One of them, Hudson Porter sat on my left, putting on his gear.
“You’re seriously considering retiring after this year?” I asked, pulling on my Under Armour shirt over my head.
Porter strapped on his shoulder pads over bare skin and nodded. “I love this game, but it’s about that time. Kills me to admit it, but the bruises last longer. The injuries don’t heal as fast, and well, the twins are almost two. I’d like to see them grow up in person as opposed to Facetime, and Elliot is fifteen.” He shook his head. “I only have a few years left with her before college. Time is passing.”
“Yeah, I guess it is,” I said quietly. Hudson was in his mid-thirties, and yeah, it was a reasonable deduction, but still a mindfuck to think about. One day we’d all be too old to play professionally.
“You starting today?” he asked, reaching for his elbow pads.
“Nawh. Sawyer’s up today. I’m on tomorrow.” There were no bitter feelings about the schedule, either. We were a team with two excellent goalies, and that was all that needed to be said about that.
You’re weak glove side. You don’t anticipate or react fast enough.
His words sliced through my brain, intruding on the real estate I’d worked my ass off to take back from him. My father had seen me play a total of one time, and that was all he’d had to say when he’d ambushed after the game two years ago. Luckily, Cannon had been at my side, which had only served to remind me that blood didn’t make family.
But as much as I’d wished I could say that little encounter hadn’t affected me, it had. I’d spent the last two years honing my weak spots, focusing glove side.
With perfect timing, Maxim sailed through the door, bobbing his head to something in his ear pods, then took the seat directly across the room. As if it wasn’t bad enough that I had to stare at a locker with a Zolotov jersey hanging from it, the fucker looked just like our father. Same cheekbones and chin, same arrogant stare that came out of the same dark blue eyes that we happened to share.
Genetics were a bitch.
“You okay?” Briggs took his seat next to me, brushing his hair out of his eyes.
“What’s not to be okay about?” I brushed off what I could. Silas had refused to let me out of my contract, and to be honest, I didn’t want to go. I wanted him to get the fuck out of my locker room, but that wasn’t happening either.
“That’s how you’re going to play this?” Briggs glanced between Maxim and me, then stretched back for his gear.
I shrugged and grabbed my chest protector.
The door swung open, and Brogan “The Demon” Grant stalked through, wearing his typical, perpetual scowl as he walked straight to his spot.
“Glad to see he’s still a ray of sunshine.” I scoffed and slipped my pads over my head. Guy was fast, mean, and accurate as hell with his shot. He also kept to himself. Now whether that was by his choice or a result of his sparkling personality, I’d never know.
“He got arrested in a bar brawl last night,” Briggs said under his breath, earning a quick look from both Hudson and myself. “It’s all over that gossip site. They got pics of Silas bailing him out.”
“Well, he earned that Demon nickname back in L.A. for a reason,” I muttered. We all knew what it was—he had the temper from hell.
“I’m just saying that I’ve seen her around the arena, and she’s fine as fuck,” one of the rookies said from across the room.
Go figure it was the kid sitting next to Maxim, and yes, apparently I now defined twenty-two-year-olds as kids, even though I was only a few years older.
“You’re just lucky Caz is in the bathroom,” Maxim said with a scoff. “He’d beat your ass for talking about his sister like that.”
London. I nearly groaned at just the mention of her name. It had been almost a month since we’d been trapped in that elevator, and I’d avoided her like the fucking plague ever since. Had she known Maxim was my brother all that time? Had she sat there, listening to me say my mother had raised me on my own, knowing exactly why?
Was she with him?
That question sliced me open like a damned scalpel. Those eyes had been in my dreams almost every night since. Her voice was in my head. Her curves were branded on my fucking palms from helping her out of that elevator. Her number had also shown up on my phone about a dozen times in the last week. All were filed under unanswered.
She was the Reapers’ newest game day coordinator. The only reason she had to be calling me was about Maxim, and fuck if I was talking about him with her.