Page 82 of My Pucking Crush

Luca

W orking for a mafia organization makes a man think he’s a god. It’s why they’re usually not the best husbands. The power imbalance.

Max...

He’s the hockey god. And I’m just the working assassin who comes home with blood on my clothes. But Max is there for me with a washcloth, chilled vodka, and his warm lips around my dick.

This is his moment, and I’m so happy for him.

“This was my last hockey game,” Max says.

Wait. What? I lean on the glass, our new best friends, the Montgomerys, lined up next to me.

“My name is on this cup more than any other player. And I want to go out like that. I’m in my mid to late thirties. And before I get traded, I wanted to secure one thing...” He removes his jersey and fists it in the air.

Max stands there shirtless, his bucket pants hanging low on his waist. God that body. The place erupts in camera flashes. There will be photos of him like this on the internet forever.

When anyone Googles Hockey God from now on, that photo will top the search results.

“I’m announcing my retirement,” he says to gasps and clapping. “I hope that makes my number eligible to be retired.”

He’s the most winningest man in professional hockey, of course Stamford will give him that honor.

Even more reporters crowd him on the ice. His announcement means we’re not going home for several more hours.

“Oh, one last thing,” Max says into the array of microphones in front of him. “I’m married. I’m in love.”

I feel a warm blush spreading through me. Max’s friend, Ash, knocks my shoulders with a great smile.

Before anyone snidely asks, who’s the lucky girl , Max grabs one of those mics in a death grip. “With Luca Sheppard-Ryan. My bodyguard.”