Sterling (Carolina Reapers 6)

Maxim nodded and walked in, shutting the door behind him. “It’s practically tropical from where I just came from.”

“Russia?” I guessed, leading him toward the kitchen. Offering him a drink was the appropriate thing to do in this situation, right? I motioned to the barstools that lined one side of the kitchen island.

“No. Saint Paul.” He took the seat as his gaze swept over the open-concept kitchen and family room. I got the feeling the guy didn’t miss much. “I’ve only been to Russia a few times, and those were mostly for funerals. Dad played out his contract for Minnesota, and we stayed. He’s actually an American citizen now. So is my mother.”

“Huh.” I took out two bottles of water and slid one across the island to him. “I knew where he played. I guess I just never really thought about where he stayed after his career finished.”

Maxim caught it and started to fidget with the lid. “Thanks.”

I leaned back against my counter, leaving the island and a metric ton of awkwardness between us.

He looked to my right, where a digital photo frame scrolled through pictures, and his expression changed, two lines appearing between his eyebrows.

“My mom gave it to me for Christmas,” I said, twisting the top on my bottle but not drinking it. “What did you want to talk about?” The game tomorrow? Our shared fence line? Our shared genetics? The awkward options were endless around here.

His eyes were still on the frame. Mom had uploaded her favorites, and my stomach tensed as he watched my childhood scroll by. His thumb picked at the label on his water.

“Maxim—”

“You look kind of like Nicolai in that one.” He motioned toward the frame. “How old are you there?”

I looked. “Four. Five, maybe. We were hiking up by my grandparents’ place.”

Maxim nodded absentmindedly, his gaze glued to the frame. “Your mother is beautiful.”

My fingers stilled on the bottle in my hands. “So is yours. I looked her up when I found out.” Mrs. Zolotov was a tall, striking beauty with thick, brown hair. “Mila looks a lot like her.”

“Yeah, she does.” Maxim’s jaw ticked. “Let’s hope her looks are all she got from her.”

My eyebrows went up.

He shook his head and sighed. “Weren’t you just the lucky one?” His mouth tilted into a wry half-smirk.

My grip tightened on the water bottle, making it crunch. “Lucky one? Between the two of us, you’re going to say I was the lucky one? I was the secret.”

Maxim turned his head slightly to look at me, and the chill in his eyes could have powered my freezer for the next decade. “You honestly think that, don’t you? Poor little Jansen had to grow up without a daddy. Let’s all pity him.”

“You know what—” I pushed off the counter, ready to throw him out.

“You. Were. The. Lucky. One.” He meant every word. It was there in his eyes, in the rage so hot it burned ice-cold. “Secret?” The laugh that burst from his chest wasn’t remotely happy. It was tortured. “Do you really think you were a secret in my house?”

I settled back against the counter. “I wouldn’t know shit about your house. All I knew was I met our…father”—God, the word tasted bitter in my mouth—“when I was thirteen, and he told me to never seek him out again.”

“That’s Dad for you.” Maxim scoffed. “Like I said, lucky one. Trust me, he did you a favor.”

“That’s easy to say from your side of the story.” I’d been a fucking wreck after that little introduction.

“I’ve known about you since I was eight.” He continued to pick at the label on his bottle. “My parents were screaming at each other, and I crept out of my bed to sit at the top of the stairs. Nicolai was already there. My mother told him that she’d leave him and take us all back to Russia if you ever appeared on her doorstep. She knew Dad had a problem keeping it in his pants, but knowing and facing the knowledge aren’t the same, and the only thing my mother loves more than her wardrobe is her reputation.”

I ran my thumb over the label, considering his words.

“If you think that little show he put on after the game was bad, then you wouldn’t have survived my house. I didn’t play hockey because I wanted to. I played because he expected it. Did I learn to love it? Sure. But I was also terrified every time I stepped onto the ice because I knew what he would do to me if I performed…poorly. And it wasn’t like we spent our weekends at the rink or even five days a week for practices. We had a rink at my fucking house. He made us skate every day. It wasn’t just training, it was punishment. Laps. Shots. Drills. All of it. There aren’t any cutsie pictures of me grinning in my gear like that one.” He pointed to the frame.