Page 62 of My Pucking Crush

Luca

I follow Max out of the funeral parlor, wanting to ask why his shoulders are up around his ears. Waiting to cross the street, I exhale and ask brusquely, “Where’s this pub?”

My tone gets Max’s attention. “What’s wrong?”

He reaches out to touch me, but a voice nearby jerks his hand back. It feels like I’ve been slapped. Our gazes lock. We’re each wearing shades, but the stare still wrecks me. I know what’s behind those mirrored lenses.

His shame. Of me. Of what we have.

“Nothing.” I motion for him to cross the road and walk to the car while I take up the rear.

Very different from last night when we walked side by side like equals. Will I ever really be his equal if he’s a superstar and I’m an assassin for the mafia?

Turning on bodyguard mode, I get him into the armored SUV and drive to the pub where, we sit in the parking lot, waiting for his old friends to show up, the blaring silence rattling my nerves.

“I’m going to check out the place first, make sure nothing looks off.” I push to get out. “Please stay here.”

“Sure thing,” he says coldly.

I don’t know where this distance is coming from. All these reminders of his past perhaps. It feels so tangled, but I just know I need to keep Max safe through the rest of the games against Richmond. We haven’t discussed what happens if those fuckers lose.

Will Belova want revenge and try to hurt Max or another player for the next two rounds of play? I don’t know how much more I can take.

I’m not going home to Belova. When the champagne bottle cork pops after the final Stamford win, I have to leave. Disappear into Sebastian Daria’s underground gambling world, and ask the Byrnes, the real ruthless savages, for help getting Samara back.

Inside, the pub is fairly empty, but it’s only four p.m. I can spot a shady character from a mile away, and nothing here looks amiss.

I step up to the bar and offer the server my hand. “I have a high-profile client coming in soon with some local buddies.”

“You carrying?” He shakes my hand, looking me up and down.

“I’m his security.” I reach into my wallet and show my permit with a twenty underneath.

“No need for that, mate.”

I drop it on the bar regardless “Do you have cameras?”

“Not yet.” He shrugs.

If something does go down, I can’t check the footage. I exhale and nod, watching the server head to the other side of the bar where locals sit.

With one last look around, I step back to the entrance, horrified to find Max already outside the SUV, shoulder to shoulder with his old buddies. The difference in their suits is comically obvious. Cheap and ill-fitting compared to Max’s finely-cut, designer number. He struts toward me, so devastatingly handsome, I have to remind myself to breathe.

A horn honks, and I reach for my piece, but Max waves. He’s not used to being in danger. But it’s all I know.

I step outside and hold the door open for Max and his friends, keeping my face even, secretly hoping he will introduce me, but he doesn’t.

They take a seat at a round table near the front window. I think of his head inside an Uzi scope from a nearby building and start to sweat. Max catches my sharp sigh and figures out what has me stressed.

“Let’s sit at the bar,” he suggests, and the group follows his lead like puppies.

They don’t sit on stools, just stand in front of the bar. Max puts his credit card on the scarred mahogany surface, signaling he’s buying.

After the bartender brings a round of beers, each guy gives a synopsis of their life and families including blue-collar jobs, though one is a lawyer in Manhattan. Max talks about college and being drafted to the Crushers. He sings Coach Avalon’s praises, making it sound like Coach was responsible for his success. His modesty floors me.

The conversation is going smoothly, and I relax, sitting further down from them at the bar. They’ve figured out I’m with him, and I’m his protection. He’s a famous hockey player, so they don’t question him. Maybe they think all star players have bodyguards.

Max’s shoulders drop and I feel his relief. He needed this sense of normalcy, this centering. Despite still feeling wound up over the unscheduled stop, I’m happy he’s enjoying himself. It’s a selflessness I’ve never known and it smacks me in the face. I’ve totally fallen for this man.

I wonder if he’ll come around here more often. Try to patch things up with his parents. But those rude people don’t deserve him.

“How’s Oliver?” Max asks, sipping his beer.

His friends go deadly quiet. Oh shit, did this friend die and Max doesn’t know?

“You haven’t heard?” Cory says. “He’s a queer. Came out a few months ago. Was banging a guy he works with.”

Max turns still as a statue.

Right there, I know none of these guys suspect that Max is gay. You don’t call another guy queer to a queer six-foot-four warrior who wears razor sharp blades, carries a stick, and fights for a living.

My throat goes tight, waiting to hear Max defend Oliver. Whoever the hell he is. Snap at Cory for calling him queer. Even though it’s not really a slur, his tone didn’t sound very supportive.

“Fucking fag,” Kieth mutters into his beer, confirming my earlier assumptions. “He goes to my gym. He’s seen me naked. I canceled my membership because they wouldn’t do anything about it.”

“What did you expect them to do?” Max asks, sounding breathless.

“Kick him out,” Kieth answers.

“For being gay?” Max huffs. “I don’t think they’re allowed to do that. It’s discrimination without cause.”

I grip the seltzer water the bartender gave me. He’s at the far end talking to someone else, paying no attention to Max and his friends.

Come on, Max, say something. They worship you. Their tongues are hanging out.

“There’s plenty cause,” Kieth keeps talking. “He used the locker room as a place to cruise men.”

“That’s a strong allegation.” Max finishes his beer and roughly sets the glass on the bar. “Wouldn’t you say so, counselor?”

Paul, the lawyer, rolls his eyes. “If he gets in trouble, I hope he doesn’t ask me to defend him.”

That’s three for three.

My heart breaks for Max. He wanted to reconnect to the place he grew up, but it’s going down in flames. Does he really want to live in the closet the rest of his life? We never discussed if he would come out. For himself. His own piece of mind and pride. I’m temporary.

“I have to get going. I’m staying at my house in East Hampton tonight,” Max says with an edge in his voice and signals for the bill.

Max signs it and when Cory tries to leave a twenty, Max throws down a crisp Benjamin. “I got it,” he says bitterly.

I’m off the stool and nod a thank you to the bartender.

Max gets to the car, and holds out his hand. “Keys.”

“No, sir. You’ve been drinking.”

“Fine.” He gets in on the passenger side.

In the driver seat, I ask, “What’s the address to your house in East Hampton?”

“Just get on the expressway.”

With a tight jaw, I say, “Maybe we should just drive out to Orient and catch a ferry to New London. Sleep in Stamford tonight.”

Max’s gaze shoots to mine. “I... I want to show you my house.”

My hackles rise. “Does your house in the Hamptons have security?”

“It has an alarm.”

“Cameras?”

“No.”

“Fuck me,” I snap. “As your security expert, I suggest you get them. You can afford it.”

I see the vulnerability in his eyes, and while my anger seems aimed at his lack of security, I’m actually pissed that he didn’t stand up to those so-called friends.

Max is the client, so I begrudgingly comply. Like an idiot. He is going to see a different side of me in East Hampton.