Page 9 of My Pucking Crush

Luca

L ater that night, a parade of hot hockey players marches into Max’s penthouse to check on him. It’s testosterone and beauty overload. I see these guys nearly every night. Just not this close. One hundred more could show up, all just as good looking, but I’ll still want Max more than any of them.

He orders in dinner. They wanted to go out, but my strong objection was seconded by the reasonable forward, Troy Madison, who didn’t want anyone to snap a photo of Max’s busted-up face. He left the stadium after the last game looking perfect.

They watch the Cape May game on Max’s giant widescreen TV. A team they need to beat to move up in the ranks for the best possible position going into the playoffs. Home ice is key.

I keep to myself, sitting at Max’s dining table. But I get up in timed increments to patrol like a military trained Belgian Malinois.

Wingman Stefan Wills acknowledges my presence with a hello and asks how I am. The other forward, Damien Carter, looks my way a few times and then back at Max.

He keeps up the on-and-off staring all night to see if we were giving each other googly eyes behind people’s backs. And then it hits me. Carter likes dick. Which means he knows I do too.

As far as I know, Carter hasn’t gone public about his sexuality.

The night progresses, and you’d think it was a team meeting, not a group of friends enjoying sport. It’s all shop talk and strategy.

And fucking hot.

To keep busy, I roll up my sleeves and clean up after the guys. By the time the last Crusher leaves, Max looks wrecked.

“How do you feel?” I ask him, snagging the last empty beer bottle from a wood cocktail table, further noticing stylish coasters.

Hmmm.

“None of your business,” Max says, wincing as he walks away.

How the hell will he play?

“Did you take your meds? Or is that none of my business, too?” I get in his face. “I can’t protect you if you’re going to look weak and be a target.”

His right hand curls into a fist, his left wrist in a brace. “Don’t call me weak.”

“What should I call you, by the way?” I ask, folding my arms, loving his eyes all over my thick, tattooed forearms.

Will he like my piercings, too?

“Call you?” he asks for clarification.

“Do I call you Max? Mr. Ryan.” I lick my lips. “Sir.”

When that doesn’t get a rise from him, it signals he’s not into sex clubs. “Max is fine, Luc.”

I nod, loving how he remembered to call me Luc. “This will all be over soon.”

“You got that right,” he says and staggers off to bed.

I’m tempted to remind him about his meds, but the messy kitchen steals my attention. I’m a bit of a neat freak and can’t sleep with dishes in the sink. Cursing under my breath, I get to work.

Will the jackass even notice in the morning?