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And my heart sank as I watched him.
Because the man played hockey for a living and then came home to play it some more, but it wasn’t out of passion. No. This right here was a sort of twisted expectation, determination thing that I’d never understand, because right now there was no joy on his face. No playful cockiness about being the best forward on the Reapers, just this cold, emptiness in his eyes as he skated back and forth.
I sighed, shaking off the sensation and scanning the bank of wooden cubbies lining the wall opposite the rink. I found Mila’s cubby easily enough, and grabbed her skates. Luckily, we were the same shoe size, and we’d always been able to share. Clothes, on the other hand, not so much. Not that I minded. I’d grown to love my curves.
After lacing up the skates, I hurried onto the ice, falling into the familiar rhythm of skating as I headed toward Maxim, who was shooting puck after puck toward an open goal. He missed more than I expected, and maybe that’s why he didn’t hear me coming.
“Whoa,” he said when I held up the camera and took a few test shots. “You’re pretty good on those.”
“Mila and I used to practice when you were at games,” I said, shrugging. “We didn’t want you boys having all the fun.” I gave him a soft smile, focusing on my footwork while also keeping the camera steady. “Besides, how did you think I’d get the best shots?” I asked, nodding toward the other side of the rink. “By staying on the other side of that barrier?”
He huffed a laugh, then shrugged before taking another shot.
And missed.
I hissed, but glided around him in a small circle, taking more photos and checking them out on the screen.
“Is this what you need?” he asked, his voice low and rough and all kinds of sexy. It brought me to a dead halt on my skates, and he motioned to the stick in his hand. “Just me shooting?”
I shook my head, then cleared my throat. “It would be more helpful if you would skate a little bit away, then back to me.” With the weight of the camera in my hands, I easily slipped into my director role, but my cheeks heated when I added, “and without your shirt would be awesome.”
Maxim straightened, cocking a brow as he looked down at me. I swear he almost smirked too. “Is that right?”
“Yep,” I said.
“You need my shirt off for better pictures?”
“I’m not trying to invade your privacy, Maxim,” I explained. “I’m trying to capture the art of the body in motion. And that is kind of hard to do when you’re fully clothed.”
Now he did smirk, and it made my stomach flip. He skated up to me, stopping just a few inches away as he held out his stick to me. I took it from him, holding it while also holding my breath. Slowly, he tugged at the hem of his shirt and pulled it over his head in one smooth motion.
Holy. Fucking. Muscles.
The man was carved, ripped, and shredded. Swirls of ink decorated his right pec, curling down and around his ribs. I’d never seen anything that screamed danger and adventure and pleasure as much as Maxim Zolotov shirtless did.
“Are you saying my body is a work of art?” he asked, holding out his shirt to me.
I laughed, then snapped myself the hell out of it and flipped back into work mode. “Yes,” I admitted. “I mean, look at you.” I took the shirt from him, hanging it over my shoulder and trying like hell to ignore his scent washing over me. Who knew this would be a test in professionalism as well, but, to be fair, I’d been in love with this man for years, so I cut myself some slack.
Maxim glanced down at himself after taking back his stick, and then he shrugged. The man—purely made out of smooth skin and tons of corded muscle—shrugged at himself. “Too bad art doesn’t equate skills.”
I furrowed my brow at that, then rolled my eyes. He wanted a pity party, but I’d left my balloons and party punch upstairs. “You know how talented you are, Maxim,” I said. “You don’t need me to remind you. Stop fishing.”
“I’m not fishing,” he snapped.
“Fine,” I said, then pointed behind him to a spot on the ice. “Can you skate over there, then skate back to me?”
He blew out a breath, but did as I asked.
I snapped shot after shot, having him repeat paths and turns over and over again, each time getting a different angle. They were stunning, I could see it, could feel it with each push of the button. And how could they not be? Jokes aside, he was stunning, and the way he moved on the ice was some sort of magic.
