Maxim (Carolina Reapers 10)

My gaze narrowed in her direction.

“It’s my question.” She arched an eyebrow. “And it’s not like I haven’t been watching you play for years and years. Something’s off.”

“I have no clue,” I answered truthfully. “I’d like to blame it on my Dad, but he skipped two games and I’m over here like I’m back in mites, praying something I shoot goes in.”

“And it’s been since New Year’s?” she asked my back as I skated away.

“Yep. That’s a full month.” I stopped, spraying snow over the line, and took another puck from the pile. “And that is two questions.” I held up two fingers.

She rolled her eyes. “Fine. Ask away.”

I glanced down her body, and noted the way the hoodie ended mid-thigh, covering her ass, her waist…everything. “Why do you dress like you have something to hide?”

She looked down, as if she needed to remember what she had on. “I’m not hiding, I’m just not…sharing. I think people make enough assumptions based off first impressions and I don’t need them adding my body to their list of judgments.”

“Huh.” I started toward the goal, and she hunched down to get another angle, her finger rapidly clicking as I shot, and hit the post.

“Fuck,” I muttered to myself, stopping just in front of the goal, only a few feet away from Evie. “You know there’s absolutely nothing you need to be worried about being judged for, right?” I asked her, moving toward her as she stood.

Our gazes locked, and the questioning look in her eyes made my chest clench.

“I know what I look like, Maxim,” she said softly. “I’m not ashamed of my body. Am I well aware that I’m not the runway-thin model-type you prefer? Absolutely—”

“Hey now.” I put my hands up, stick included.

“But I also know that I’m exactly some guys’ type. I can fill out the back end of a dress like no one’s business, and my cleavage pretty much starts at my throat.” She cocked her head to the side. “I know what I bring to the table.”

The memory of the smooth skin of her breasts rising in her apron had me blinking.

My dick twitched.

Oh the fuck you do not. Not here. Not now. Not in a pair of warm-up pants that wasn’t going to do shit but make this really fucking awkward, and sure as hell not in front of Evie.

“But just because I know doesn’t mean everyone else has to. And sure, I see the way guys look at Mila. I see their heads turn.”

“Yuck.” I made a face. “That’s my sister.”

“Yeah, well, she’s my best friend. And guys look at her like they’re ready to strip everything off her before they even know her name is, or what she thinks about…global warming.” She tugged at the ends of her hoodie, pulling it down further. “When I meet a guy—when I meet the guy, I want him to fall for me first, because even bodies like yours—” She gestured to my abs. “Aren’t made to last forever. We’ll all be old and crinkly one day, so we’d better fall for what’s inside the body, you know?”

My chest ached, her words stirring something to life behind my ribs, but I managed to nod. “I get it.” My gaze dropped to her lips as she ran her tongue over the bottom one. Shit, I wanted to lean down and—

Fucking stop it.

“Global warming?” I asked instead, forcing a smile that I hoped looked nonchalant.

“Hey, it was the first thing I could think of.” She shook her head at me and pushed at my chest. “Now go back there and skate again.”

The warm touch of her fingers against the chilled skin of my chest had me backing away quickly. A quick, simple touch like that wasn’t supposed to feel that good.

“And I don’t only date model-types,” I said over my shoulder as I skated back to the pucks.

“Ha!” She sarcastically laughed. “Ginger, Holly, Mary Sue, and what was her name…”

I turned to see her tapping her chin thoughtfully. “Ellen?”

“Oh, her too!” She pointed at me. “Francesca. That was it. The one from Switzerland?” She pursed her lips and sent me a look that said she had my number.

And apparently knew everyone I’d dated in the off-season.

“It was France,” I corrected her. “And it’s not like I went after them. Maybe you only see me with model-types because they’re the only ones that hit on me.”

“Right. Because you’re entirely too busy being Maxim Zolotov to go after a girl you really want. Poor Maxim. Tell me, is it the time or the effort that keeps you ‘settling,’” She threw up her fingers in air quotes, “for the Vogue cover girls?” She gave me a teasing smile, and that ache in my chest flipped over to something else entirely, something warm and unsettling.

“I honestly can’t remember the last time I had to go after a girl,” I said. “They just kind of…appear.” They were at bars, in hotel lobbies, in lines outside the arena, and filling up my DM’s on Insta.