Page 52 of My Pucking Crush

Max

T o my teammates, this is another game. An important one, but still just Game One in Round Two of the playoffs. Seven more chances to get one step closer to glory.

I highly doubt any of the players know our investigators connected my attack to Richmond. They might get on the ice and try to slit throats with their skates.

The pregame routine unfolds as usual.

Gear.

Equipment.

Hydration.

Coach Beck makes a speech about strategy based on how Richmond decimated Cape May. His assistant coaches watch games to notice patterns. He uses the white board to illustrate a unique passing sequence that goes against everything we learned since holding a stick twice the size of our little bodies.

I look down at myself. With all this gear, no one can hurt me unless they play dirty. The game suspension raised the stakes. We lost when I wasn’t playing. Of course, we lost plenty when I had. But the opposition got fed some chum and now, they’re ravenous for more blood.

My blood.

“I’m sorry this information is late.” Coach clicks the marker. “The defense team just isolated this. Now we know these weren’t random events. Go out there and get a feel for what this looks like on the ice in real time. We’ll go through tapes of the game tomorrow. ”

Movement shifts by the door.

Luca.

Tomorrow. There needs to be a tonight before we get to tomorrow. Then we go back on the road, and we’ll be sharing a room again.

Time passes, and next, I’m walking through the tunnel to a deafening crowd. We skate out and get loose on the ice even though we were on the practice rink hours ago.

This is real.

Richmond takes the ice, and I avoid zeroing in on any one player. Shift changes happen so often, and it usually feels like there’s always a different guy in my face trying to score against me.

It’s the usual warm up. Skating around and stretching on the ice. The goalie scuffs up the crease so pucks can’t slip into the net.

The game starts, we pass, we shoot, we score.

Over and over.

Who the fuck are these guys?

We cream them 6 to 1, and absolutely nothing out of the ordinary happens. Richmond’s guys aren’t playing like usual. They don’t even breathe my way on the ice.

Did the botched attack and the guy with the knife at my condo who died get through to Belova that he can’t get to me?

What’s with this shitty playing?

Still, taking Game One of a series is a high like no other. And I can’t wait to see Luca to celebrate.

It makes me realize that I’m living two different lives. One as a focused player working aside my teammates in the locker room, in the weight rooms, video rooms, buses, planes, and practices. The other is a gay man who lives to fuck another man every night. My bodyguard who works for the team. If my teammates knew, what the hell would they think?

Who do I want to be? These thoughts don’t find answers in my soul, but next I’m dressed in my suit, and Luca joins me in lock step heading toward the arena exit.

“Congratulations,” he says stoically, like a polite but detached bodyguard.

“Thank you.” I keep my stride, eyes forward.

Hand-picked fans wait for us, lined up behind barriers right in front of the players’ and employees’ parking lots. We always stop to sign sticks, programs, and jerseys, letting them take selfies. Even though we’re in suits and not our uniforms. They love up on us after every game. A playoff win spikes the energy to a frenzied level. But hockey players aren’t prima donnas. Every person in the organization contributes to our success.

The PR team keeps the postgame signings to a reasonable timeframe. Luca and the six other security agents keep a close eye on everything. We’re outside, and the environment can’t be completely controlled.

Next, PR is clapping and moving fans back through another maze of metal barriers toward the general parking lot. Luca watches me, his face even until a smile ghosts his lips.

I reach him and we walk to the SUV Luca has been driving for us. The doors chirp to unlock and I get into the passenger seat. My designated spot is in the middle of the lot. There aren’t any cars around. Many of the employees already left.

The tinted windows come in handy, too.

The minute I’m trapped with Luca, he grabs the back of my head and kisses me. I don’t think. I just act. I want his mouth on me.

“You were on fire tonight,” he pipes out, sounding so fucking happy for me.

“The night’s not over,” I rasp, swirling our tongues together. “Have you heard of superstitions?”

“The beard?” He strokes the facial hair he told me he loves feeling on his cock when I go down on him.

“Not just that. We fucked last night.”

“Not something I’m likely to forget.” He rubs his ass like he’s sore.

“You and I fucked. And my team won. That means we have to fuck again.”

“The same way?” He bites my lower lip. “Me on top, riding your dick?”

“God, yeah. Get us home.” I lean back and roughly buckle myself in.

Luca needs to buckle up for what I’m going to do to him.