Maxim (Carolina Reapers 10)

I nodded and leaned back, staring at my phone, willing it to ring, for Evie to call and say she missed me so we could put all of this behind us. Willing her to make the first move so I didn’t crumble if she didn’t want me back.

I fought off the urge to throw my brothers out and head downstairs to practice, to take my frustrations out in some productive manner. Like Dad would want.

But what the hell did I want?

Evie? The Cup? Dad’s approval? David’s peace? Sterling’s happiness? I fell back against the couch, more than ready to acknowledge that I was a fucking hot mess. Evie had been right to tuck tail and run.

“So, changing the subject,” Sterling said, turning a grin on David and giving me the out I desperately needed. “What was Maxim like as a kid?”

David laughed. “Oh, we’re going to need way more food for that.”

We won game two at home the next day, but my heart sank when I saw the empty seat next to Mila. Not that I’d really expected Evie to come, but hope was a bitch and she cut like a knife when she abandoned you.

We lost game three in Anaheim by one goal.

Dad got in my face and told me it was because I’d missed a shot in the second, but his words didn’t hurt nearly as much as missing Evie did. I reached for my phone again and again, but the second a reporter turned the corner, I remembered why I needed to keep my distance.

We won game four, and still the joy didn’t come.

I spent more time looking at my phone than I did the scoreboard that day.

It was the sight of London holding Sterling tight after the loss that finally broke me.

That’s what I wanted with Evie. The good, the bad. The public moments and the private ones that made the madness worth it. I wanted her to shine with confidence and know that it never mattered what anyone printed because she knew I was hers. I wanted to stand by her side when she opened the gallery with my sister, and I wanted her by mine, win or lose. I needed her more than a goal, or a win, or even the freaking Cup.

My fingers trembled, but I dialed her number as my heart jolted to life, racing as fast as my thoughts, as the words that I needed to say to her tumbled through my brain.

It rang once. Twice. Three times.

She didn’t answer.

The bus rolled out, leaving the last of my hope behind.

18

EVIE

An earthy, minty scent floated on the breeze as a slight wind tickled the ends of the weeping willows scattered across our college campus. I breathed deeply, trying my best to focus on the joy of this day, but it was hard0fought.

Mila and I both wore our robes as we waited for our names to be called, the Charleston sun beaming through the shade of the trees. A sunny, happy day that only made my clouded-over mind and heart that much grayer.

We were finally graduating. After years of work and extra classes and countless hours of studying, Mila and I would be leaving this campus with graduate degrees in both our fields.

I should be celebrating.

I should be jumping up and down and screaming at the top of my lungs at all we’d accomplished.

Instead, I could barely force a smile when they called my name and handed me the paper symbolizing years of my hard work.

Mila followed shortly after me, and I was able to cheer and clap for her with every ounce of joy I contained. It wasn’t much, but I gave all of what I had to her. She deserved it. She’d earned it. And I was so damn proud of her.

“We did it!” Mila squealed later that day in the apartment we’d reclaimed for ourselves. Luckily, the tenant we’d sublet to had only needed it for a handful of months before they were headed overseas for their own studies, so it worked out perfectly.

“That we did,” I said, unable to muster her level of excitement.

“Evie—” A knock on our door cut off whatever she’d been about to say, and she flashed me a chiding look before hurrying over to answer it.

My heart climbed up my throat despite my brain telling my heart that there was no way it was Maxim. Our graduation happened to fall on the same weekend as the upcoming game five in the Stanley Cup finals, and there wasn’t a chance in hell he’d miss one of those games. Not even for his little sister’s graduation. But Mila didn’t mind. I’d heard her telling him as much over the phone a couple of nights ago, not that I’d been eavesdropping or anything.

“Delivery for a Mila Zolotov and Evie Walsh,” a masculine voice sounded on the other side of the door, and I looked up from the couch in time to see Mila signing for two boxes before shutting the door behind her.