I’d gone into psychology to understand why. I came out with a master’s degree because I wanted to help other people identify why they behaved the way they did. The human mind fascinated me.

  “I am worried 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 are not the 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’t like 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.”

  Chapter 3

  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.

  I hovered in Coach’s office doorway. Like the locker room, with its cushy seating and high-end touches that included a smoothie bar and a dedicated massage room, the office was luxurious. Our team’s owner wanted everyone comfortable and happy while they were part of the team.

  “Sit down; we have an issue,” he said.

  A film of sweat coated my body—not the healthy kind that leaked from my pores during a workout or practice. This was oily, heavy. Like my mood.

  I settled on the edge of the plush chair, my knees bouncing.

  Coach Whittaker was a fit man, less than fifteen years older than me. His dark hair was beginning to thread with silver, but his eyes were keen and sharp.

  “There’s an issue with your Green Card,” Coach Whittaker said as he closed the door. I relaxed back into the chair. That didn’t sound so bad. I wasn’t getting traded. Good. I loved this team, my teammates. The rest I could deal with. My shoulders eased, and I took a full breath.

  “What do I need to sign to fix it?”

  “This isn’t a sign-and-fix thing.” Coach paused, clearly struggling with something.

  “I asked for more of our staff to get ahead of the issue, but it appears your first team was sloppy and made mistakes. I’ve been informed by USCIS—that’s immigration and customs—that your status is being revoked.” He rubbed his hands along the back of his neck, face tense.

  Well, now, that sounded really bad. I leaned forward, searching Coach’s face as I pushed down the panic building inside me. “I don’t understand.”

  Coach shook his head. “Me either. I’ve worked with lots of foreign players, and this is the first such issue I’ve ever had. Basically, someone in Detroit didn’t do their job, so now, even though it’s only been five years and you should have the Green Card for ten, a local bureaucrat has decided to revoke your status. He plans to send your information to Immigration Court. We’ll have to work through legal channels to reinstate it.”

  “What?”

  “Gunnar’s aware of the situation created by Maurice Lambert—the bureaucrat.”

  Gunnar Evaldson was the team’s owner and a Green Card holder himself. He was also a multi-billionaire and could simply buy his way out of such issues. Apparently, my measly millions didn’t have the same impact. Or it could be that I was Russian, and the political situation with Russia was deteriorating. Probably this government guy, Lambert, had seen an opportunity to raise his profile by going after the enemy. I snorted.

  “I want you to know we’re working on finding you the best immigration attorney in the country. You’re a valuable member of the team, and we plan to do everything in our power to keep you here.”

  “Okay. Thanks.” I wasn’t sure what else to say.

  “For what it’s worth, I told the USCIS that taking any punitive action against you would cause more blowback here in the city, maybe even the country, but these are tricky times, and Lambert’s got a burr up his ass.”

  I leaned forward, elbows on knees. “I don’t want to live in that country, haven’t lived there in years. This is my home. What can I do to make sure it stays that way?”

  Coach pulled his glasses from the pocket of his shirt and tapped them on the desk. “Would you be willing to renounce Russia and request full citizenship?”

  I held his gaze. “In a heartbeat.”

  Coach leaned back in his chair and swiveled it, pursing his lips. “That woman Stol mentioned earlier this week…”

  My stomach tightened again. Coach knew everything about everyone on the team. It was unnerving.

  “Ida Jane Barlow.” I liked saying her name. I had, multiple times, until I thought that made me creepy. I didn’t want to frighten her, of course I didn’t. But I liked Ida Jane—too much. Just as I’d spent too many hours replaying our interactions in my head. I needed to let that, and her, go.

  I wasn’t going to get involved with any woman for any reason. I’d made mistakes when I landed in Detroit, ones I wasn’t sure I’d ever live down. I wouldn’t knowingly add more now. Anyway, I loved being a Wildcatter; I wanted to retire from this team. That meant focusing on my game…not on a woman, any woman. No matter how pretty she was.

  “Ida Jane. She’s American?” Coach asked. He stopped moving his chair and studied me. “She needs to be American.”

  “As apple pie. But she says it pa-ie.” I smiled, remembering her accent when she’d been talking about birthday pie with her friend, her pretty face. Yeah, I liked her, and was looking forward to seeing her tonight.

  I wanted to move forward with a relationship with her. My mind settled a bit with that choice.

  Coach leaned forward, elbows on the desk, studying me. “Think you could talk her into marriage?”

  I gawked at him.

  “We need you here, Maxim. The only way to ensure that is for you to get married. I saw your expression when Stol was ribbing you—you like this woman. Better to be with someone you care about, you’re attracted to, than someone we find to fill the role.”

  My current precarious position seemed ridiculous. One puny pencil pusher was going to decide my fate? Fuck that shit. I’d go talk to him myself. I’d told Coach as much and he shook his head.

  “He’s making a power play. Think about it—from his side, he looks like he’s following the rules, sticking it to a rich asshole who didn’t care about them. He’ll probably get a promotion out of the deal or something. If you go down there blustering, he’ll stick more firmly to his belief that he’s in the right and you’re wrong.” Coach shifted his jaw back and forth. “Plus, I already told the little prick that you’re in a relationship with a woman. That it’s serious. He can’t do anything about that, and messing with true love…well, I was there the night you guys watched Princess Bride. We don’t like that, as a culture. You get me?”

  I nodded. “Yeah. The pencil pusher from immigration would be a love-hating little prick who ripped apart a storybook romance.”

  Coach leaned back in his chair. “Exactly.” He pointed at his computer. “There are already images of you with Ida Jane online—walking her into a restaurant and talking with her. You two look cozy. So, it’d be best for you to get her to marry you. Takes all the steam out of the bureaucrat’s ambitions.”

  “But…but…I don’t want to get married,” I said.

  “Why not?” Coach asked.

  “Because…” Ida Jane was a distraction. Sure, I had protective feelings for her, texted her every day to make sure she was safe, just like I’d promised Cruz I would, but I couldn’t get involved with her.

  Nope. That could lead to feelings…and I had no intention of ever having those toward a woman. I’d loved Nadia. She died. I’d been gutted.

  Not doing that again.

  “If you want to stay here, in Houston, you don’t have a choice.”

  “But…”

  Coach leaned forward. “Do you have a better idea?”

  “N-no.”

  I left his office in a daze. I was the bruiser of the team, used as a weapon to keep other players on the ice to score goals. At least, that’s how I viewed myself. Coach viewed me as integral, one of the mainstays of our shot at another Stanley Cup.

  That revelation had been a surprise—a good one—because the men I played with and worked for were my family and I protected the people I cared about.

  I’d promised, with my hand on Nadia’s grave, that I wouldn’t fail anyone else, ever. So far, I’d kept it. I planned to keep doing so—for my teammates, Coach, like he’d asked me.

  And Ida Jane, too.

  If I could talk Ida Jane into marrying me.

  Which wasn’t such a bad idea the more I thought about it. I desired Ida Jane. She was sexy and feisty. We’d be able to enjoy each other for weeks, possibly months, then part amicably, both of us having gotten something fabulous out of the deal.

  I knew some of my teammates believed in love and all that fairy-tale shit. Cormac was one since he’d met Keelie. Adam adored his wife, Naomi.

  But you didn’t need love for marriage. In fact, an arranged marriage was cleaner. Better. Easier to end.

  Love and forever—those were fallacies people told each other, especially in this country. My parents hadn’t had affection or respect for each other. And Nadia…Nadia told me she adored her sophisticated, older boyfriend, and she was dead because of those emotions.

  I’d pretty much talked myself into the idea by the time Ida Jane showed up.

  I wore my typical attire of black dress pants and a button-down shirt. The guys gave me shit for never deviating from the outfit, but I never wanted to look sloppy. Nadia had drilled that into my head: If you look poor, people treat you poor, Maxim.

  She’d stolen clothes from fancy neighborhoods so that she could go into them, look like she belonged, and meet the men there. I rubbed my thumbs across my eyes, disliking the rest of that story. With a thick swallow, I forced those emotions down and away, into the box where I kept them. I had other worries right now.

  But Nadia’s lesson about apparel stuck, and I wore what the guys called “business douche.” They could keep their ripped jeans and sweatpants—I was the one voted best dressed each year in the sports magazines.

  I saw her walk into Naese’s house and stepped forward, ready to enact my plan.

  “Heya, Maxim,” Ida Jane said, her tone a bit shy as she greeted me.

  My good sense left my brain at her sunny expression, and I leaned down and kissed her cheek, enjoying the softness of her skin and the scent of her shampoo. Oh, yes, I could get more involved with Ida Jane—for Coach, my team.

  “Hello, krasivaya.”

  The words slipped out before I even thought them. It’s what my mother called my sister. Nadia was on my mind tonight. Would she have liked Ida Jane? Yes, she would have. Very much. I relaxed.

  Ida Jane’s long lashes, coated in mascara, lifted to reveal those warm brown eyes I’d dreamed about the night before. She took in my crisp blue shirt that was open at the throat and the rolled-up sleeves at my forearms. I used to keep my shirts buttoned, but I was always so hot, I’d made the allowance after seeing it in many American TV shows and movies. She licked her lips.

  “What’s that now?”

  “Krasivaya means ‘beautiful’ in Russian. I’m from Saint Petersburg.” That was public knowledge; I wasn’t sharing anything she couldn’t find on the internet, so why were my palms sweaty?

  Because I needed this woman to like me. Coach and our owner, Gunnar, had recommended a lawyer, and I went straight to his office from the rink. According to my newly appointed legal counsel, my current situation was…precarious, whatever the fuck that meant.

  It meant bad. My situation was bad, and I was on edge, worry seeping through my every thought.

  “The only foreign language I know is ASL, but that’s what happens when you have a sibling who’s deaf.”

  I straightened to my full height as my friends’ laughter filtered through my mind. For a moment, all I’d seen and heard was Ida Jane. I’d never been so focused on a woman before.

  I noted that Stol embraced Ida Jane’s friend. The thick glasses and tied-back hair had vanished, and a dazzling brunette stood there. No wonder Stol was intrigued.

  I glanced back down at the blond pixie bombshell standing so close to me. The way she’d turned and lifted her face toward me showed she was as interested in me as I was in her.

  I hated the idea of using this pretty little woman, and I hadn’t mentioned my situation to the guys yet. That meant I had no one to talk to about how to process this situation.

  I worried that bringing up the possibility of deportation would cause the guys to fret, which could impact our play. Right now, we were in an excellent position for a run for the Stanley Cup. I didn’t want anything to get in the way of that.

  Except I wanted to be on that run with my teammates. I’d worked hard to be here, and I coveted that win—that stat by my name.

  I wanted to spend more time talking to this woman. I wanted to date her. Fuck. I really liked her.

  “Oh, okay. Well, kassi…kras…”

  “Krasivaya,” I offered.

  She wrinkled her nose and spoke slowly, “Well, it sounds nice when you say it.”

  My gaze toured her face, stopping at her eyes, lips, skimming her cheeks and throat. “That’s why I called you that. You are lovely. How’s the hand?”

  She looked down and sighed. “Bruised. Sore, though it’s getting better. Kind of ugly.” She shot me a small smile. “I’m pretty proud of it.”

  I chuckled. “As you should be, Fists.”

  Her gaze caught mine…and held. Yeah, yeah. This half-hatched plan was beginning to take shape. Ida Jane would marry me. We’d live together. I’d worship her while she was mine. Then, when the time was right, I’d divorce her.