Maxim (Carolina Reapers 10)

“Wow,” she responded, and after the shock wore off, my group got to critiquing. “These are beautiful shots,” she offered. “The forms you caught are stunning, but it seems kind of…”

“Yeah,” Brian, another student, offered as her voice trailed off.

“Kind of what?” I finally asked.

“Cold?” Laney suggested. “Not in a bad way. Just like, I think you’re missing an opportunity to get closer. Really dig in to not only the physical aspect of this performance, but the mental.”

“Well said,” Craig, another group member said.

I pursed my lips and studied the pictures. They weren’t wrong. The muscle definition and lighting were fantastic, but something was missing. Almost like a barrier separated me from truly capturing Maxim.

And if that wasn’t the story of my life, then I didn’t know what was.

“Thanks,” I finally said after they’d given me a few more notes. “I’ll get to work on that.”

Getting closer to Maxim wouldn’t be easy, especially since he seemed content to keep me an arm’s length away at all times—emotionally and physically—but in the name of art? I could make just about anything happen.

5

MAXIM

“Have you seen this?” Dad shouted the second I walked out of the arena and into the parking lot after practice.

Ice dripped down my spine and my stomach turned.

Coach had reached his limit two weeks ago and banned Dad from the players-only areas of the rink, so this was now his go-to for sabotaging me after every game. Unless it was an away game. There, he was too busy signing autographs for fans in hotel lobbies to track down whatever room I was in.

But he was always there. Always watching. Always judging. Except for the two games he’d missed in Calgary—which meant the problem with my shot wasn’t his attendance, it was me.

So far the security guards hadn’t had the balls to remove him from the parking lot, though.

“I’m not doing this with you, Dad,” I said, taking the quickest route to my car.

“The fuck you’re not!” he growled, slamming the magazine against my chest and stopping me dead in my tracks. “Look at it, Maxim!”

And just like that, I was ten, standing on the blue line in our backyard. I took the magazine and glanced at the cover.

DOES MAXIM ZOLOTOV HAVE THE DREADED YIPS? GO INSIDE THE REAPER LOCKER ROOM WITH US TO FIND OUT!

It was dated February first. Today. It had been a month since Evie moved in with me, and almost just as long that my shot had decided to desert me and the dreaded yip word had entered my life.

“This is all bullshit.” I flipped to the article and scanned it quickly. “It cites unnamed sources and we haven’t made a statement as a team.” Coach blew off every question that arose in every press conference and changed the topic back to how well our defense was playing.

Our win ratio had dropped…a lot, but we were still contenders.

I just wasn’t pulling my fucking weight and I knew it.

“That headline isn’t bullshit!” Dad yelled, and I heard footsteps around me stop, which meant the team was coming into the lot now. Awesome. Just what every guy wanted his colleagues to see—his father dressing him down like he was a child. “You’re playing like shit. Worse than shit.” He leaned in so his face was mere inches from mine, but I didn’t give him the satisfaction of backing away. But still, muscle memory was a bitch, and my heart rate skyrocketed, preparing for assault. “Fucking fix it, Maxim,” he growled. “Practice harder. Change your stick if that curve isn’t working for you. Change your habits. Whatever the fuck you need to do just figure it out, because you’re screwing over your entire te—”

“Get the hell away from him.” Sterling stepped between us, put his hands on Dad’s chest and shoved, sending Dad staggering backward. “You think this is what he needs? Or did you fail to notice that his shot left the second you showed up in Charleston?”

“You think this is my fault?” Dad roared at Jansen.

“I think you’re a huge fucking problem!” Jansen shouted right back.

“Well, you seem to be doing just fine, son,” Dad countered.

“Yeah, well you were never my father, were you?” Jansen snapped. “I’ve never given a shit what you think about me.”

Fuck, their tempers were so alike it was uncanny. Looks like nature won out against nurture in that department.

Dad stepped toward Sterling, murder written on every line of his face as the tendons on his neck bulged. I knew that look well, it was usually followed by more than a few bruises and on one occasion, a broken nose.

“Jansen, go. You’re not helping.” I stepped between them, putting my body in front of Jansen’s. My brother had no clue what he was walking into here.

“Dad, why don’t you drive away before you make a scene.” I raised an eyebrow and he glanced over my shoulder, no doubt seeing the other players coming out of the arena. The clenching of his jaw told me everything I needed to know—he was pissed, but he wasn’t going to do anything that made himself look bad in public.