Sterling: A Carolina Reapers Novel

by Samantha Whiskey

  The next night we took on Anaheim at home and squeaked out a four-to-three win. I’d spent the majority of the game in net, and sweat poured down my body in rivulets as we made our way to the locker room.

  The sound of the cheering crowd faded when I passed through the door, but the guys were just as loud in their celebration.

  “You were on fire!” Briggs slapped my back as we sank to the bench in front of our lockers.

  “You saved my ass in the third period. I lost sight of the puck for a good two seconds,” I admitted. The guy was a defense god.

  “Just doing my job.” He shook it off like he always did. He may have gone third pick in the first round of the draft, but he was humble as they came.

  Foster, on the other hand, had a shit-eating grin as he took his seat across the room from us. Between his speed and Maxim’s accuracy, they’d put two of the points on the board. Brogan, who was silently ripping off his gear like it had personally offended him, had brought in the third.

  “You don’t think I know that?” Maxim growled, his voice standing out in a moment of quiet. “Well, we won, so it’s going to have to be good enough,” he said into his cell phone, switching into Russian as his voice escalated. He finished up his conversation just as I headed for the shower, sending me off with a glare as he threw his phone into his bag so hard I would have taken bets that it didn’t survive the trip.

  Whatever.

  I showered off and got dressed, hanging my gear to dry.

  “You want to head to Scythe?” Briggs asked, yanking a shirt over his head. “I think some of the guys are headed that way.”

  “Some of us have dates,” Maxim intruded, his bag slung over his shoulder. “I’ll personally be at dinner with London, but I asked Caz to join us, too.” His mouth quirked up in a smirk that made me want to punch it off his fucking face.

  He’s her brother’s best friend, I reminded myself.

  “Have a good time,” I managed to say, sliding my wallet into my back pocket.

  “Look at you getting all mature,” Briggs joked under his breath.

  “Oh, I will.” Maxim smiled, but it sure as fuck wasn’t friendly. “Have you given up chasing after her yet? I’d hate to think I won her by default.”

  My blood boiled, and I had to lock my jaw to keep from running my mouth. London and I weren’t official. Hell, she hadn’t even given me the okay to go public about us yet. What we had—whatever we called it—was ours.

  “You won’t win her at all.” I shrugged. “She’s out of both of our leagues.” Wasn’t that the honest truth?

  Maxim scoffed and walked out of the locker room.

  “He wouldn’t have said that shit if Foster was still in here,” Briggs muttered. “I still can’t understand how you’re genetically linked.”

  “You see,” Greene said, throwing his arm around Brigg’s shoulder. “When a man loves a woman—”

  “Shut the fuck up,” I snapped. “He never loved her.” Love had never been the word Mom used. I grabbed my keys and walked out of the locker room with Briggs by my side, taking a deep breath in the hallway and making my way past the outstretched microphones from reporters and grasping hands of puck bunnies who just wanted a piece.

  London was at the end of the hall, standing with Persephone and Langley.

  Our eyes locked, and she tugged her bottom lip between her teeth, trying to hide a smile. “Good game, Sterling. You too, Briggs,” she said as we passed the group.

  “Thanks,” he answered, flashing a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

  “Have fun at dinner.” I gave her a wave and bit back the nauseating jealousy that crept up my throat. We hadn’t been alone in almost a week. She was always working or with Foster, and I was always working or traveling…with Foster.

  Either way, it was physically painful to walk away from her without so much as touching her hand, but I managed.

  “Don’t do it,” Briggs said as we made our way into the players’ parking lot.

  “Don’t do what?” I hit the button on my remote and unlocked my car.

  Briggs shook his head. “You honestly think anyone in there couldn’t see the level of eye-fucking going on in that hallway? I almost asked if you needed a condom.”

  “Uh.” I paused. Shit. Honestly, I thought we’d been pretty good about hiding it.

  “Look. The unwritten code of not fucking someone’s sister is there for a reason.” His tone changed, going tight. “Trust me. If it’s between the girl and the team, you choose the team. Choosing the girl only gets you fucked over.”

  Well, then. “I’m not fucking anyone,” I said honestly. “And I sure as hell didn’t hear you giving Maxim the same speech.”

  He laced his fingers behind his head. “Because I don’t give a shit if Maxim gets the fuck beaten out of him by Foster, or traded off to the minors.”

  “Is that what happened to you?”

  His face went blank. “I’m just saying that you don’t shit where you eat, and the Reapers feed you, Sterling.”

  “I get it.” I did. But I also didn’t give a fuck. I’d seen Cannon marry Persephone, and Axel and Langley were the picture of domestic bliss.

  The door opened, and Foster walked out with his arm around London, laughing at something she’d said while Maxim followed them.

  The nausea in my gut churned into something that burned as I watched the three of them drive away. She hadn’t even looked my direction once.

  Briggs looked at me knowingly and then climbed into his car.

  I’d never been a guy who was hung up on labels, but damn, what the hell was going on with London and me?

  8

  London

  The crisp fall air had way more of a bite to it in Chicago than it did in Charleston. The wind was sharp against my cheeks, stinging them to a rosy red as I stood outside the hotel.

  But despite the chill, heat flooded my skin beneath my too-light jacket.

  Because Maxim Stolov and Jansen Sterling were posing for post-win promos—the historic hotel’s clean and classic architecture providing an awesome backdrop.

  The photographer had the brothers posing in their post-game gear—black Reaper athletic pants and white Under Armour long sleeve shirts. They were both freshly showered, the evidence still clear from Jansen’s slightly damp hair. I had no idea how he wasn’t freezing, but he didn’t seemed bothered by the kiss of cold in the air.

  He didn’t seem bothered by anything, actually. From the second I’d grabbed the two for their promos, he’d adapted this cold kind of calm that raised the hairs on the back of my neck. His crushing blue eyes were normally filled with emotion, whether it be a sensual look meant to drive me crazy, or a teasing flirt to make me laugh, or a rage-fueled stare with just a hint of pain whenever Maxim came around.

  But not here.

  Not for the camera.

  He’d kept good on his word—not even flinching when the photographer had them stand back to back, arms crossed over their massive chests.

  In this snapshot in time, they actually looked like brothers. Not so much their physical appearance, which was slightly varied, but in the way they both stared down the camera. Fierce, hungry, and cocky after an away game win. They looked like they might actually grab a drink at the bar after this—their features were that smooth.

  Professionals, the two of them.

  But, God, could they be more gorgeous? The wealth of muscles and sharp eyes was indeed the source of heat flushing my skin—the brothers anyone would have a hard time ignoring. Langley had been right when she said the promos would boost the Reaper image. Maxim and Sterling were impossible not to appreciate, to admire…to want.

  My eyes naturally gravitated toward Jansen, and I worried my bottom lip between my teeth. I swear I could still taste him despite it being a week since he’d thoroughly kissed and wrecked me in the movie theater. And this time…it wasn’t because I’d needed the distraction, but him. I’d needed him on a level I still didn’t und
erstand. Craved his kiss like a starved woman.

  And, if I was being honest with myself, it wasn’t just his searing kisses or his electric touch that had made me come harder than I ever had in my life.

  It was the way he listened, the way he took the time to genuinely understand me and the fear that gripped me without any hint of judgment. The way he made me laugh right after he rattled off a comment that made me want to slap him. I enjoyed it—the push-pull, the give and take between us. It was fun…and it had been such a long time since a man and I had fun like that.

  “Few more,” the photographer called out, and I blinked out of my unabashed barely-contained drool fest. “Could you two face me now, almost shoulder to shoulder?”

  The brothers moved eerily similar, their muscled bodies obviously strong but also fluid as they turned toward the camera. Jansen’s eyes flickered with a mere hint of the pain I often caught him burying beneath the barely contained hate for Maxim, but it was gone in a blink.

  My chest tightened, and I once again wished he would tell me the truth about why they hated each other. I could likely grill Maxim on the circumstances—he had grown more and more open toward me in the weeks since being signed with the Reapers. But I wanted to hear it from Jansen. Wanted to hear his side of things, which no doubt would be different than Maxim’s version. Because isn’t that how family hatred always festered? Not being able to agree or compromise or understand the other? What had happened between them to make the space between them a canyon despite being shoulder to shoulder now?

  And, damn me, but I wanted to help. I wanted to ease the strain that radiated from him when he thought no one was looking.

  “Either one of you want to do a smile shot?” the photographer asked, and I choked back a laugh.

  Jansen’s eyes shifted, locking on mine, and he gave just the barest hint of a smirk. The one that had driven me crazy since the elevator—all confidence and sex and undiluted fun. My cheeks flushed, and I tried like hell to ignore the ache now radiating between my thighs.

  From. Just. A. Smirk.

  I shook my head when he arched a brow, just slightly, as if he could sense where my thoughts had taken me. Not wanting him to see right through me, I broke our gaze, glancing at Maxim.

  His eyes were on me too, but no playful smirk shaped his lips. No, Maxim’s mouth promised destruction—pure, soul-wrecking destruction for anyone who dared to get too close to him. Yet his eyes, so much lighter blue than Jansen’s, churned with something I couldn’t read as he looked at me. I tilted my head in question, wondering what that silent look meant.

  And then he winked.

  Maxim actually winked.

  It was so…unexpected that my lips parted open, an uncontainable laugh flying past them.

  Maxim’s eyes smiled, his lips barely giving anything away.

  And Jansen?

  He glanced between the two of us, a look of utter bitterness churning in his eyes before he locked it down. The muscle in his jaw ticked, and I recoiled internally from the shift from his playful smirk to this…iciness.

  I furrowed my brow, trying to catch his gaze, but he refused to look at me.

  “That’s all we need, guys, thanks,” the photographer said as he packed up his gear. I made sure to thank him and his crew, doing my best not to track Jansen’s every move.

  Which was in the opposite direction.

  And I would’ve chased after him, but I had a line of fans waiting on the other side of a red-velvet rope to do a meet and greet with him, Maxim, Cannon, and Axel.

  Cannon and Axel were chatting near the group of fans, waiting patiently for me to come to them with instructions and supplies. Maxim hurried over to me, nodding to the group.

  “We’re supposed to be over there, right?” he asked, and I nodded. “You okay?”

  I drew my gaze away from Jansen, who leaned against the white stone of the hotel, his eyes distant.

  “Yes,” I said, a surge of anger sizzling in my blood. Why the cold shoulder? Because I had glanced at his brother who happened to be doing his best to make me laugh? In a friend way? Why did that earn me a disgusted gaze? Jansen hadn’t asked for me in any real capacity—sure, he was helping me through my fears, but I was helping him with his career. If he wanted to put some claim on me, which I shouldn’t even be thinking about, then he should’ve said so after he’d made me come with just his fingers. Not wait until I smiled at another man and go all primal caveman on me.

  “Sterling?” I called to him, not giving him the satisfaction of waiting for him. I headed over to the group of fans with Maxim following at my side.

  “Omigod,” a redhead said, practically bouncing on her toes as she looked past me. “That’s Jansen Sterling. He’s as hot as his pictures!” She glanced down at her friend, who was staring awestruck at Maxim. “Sterling is single, right, Alice?”

  The awestruck girl nodded. “According to the Reapers Rocking Roster group, he’s not attached.”

  A cold spike of ice shot through the center of my chest.

  Don’t. I chided myself. Hadn’t I just been internally ranting about Jansen and I owing nothing to each other beyond the terms we set?

  The redhead fluffed her hair, popping out her chest as her eyes widened behind me.

  I didn’t need to turn around to know who now stood behind me—I could feel him there. Feel the heat from his body, the delicious prickle of electricity against my skin that happened any time he was near me.

  “London?” Maxim asked from my left, Cannon and Axel now striding toward us. “The sharpies?”

  I blinked out my cold-infused glare on the girls, and reminded myself who I was in this moment—London Foster, Reapers Game Day Event Coordinator.

  Not, London Foster—majorly crushing on Jansen Sterling while simultaneously wanting to throttle him. And these fans, regardless of their comments, were important. They loved the Reapers, had waited out in the cold for just a glimpse of them, and I would do my damn job.

  “Of course,” I said, popping on my invisible career hat. I grabbed the handful of sharpies and headshot photos from my bag, passing them out to Maxim, Cannon, and Axel. Then I sucked in a sharp breath, spinning to face Jansen. Or, his chest, rather, since that was how close he stood behind me. I stepped back, extending the items toward him.

  His eyes bored into mine, and I had the urge to melt under that stare. To let my knees give out like they wanted and simply fall into those arms that I knew were so damn strong.

  But I steeled my spine.

  Even as his fingers brushed mine when he took the pictures and pens from me, I didn’t give into that trembling ache.

  “Thanks,” he said, his voice pure gravel as he took them and stepped around me like I was nothing more than a piece of furniture. Certainly not a friend, or a woman he’d kissed senseless on not one, but two separate occasions. Not to mention had his hands on me, in me.

  Probably second nature to him.

  My shoulders dropped at my own stupidity. Of course, the kisses we shared weren’t life-altering to him. Why would they be? He’d been an NHL star for a hot minute now and had women falling at his feet without him saying a word. Just because they’d meant something to me, didn’t mean the same for him. And I couldn’t truly be mad about that. Not when he was free to do whatever he pleased, and so was I.

  Then why do I feel so…awful?

  About the girls fawning over him like he was a prize to be won.

  About the way his gaze had burned when he’d looked so…disappointed in me when Maxim made me laugh.

  About wanting him when I knew I shouldn’t.

  Everything bunched and tensed inside me. A pot of water about to boil over.

  I backed away from the players and the fans, allowing them to do their thing while I tried like hell to get a grip on my breathing.

  Maxim was the first to finish since he’d been the first to start, and he walked over to where I waited patiently near the entrance of the building. “What are you doing t
onight?” he asked.

  “Caspian has you checking up on me, doesn’t he?” I asked, eying Maxim. Caspian had gone straight to his room after the game to power rest for the celebration later. He didn’t have any obligations like Maxim and Sterling had, so he was free.

  “Why would you think that?” Maxim tilted his head.

  I shook mine. “Because Caz’s obsession with keeping tabs on me has doubled since we work for the same team,” I said. And I knew his heart was in the right place. It had always been in the right place. Ever since that day he lost me in the storm cellar.

  A cold chill raced along my spine.

  “Well,” Maxim said, drawing my attention. “Not everything I do is at your brother’s behest.” I laughed again, the reaction free and easy when he used words like behest. “She laughs again,” he said, and he almost looked like he might smile. Almost.

  “So?” I reeled in my laughter. “You’re being unusually funny and cheerful today. I’m not used to it.”

  Something flickered in his gaze, a darkness swirling there for a second before it was gone. “I can be…cheerful,” he argued, but he nearly tripped over the word. “Sometimes.”

  I smiled at him, grateful for the distraction since Jansen was still talking to the redhead. Axel and Cannon had already wrapped up and headed inside the hotel. And I couldn’t escape to the comforts of my room until I’d officially closed the fan event.

  “You don’t have to be cheerful,” I said, forcing myself to focus on him. It shouldn’t be that hard—he was gorgeous, my brother’s best friend, and despite being a broody man of few words, he’d been sparing me a few.

  But it was hard. Because each second I stood there and those women kept boldly reaching over the rope to touch Jansen, I wanted to throttle them. And I had no right to do or think that.

  “It’s okay to be exactly who you are,” I continued, glancing up at him. That was one thing the brothers shared—they were freaking tall. “I know we asked you and Sterling for some slack during promos, but you shouldn’t try and force yourself to be anything other than how you feel.” Savannah had taught me that. It had taken me a while, but slowly I’d learned it was okay to be me—awkward, career-driven, me.