“Iamworried Maxim will turn out to be like Dillon,” I admitted. “Or even worse.”
Millie paused her show and slid closer to me. She wrapped her firm arm around my shoulder and squeezed. “Maxim and Dillon arenotthe same type of men. Not even close.”
I kicked out my feet, noting the new droplets of paint on my old Converse. My last session proved a wild one, and it had taken me twenty minutes to clean off most of the paint from my hands, face, and neck. I’d left the splatters on my old, snug jeans and shoes to dry because a little color hurt no one.
I liked the side-eyed glances I received from the tenants of this luxury apartment building. Sure, I lived here, too, but I never considered the space mine. While Millie never talked about it much, I knew the compensation at her petrochemical engineering position at a large, multinational conglomerate allowed for her to live in one of Houston’s nicest addresses, right near the Galleria.
Except she was currently packing up her fabulous, swanky condo to move across the world.
Part of me envied her choices; Millie would get to see exotic places, the first of which was Sri Lanka, and experience more of the world than I could imagine. She had the freedom to travel during her off time, whereas my paycheck covered my necessities and a few extras.
“How can you be so sure?” I asked.
She considered that but finally shrugged. “I just am. It’s like…a knowing. I knew something was off with Trent, but I didn’t listen to that knowing. I’ll never make that mistake again. And I won’t let you make that mistake if I can help it. Now, I’m telling you that Maxim’s not like Dillon, so you should believe me.”
“What if he doesn’tlike me, like me?” I asked. “Because I could really like him, and this probably isn’t the time to start a new relationship, not when Dillon’s returned and—”
Millie took my hand between hers and squeezed it gently. “If Maxim doesn’t like you like that, who cares? We go to the party, enjoy the hockey hotness where we’ll be safe and have fun. Based on what you told me about the intervention with Dillon, this group of guys is one of the best ways for us to spend my last late evening in this city.”
She patted my arm. “Now that that’s settled, we need to make sure we both look amazing for Friday. Got anything new to wear? Something that’s show off how beautiful you are.”
I snorted and slid down again so my butt nearly hung off the cushion. Dillon’s comments about cheating to be with a sexier woman had cut deeply into my self-esteem. I understood why I felt the way I did, but that didn’t mean it was easy to change the reasons for those emotions.
Millie pressed her glasses up her nose. “I’m serious, Idge. You’re hot. Like, smoking. You just don’t like to show off your assets.”
I pressed my hands to my chest, wanting to smooth my breasts back into my chest cavity. “They’re so…there.”
She smirked. “Maxim liked your boobs.”
The sneaky bitch. She was using my crush against me. I sat up as I side-eyed her. “I’m more than my cleavage. I’m independent and capable and…and…fun…a real catch,” I concluded. I wished I could believe it. I hadn’t even tried dating since Dillon dumped me…until now.
Did I want to date?
She raised an eyebrow, her gaze level. “The best.” She turned quiet, staring at the paused TV. “I know you’ve never paid attention to hockey,” she said.
Millie was into sports. When she put on hockey, soccer, or baseball, I got on my phone, painted my nails, or took a nap.
“So, trust me when I say that Maxim Dolov is known for his icy self-control and his complete lack of dating rumors since he moved to Houston. I mean, there was talk about him being a wild rookie in Detroit but that was years ago.”
She raised an eyebrow. I sighed as I pressed my hands to my belly. “I better find something cute that shows off my boobs.”
Millie beamed. “There’s my girl.”
Chapter3
Maxim
Practice had ended, we’d all showered, and, as I packed my bag, I listened to Naese and Cruz bicker about the best type of deodorant.
“Yours doesn’t work,” Cruz said. “You smell worse than a bear that’s shit itself all winter.”
“Bears don’t shit themselves. You should know that. You look like a bear,” Naese said.
“That was a terrible comeback,” Cruz said. “Do better with your words and your hygiene.”
Coach Silas Whittaker stuck his head into the locker room and called my name. I grabbed my bag from the bench, worry beginning to skitter through my mind. There was always a constant nagging that I’d get traded or cut that flared to life when I had to do these one-on-ones. My training ethic was stronger than most of the guys, but that’s because I refused to believe in talent alone. I was a great defensive player; so were hundreds, probably thousands, of others.
As I wove past them, I patted Cruz on the shoulder. He elbowed me in the side.
