Maxim (Carolina Reapers 10)

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.

My 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.