Page 46 of My Pucking Crush
Luca
T he Crushers win 4 to 2. The two goals Albany scored were flukes in my opinion. Just bad timing from the goalie.
“Would you like to see Max after the game?” I ask his parents when the house lights come on.
His mother sets her shoulders back. “How... How long will he be?”
I never timed how long it takes the players to do their postgame meeting, shower, dress, and interviews. Fuck, it will be a long time. But true fans love to wait. Me, too. The time flies because I’m usually thrilled to see Max exit, showered, and in his suit.
Moody parents apparently don’t share that excitement.
“A while. But I can bring you down to the locker room and—”
“Mom. Dad.” Max’s voice booms over my shoulder.
His mother looks utterly terrified of him. His helmet is gone and his wet, golden brown hair sticks to his face. His cheeks are flushed and he’s breathing heavily, finally letting all the tension go.
“Maxwell. Good game.” His mom speaks like he’s a ten-year-old who lost miserably. Not a warrior who just won Game One of the professional hockey league playoffs.
Max steps closer to me, our hips connecting. His father catches it instantly and he gives me a glare that sends shivers up my spine. I’ve been stared down by mob bosses, enforcers, hitmen, and mercenaries holding a gun at me. But this is Max’s father.
I don’t know if we have a future, but parents who do not support their adult children’s sexuality are a nightmare.
After making space between us, something Max notices, he says to his dad, “Are you staying?”
“No. No. We need to get back.” His dad takes his mother by the arm. “Like she said, good game. When is the next one? Next week?”
I stifle a laugh. This guy doesn’t know anything about hockey or the schedule.
“The day after tomorrow,” Max says. “Why don’t you—”
“Oh no. This was a nightmare trek,” his mom says.
Some players flew their family in. Everyone in the players’ rows were smiling, having a ball, wearing team merch.
These two look like they attended a funeral.
“Well, it’s just the first round. I’ll email you the full schedule so maybe you can...” He stops talking when they fidget.
Why did they even come tonight?
“Maxwell, can we talk to you for a moment?” his father asks, his eyes telling me to go away.
Max catches the stare and folds his arms. “Luca is my bodyguard. He’s not to leave my side except when I’m on the ice. I’m not on the ice. He stays. Talk.”
“James, I’ll call him tomorrow.” Max’s mother tugs his dad’s arm.
They don’t even ask why he has a bodyguard.
“You’re here. What do you need?” Max asks like he knows. He’s seen this movie before.
“Jimmy got into some trouble,” his mother takes over .
Jimmy, I’m assuming that’s a brother.
Samara comes to mind. All week, I’ve thought about her, how Belova is holding her. There’s nothing I can do, except agree to a complete surrender. I take comfort in knowing Belova won’t hurt her. He just wants to scare me. I have a deadline. So long as I stick to it, she’ll be fine.
Plus, if she tells me he mistreated her, I’ll kill him. And he knows it—because he knows me.
Max dumps his head in his hands, his movement bringing me back to this moment. “What kind of trouble?” he asks.
“Another DWI. Jimmy got passed over for a promotion again. Even though he’s the best janitor that school has ever had.” His father puffs out his check, proud as fuck.
Prouder of a screw-up son than the highly accomplished son standing before him.
All because Max likes guys.
Fuck.
“Where is he?” Max asks.
“In county lock up. The bond was pricey and—”
“How much?” Max bites out.
“Ten thousand,” his father bravely answers.
“I’ll have my accountant wire you—”
“We need money for a lawyer this time, too,” his mom says like she’s talking to a bank. “Jimmy says it’s not his fault, and he’s going to plead not guilty.”
Max looks ready to explode. “Have Jimmy call me. You’ll get the ten grand for the bond but I’m not paying for a lawyer until I talk to him.”
“Seems like you don’t have time to talk,” his father says, irritated.
“You’re the ones who don’t seem to have time for anything. What the fuck do you do all day? Dad, you work mornings at the golf course, and Mom, you left your teaching job five years ago. You don’t have grandchildren.”
“Doesn’t look like we’ll ever have any.” Max’s father sneers in my direction. “What are you looking at? You got kids?”
“My son died in a car accident,” I say, locking eyes with him.
“Oh no.” His mother sinks back, covering her mouth. “James. Let’s go. Let our boys talk it out.”
“Maxwell.” His father runs a hand through his thinning gray hair. “Just please—”
“You’ll get the money.” When his father turns to steer his mother out, Max barks, “You’re fucking welcome.”
His parents’ steps falter, but Max doesn’t wait for a half-hearted apology. He spins and stalks off.
Any joy from the team’s win is gone from his eyes.
And maybe the sex he promised me, too.