Page 110 of My Pucking Crush

“Yeah.” I sink into his embrace. “This was incredible. And now you’re going to hate me.”

FIFTY-NINE

Max

Raw memories flood my veins with venom, pulling up to my childhood home in Marine Harbor, a rural blue-collar town on Long Island. In one of my more casual suits, slate blue with a gold Crushers tie, I get out of the car.

Luca steps out a few seconds later. He’s dressed to the nines. With a dark charcoal freshly pressed suit with a black shirt, matching black tie. With those shades, he looks more like a Fed.

On the street, Luca checks the perimeter as usual. When we leave the busy stadium in Stamford there’s plenty to assess. Here, there’s just colonial homes with nice lawns under a canopy of oak trees.

I knock on my parents’ door and wait outside even though I have a key. Even though I pay for this house. The taxes, repairs, upgrades. Anything they want. The mortgage was paid off three years ago after I signed my largest renewal contract with the Crushers.

Mom answers with only a weak smile, shame rightfully all over her face. At least her expression reflects an acknowledgment that she and my father are using me. Taking advantage of me. “Maxwell. You look good.”

I bend down and kiss her cheek, smelling whiskey on her breath.You look like shit, I want to say, but don’t. I step inside with Luca on my six and catch my father in the doorway of the kitchen.

Dad folds his arms. “Who’s that with you?”

I step aside. “This is Luca, my bodyguard.He works for the team. Youmethim.”

My father’s eyes narrow, the memory refreshing in his head.

“Sir,” Luca addresses my father with respect. None of which he deserves. My gay bodyguard who fucking kills people has more grace than my father.

“Look at the lovely article the newspaper printed about Coach.” Mom thrusts the local Marine Harbor Gazette at me. “His photo is on the cover.”

Thisisa big deal for my hometown.

“He was a good man. A decent one,” my father says wryly, studying Luca.

“We’ll go to the second service tonight as a family,” she says casually.

“A family?” I choke out. “I’m thirty-six. Not ten. I just stopped by to—”

“To what?” Dad looks at my feet. “I don’t see any luggage. You’re not staying here?”

“Of course he’s staying here,” Mom says, looking at me to confirm.

“Where’shesleeping?” Dad points to Luca with so much disrespect I want to slam him into the refrigerator.

“I’m not sleepinghere,” I say with disdain.

“This is your home,” Mom says with an astonished tone.

No shit this is my home. I fucking paid for it. But I don’t voice these irritations that only eat at me when I’m here.

“Stamfordis my home now,” I say, and my eyes stray to Luca. “And we’re staying at my beach house in East Hampton.”

“Both of you?” Dad sneers at Luca.

“He’smy bodyguard. Where I go, he goes.”

“You don’t need a bodyguard here in Marine Harbor.” Dad sends more icy glares Luca’s way. “Mycolt and shotgun—”

“Stop,” I cut my father off.

I hate that he’s probably right about this small town not being a danger to my safety. A professional killer isn’t likely to try to take me out here.

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