Page 55 of My Pucking Crush

Luca

D uring the first intermission with Max safely behind closed and guarded doors in the locker room, I decide to take a stroll to the home team’s side of the stadium’s underbelly. Stupid, since I’m in enemy territory. And not just as a Crusher employee.

The first twenty minutes of play felt like being circled by sharks. No attacks, just Richmond preying on my team. It’s 0-0, both teams choosing caution over destruction.

The chilling feeling all around me on this side of the stadium isn’t the ice. Knowing the risks of Belova giving the signal and having me dragged away outweigh my need to keep Max safe. Part of my job as enforcer was to interrogate enemies. Before I killed them. I’d gotten so good, I could take one look in their eyes and know everything.

I just need to see this Quinn guy up close.

And let him see me . Let him see what I will do to him and his family if he hurts Max. Christ, it’s come to this, threatening innocents. Feeling unhinged, I pick up my pace.

Before I know it, I’m at Richmond’s locker room. The guards at the door are clearly bratoks . Russian mob soldiers.

“I need to talk to one of your players,” I say to the trio of menacing looking men.

“No can do.” One of the guards shakes his head

I glance at them. Are they in on it? If Belova is running this team like his brotherhood, these guys are in the dark. For deniability. Given a strict set of instructions, punishable if the rules are broken. Harshly.

In a moment of weakness, I say, “Is Mr. Belova’s assistant around? The cute brunette?”

Samara isn’t Ivan’s assistant, and I doubt she’s here in Richmond. He’s got her locked up in his Chicago mansion. If he’s smart.

They look at each other. “Mr. Belova doesn’t have an assistant,” one of them says.

My throat goes tight.

Just then the door opens. Warriors dressed in lime green and white saunter out of the locker room. I lean against the wall and let them pass. My eyes sharpen for #32. Quinn.

If only I had a shiv. I’d love to fuck Max with this guy’s blood on my hands.

When I see Jake, adrenaline floods my veins. I could jump him, break his neck. It would be all over. And for me. I’d be shot, no doubt those bratoks are carrying.

But Belova would kill Samara.

Death is final. Threats and fear can live forever. Poor Max is an example of that. What is Quinn’s weakness? His family. He hired them a bodyguard.

I take out the photo of them, and with a pen in my pocket, I circle his wife.

With so many people, players, trainers, and coaches filling the hall and the team unsuspecting of anything, I cut through until I’m in front of Quinn. Using skills I’ve perfected, I wait for the perfect moment and spin around, stopping him.

Glaring into his eyes, I know what’s deep in his soul. Where his passions lie. He’s not straight. And I hate to fuck with someone who’s been forced into a marriage like I was. But Max’s life is more important.

Confusion rakes over Quinn’s features. I shove the photo into his chest. And in the accent I long buried, I say, “Good luck tonight.”

When he looks down to take the photo, I use that time to disappear into the sea of people all around us. Another specialty of mine.

I just need to plant the seed of doubt in Quinn’s head.

And God, I hope Stamford wins tonight and eliminates these fuckers, even if it’s here in enemy territory.