My heart jumped, forcing me back into the body of the eleven-year-old who’d been yanked off the ice by his jersey when I’d blatantly ignored my father’s shouted instructions from the stands.
You’re not eleven anymore.
I nearly glared right back at him, so sick of his shit that I was tempted to blow the game just to piss him off, just to show him that he couldn’t control me anymore. But there was always Mom to consider, and when he leaned forward and looked right, scanning the family section, I saw it in his eyes—the second he locked on to Evie…in my jersey.
His gaze jumped back to mine, widening.
It might have taken decades, but I’d finally managed to surprise my father, and the nausea ripping through me said that wasn’t a good thing.
“On three, Reapers!” Coach yelled. “One, two, three!”
“Reapers!” we all shouted, breaking the huddle.
Fucking focus. My father mouthed the words, and the rage I saw simmering in his eyes served as more than enough warning.
I refrained from flipping the middle finger at him, especially when he had direct access to Evie and I was behind a wall of glass and skated out to center ice to take the faceoff.
For the next two hours and forty-five minutes, I played my ass off. I scored three times and had two more assists. We shut out Florida and put six goals on the board.
But that didn’t stop my Dad from glaring at me, or me from feeling the heat of his stare on the back of my neck every time I was on the bench, even now, as I sat at the long mic’ed up table in the post-game conference room, Dad’s narrowed eyes were on me like laser beams from the back of the room.
There wasn’t a league official in the world that was going to toss out Sergei Zolotov.
I sat on one side of Coach while Sterling held down the other in our first joint press conference. I’d showered and changed into my warm-up jacket, but my palms were clammy and I nearly dropped the bottle of water Langley hand handed me before going up on stage.
It should have been her husband—our captain—Axel, up here, but he’d somehow picked up strep throat while we were in Florida.
“We’re incredibly lucky that we’ve built a strong team that can withstand the loss of our captain for a game while he recovers,” Coach said from the middle of the table. “And the success of Maxim Zolotov stepping into his position tonight only speaks to the kind of mentor that Axel is.”
I nodded in concurrence. Public speaking was not my thing, and by the slightly greenish tinge to Sterling’s skin, it wasn’t his, either.
I wanted off this dais. I wanted to find Evie, tuck her under my arm, and get us the fuck out of here before Dad could say a single word to her. I wanted to get my woman home and show her the surprise I’d had installed while we’d been out of the house today.
I just wanted…her and the quiet she’d brought to my mind, the peace she so effortlessly had created in our home.
Coach called on the next reporter.
“Maxim, in the past you’ve been pretty open about your pregame superstitions,” he started. “Are you still doing the same things as last season?” He flipped papers over on his notepad. “I believe it was drinking Dr Pepper before a game and something about where your keys hang?”
A round of laughter sounded in the press room.
I leaned on my forearms, putting my mouth closer to the microphone. “Yes, I’m still chugging Dr Peppers, and I’m absolutely open to any endorsement deal,” I joked, offering a practiced smile.
Another wave of laughter went through the reporters.
“And you’ve previously mentioned having a lucky charm this season?” the reporter continued, pen at the ready.
I grinned. “I would definitely say that I’m a lucky guy this season, but that’s all the detail I’m going into on that.”
Sterling covered his mouth with his hand, his laughter showing in his eyes as Coach took the next question.
“Jansen, this is your third shutout this season, and the second this month. Do you feel like starting every other game in this schedule you have going with Sawyer McCoy is helping?”
Sterling leaned forward. “Sawyer is an outstanding goalie, and I’m ridiculously fortunate to be playing alongside him. We both know that there are about a thousand variables that go into someone starting, and I’d hate to think we’re that predictable.”
More laughter.
“But I’d be remiss if I didn’t say that most of the credit goes to our defense. They’re doing a hell of a job keeping the puck out of our zone, and the backchecking done by the forwards was insane to watch today.” His head swiveled toward mine. “Plays like that one in the second period where my brother—” He cleared his throat as Dad turned that glare on him. “Sorry, plays like the one Maxim made in the second, skating back fast enough during a line change to sweep that puck out before it ever reached the blue line are what make shutouts possible. It’s a total team effort.” He smiled, which made me smile.