Sterling (Carolina Reapers 6)

He asked first. That’s what she’d said that night at the bar when she’d shown up with her brother and the guy I shared some genes with. Shit still grated on me.

“You think Foster doesn’t know his sister is hot?”

“As if you had a chance anyway,” the kid out of Boston—McKittrick—said, shaking his head at the other one. Shit, I really needed to learn names.

“I would be all over that if Foster didn’t keep her all locked up.” The rookie grabbed his jersey—Greene—and put it on.

“Want to bet on it?” Maxim shook his head, yanking his pads on.

My fists curled. There was zero fucking chance he’d just said what I thought I heard.

“Sterling,” Briggs muttered in warning.

“I’m up for a little wager,” Greene said with a cocky smirk that sent me over the edge.

“You’re fucking kidding me, right?” I said across the room, nailing them both with a glare.

Greene raised his eyebrows.

McKittrick winced and scooted a little farther down the bench, putting space between him and Greene.

“I’m sorry, were you in this conversation?” Maxim cocked his head to the side and looked me over like an insect that needed to be squashed.

“You can’t just bet on a woman. This isn’t some shitty teenage movie.” I stood.

So did Maxim.

“Don’t ever try and tell me what I can or cannot do, especially when it comes to London,” he hissed through bared teeth.

“Guys,” Hudson rose, rolling his shoulders back. He was known for throwing more than his share of punches on the ice.

“Relax. He’s just pissed that I have a history with the woman he apparently…” He arched an eyebrow. “What? Developed a crush on in the elevator?”

My chest tightened, and my muscles coiled. His words were too close to the truth for comfort.

“That’s it, isn’t it?” Maxim grinned like the asshole he was. “You can’t really blame London for preferring me, can you? After all, our own father chose me, and as for your mother—”

“Asshole!” I launched across the room and slammed my fist into his face with a satisfying crack.

His head snapped to the side for a second before he snarled and launched himself at me, throwing a punch of his own as he took me to the ground.

The first one connected with my mouth, and the coppery taste of blood splashed over my tongue before the pain of it even registered.

My chest protector made me bulky and slow, but I deflected his second punch and rolled, getting him beneath me as I sent a series of jabs into his ribs.

“Fucking hell!” a voice shouted to my right. Briggs?

“Sterling!” That was Axel.

“What the fuck?” Not sure who that was.

Maxim landed another punch, and fire exploded in my cheek, but I got him right in the fucking mouth before I felt hands tearing me off him and pulling me up. He hit me one last time, but it barely grazed my jaw as I was lifted away.

Maxim scrambled to his feet and came at me, but Foster and Axel had him by the arms before he could take a step.

Demon and Briggs had me by the biceps and shoulders. I wasn’t going anywhere, even if I tried.

“Bastard.” Maxim lunged forward, but Foster and Axel held firm.

“Max!” Foster snapped.

Briggs sucked in a breath, but I just grinned. “If the best you’ve got is throwing around medieval legal terms—”

“What the fuck just happened?” Coach McPherson stormed in from his office, putting himself between me and Maxim.

Maxim and I locked eyes, each daring to rat the other out, and both keeping our mouths shut.

“I’d say the cause is pretty obvious, Coach,” Briggs remarked.

Coach’s head swung both directions, studying both Maxim and me repeatedly before he cursed. “We have a game in less than an hour.”

“That’s pretty obvious, too, Coach.” I said, earning me narrow-eyed glare from Coach.

“Guess Bangor didn’t teach you any manners while you were up north, did they, Sterling? And to think, I actually missed you.” He shook his head, and his jaw flexed before turning back to Maxim. “And is this really how you want to make a name for yourself, Zolotov? Coming into my house and starting shit? Because I’ve coached Sterling for a couple years, so I’m pretty well acquainted with what it takes to prick his temper.”

Maxim sneered but didn’t correct Coach.

Huh.

“I threw the first punch, Coach,” I admitted. “This one is on me.”

“I got the last one in,” Maxim retorted.

“Both of you shut the hell up,” Coach snapped. “You’re both out for this game.”

My stomach hit the floor.

“You’re fucking kidding me!” Maxim snarled.

“I’m not.” Coach shook his head. “I’m not taking either of you out on the ice. Not like this. Get dressed. I’ll see you both upstairs after the game.”

Shit.

We won, according to the television screen in Persephone’s office, where I’d watched the entire thing play out. It was close, five to four, and I knew it wouldn’t have been if I’d kept my shit together in the locker room.