Power Play (Nashville Assassins Next Generation 2)

Chapter One

Posey

Ally: So, the shitith has hitith the fanith.

Shelli: Um, Dad is freaking out. You’re not seriously moving to Colorado, right? Just a visit to get your head out of your ass?

Mom: Posey, I swear on everything holy, you best call me. I don’t care if you are twenty-one, I will skin your ass!

Evan: I feel you might want to abort that mission before Dad comes.

Quinn: Just FYI, Mom and Dad are PISSED. Don’t answer your phone.

Owen: Are you seriously chasing after this dude? You know he’s been screwing Stella, right? Like super banging. All the time. All over the place. Surprised she isn’t knocked up.

Owen: Okay, maybe not super banging, but I don’t think going after him is a good idea. He isn’t that good of a player either. At least go for someone who is good at hockey. You don’t want to be better than them.

Quinn: Whatever you decide, I stand by you and I love you. But I don’t think this is a good idea. Also, don’t call Dad.

Dad: Call. Me. Now.

Dad: If the periods don’t say I mean business, I mean business. Call me, Posey. Now.

Shelli: Posey, come on. You need to call me. Let’s discuss this before you embarrass yourself.

Uncle Jakob: I didn’t tell your parents. I did tell Harper, though, and she told your mom, so this may be my fault.

Evan: Just throwing this out there… Might want to shut your phone off.

I swallow hard as I power off my phone. As soon as I turned it on after the plane landed, I was bombarded with texts and voice mails. I assume word got out that I left. I should have known my uncle would rat me out. Maybe it’s because he’s not biologically related to me. I bet that’s it. While my cousin, my siblings, and my parents all think this trip is a bad idea, I know it’s not. I have to try. I can’t let him go without him knowing how I feel and knowing how he feels for me.

Maxim. Maxim Turgenev.

The love of my life.

I want to say I fell in love with Maxim the first day I met him, but I know that’s not true. Though, some would fall for him just for his looks. He is gorgeous. He has this boyish air to him, a friendly smile that is very misleading. You’d think he was sweet and kind—and he is…off the ice—but on the ice, he is ruthless. I love that. I love how he plays with no holds barred. When he is on the ice, he makes sure he’s making a play. It’s fun to watch. He also has these unstoppable brown eyes that sometimes look black. His hair is a dirty-blond that he keeps long on top so it falls into his eyes. His lips are thin and his jaw angular and strong. He is tall and very trim. He should be faster on the ice, and he’s working on that. Though, none of that matters when he holds me. In his arms, everything seems right in the world, and he has held me a lot this past year.

The first time he did it was when I helped him complete a full sentence.

I am a hockey player.

So trivial, so silly, but he hugged me like he’d won the lottery, and he didn’t let go. I remember thinking, This gorgeous man is holding me in his arms. I think I might die. But it wasn’t his looks that made it hard to breathe. No, it was his lack of English. I love me a good accent, and Maxim has one. When he moved in, I took on the role of teaching him how to speak and write English. We spent countless hours together, not only at the kitchen counter but also on the ice. We watched Netflix, we laughed, and then I fell. I don’t even know how it happened, but I won’t ever forget the day.

We were on the ice, just goofing around, and he sent the puck to me, which I one timed into the net with ease. I gave him a sneaky grin as I looked over at him, and he was just staring at me. By that time, we had been sharing a room, even though my parents never knew. We never had sex, but we were sleeping together. He was from a home where he slept with his six brothers, so he was lonely, and he didn’t have to ask twice. I was willing to get caught just to lie beside him.

“What?”

With a shy grin, he looked down at the ice, moving the tip of his stick around. “I think you’re very talented.”

A smile broke on my face. “Thank you. But so are you.”

He scoffed. “I think you are better.”

I am. But I don’t have the passion for the ice. I don’t want to be on the ice making plays; I want to be making them from behind the bench. To be honest, skates hurt my feet, and that’s why I don’t like playing. My dad reminds me daily that I’m a wuss.