, so I knew he’d say yes, especially since he’s a hockey
fan—”
“Hockey fan, huh?” She was babbling, which was something she
only did when he got nervous.
“Well yeah. Watching you guys skate is…beautiful. Think of how all
your muscles work together while you’re on the ice, how each one
strains at different points in your stride, how they tell the story of
how you’re going to move next. Absolutely beautiful.” She gave a
breathy little sigh and ran the edge of her tongue over her lower lip.
My eyebrows rose.
She blinked. “I wasn’t going to ask you,” she blurted with a shake of
her head, her eyes flying wide. “I swear. I know you’re a big-time
star and get paid for people taking pictures of you for weird stuff like
this, and I totally don’t want to take advantage of you. I was just
kind of hoping that maybe you knew another player who might be
willing?”
“To pose for you.” I cleared my throat, picturing what she might
need.
“To skate for me, but yes,” she nodded. “And I was hoping you’d
loan me your basement. I know you have a rink down there, so the
shoots would be private.” She gasped. “I mean, not naked or
anything.” That blush worked its way from her neck to her cheeks,
turning them candy-apple red. “Shirtless probably, though. I’d have
to see the muscles.” She winced. “I mean my camera would need
the muscles. Oh my God, I sound like I’m making a porn.”
I laughed.
“It’s not porn!” she cried, slapping her hands over her flaming
cheeks. “It’s art! It’s for my Motion and Movement art class!”
“Relax, Evie, I get it.” I smiled. “You want to make a porn in my
basement and need me to find a willing participant,” I teased. God,
she was pretty with her cheeks flushed and her eyes bright, that
bow-shaped mouth opening and closing as she fought for the right
thing to say.
“That…is not…”
“I mean, were you thinking about installing a few speakers to really
get the mood music going?”
“Maxim!”
“Maybe someone could drop by with a pizza…” I grinned.
“Oh. My. God!” She flung a muffin at me.
I snatched it mid-air with one hand, laughing as she hurled another.
“You are the worst!”
“Don’t worry, Evie, we’ll find someone to skate for you.” I bit into the
muffin in my right hand. These things were divine.
“What about McKittrick?” she asked.
The muffin turned to ash in my mouth. McKittrick? That sarcastic
asshole in my house, on my ice, taking off his shirt so Evie could…
study him? If Evie was going to spend hours—days—in my basement
with some shirtless hockey player, it wasn’t going to be him.
Something hot and ugly unfurled in my stomach. Something that
burned an awful lot like… No fucking way. It burned like jealousy.
“Mila wasn’t kidding. He’s been super sweet to me, and I bet he
might say yes—”
“I’ll do it.” The words flew out of my mouth before I could think
them through.
She startled. “You will?”
“Yep.” I nodded and shoved another muffin in my mouth to stop the
words from coming out.
“But…” She looked totally, completely befuddled, and damn if those
parted lips of hers didn’t look absolutely ripe for kissing.
“But what?” I asked around my mouthful of muffin.
“But…” She blew that curl out of her face again. “But it would take a
few days. The project is spaced out over the whole semester so
there might be reshoots, and I know how busy you are.”
“Are you trying to gracefully tell me I’m not pretty enough for your
project?” I arched a single brow.
“Oh no, you’re way pretty enough,” she assured me. “I mean, check
the online polls, but I’m pretty sure you’re always on the top of the
hottest Reapers list.” She squeezed her eyes shut. “Not that I check
that.”
Huh. Apparently Evie had been following more than just the game
stats.
“Anyway, how was the game tonight?” She started furiously scooping
the rest of the batter into another tray.
The game. The one I’d fucked up so miserably that I owed myself
way more than a hundred shots. I’d missed at least twelve. “It was…
rough.”
She looked up, meeting my gaze, and there was a connection there,
an understanding that I hadn't expected. There was no pity in her
eyes, but there was a hefty dose of compassion.
“You watched it, didn’t you?” I asked, pushing away from the
counter, from whatever it was that had started to build between us.
She nodded. “It’s just one game,” she whispered.
“That’s how it always starts. Thanks for the muffins.” I started
toward the dishwasher, but she met me halfway, taking the plate
from my hands.
“I’ll clean up. I made the mess. You should probably get started if
you’re planning on torturing yourself all night down there.” She
motioned toward the basement door. “You have a matinee game
tomorrow if I’m not mistaken, so you’d better go so you can
eventually get some sleep.”
“How did you know what I—”
She scoffed. “Please, Maxim. I grew up around you. You might not
have noticed me, but Mila’s room looked out over that old backyard
rink. I know you better than you think I do.”
I swallowed, and then nodded. There was nothing else to say as I
trudged my way down to the basement, flicking on the lights at the
bottom of the stairs. The scent of fresh, clean ice greeted me, and I
laced up my skates quicker than usual, my brain fighting to process
all that had happened tonight, all that had gone wrong out there…
And the fact that somehow, for those moments upstairs, Evie had
made me forget my game had gone to shit. That was the most
confusing part of it all.

E ighteen hours later I fell to the bench in the locker room, sweat
dripping as though I’d just played my ass off.
But I hadn’t.
I’d missed every single shot, my wrist firing out of its normal rhythm
and sending the puck into the rail every time.
The team had carried my ass, and Coach had sat me for the majority
of the third period.
Noise blurred in the background of the locker room as everyone got
undressed from the game, but I heard McKittrick loud and clear as
he slapped my shoulder on his way to the showers.
“Looks like it’s official, Zolotov. You have the yips.”
Fuck. Me.
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