Page 112 of My Pucking Crush

Crossing the street, I eye the men standing out front in dark suits. “Can I speak to someone who’s in charge?” I say, glancing from man to man.

“Is there a problem?” A guy steps forward, the senior usher in this group, I gather.

“I’m a protection agent for Max Ryan, he’s the captain of the Stamford Crushers. Coach Avalon trained him in high school. He just wants to briefly pay his respects.”

The man’s jaw loosens and glances at the crowd, considering my request. “The family is inside viewing the body first. That’s customary.”

I have no fucking clue.

“Can Mr. Ryan pay his respects after them? He came all the way from Connecticut,but he has to get back to Stamford as soon as possible for the next playoff game. It will mean a lot to Mrs. Avalon to see him.”

“Sure, no problem.” The man says something to another guy in a suit, who goes inside the building. “You can bring your client to the side entrance.”

Great, where the bodies are brought in.

I’m not sure how Max will feel about this, but I don’t care. I don’t know who the fuck these people are. For all I know, Jake Quinn might show up and do what two Russians, a whore, and a knife-wielding prick haven’t been able to do. Take Max down.

Quinnshouldstill be in Richmond right now, training. It’s four hundred miles away, but thanks to private jets and helicopters, anything is possible.

Belova did his homework on Max, that’s for sure. I cringe to think what records in this world exist about Max and Jake.

I step away, and before I reach the car, Max is already across the street.

“You should have waited for me,” I grumble when he’s in close range.

He ignores me and asks, “What did you do?”

I steer him to the side entrance, so no one sees him. “I got you an early viewing. I don’t know who’s in that line. I may be fucking you and crazy about you, but I’m not your date to this thing. I’m still your goddamn bodyguard and I’m being paid to protect you. Now get your tight ass into that building, pay your respects, and let’s get the fuck out of here.”

He stares at me. “All in one breath. I’m impressed.”

“I’m serious, Max.”

His gaze lingers on the crowd and then he nods with an exhale.

Only, by the time we get inside, and he’s had his moment at the casket, mourners have started lining up inthe viewing room, too. Some have taken seats and there’s no clear path out of here. Max turns around and stifles a gasp at the eyes on him.

“Max?” a man in a suit who looks his age, approaches.

“Hey, Cory,” Max greets him comfortably.

“Great games in the series so far.” They shake hands.

“Thanks,” Max sounds modest, like his parents have punched his ego down a few notches.

Andhe doesn’t introduce me, even though I’m standing right there. That’s the irrational side of me clocking in, and I have to tamp it down. Know my place, even if I hate it.

“Kieth and Paul are here. We’re broken up about Coach. Can we buy you a beer at Celtic House?” Cory smiles, running calloused hands with stained fingernails together.

These may be old teammates, but Max dwarfs them. His eyes stray to the crowd waiting while they loiter in front of the casket. “Give me a minute,” he says to this Cory.

My heart drops because he’s considering having a beer with these guys. They’re strangers to me who could be friends with Jake. And want to take him to a place I have no idea if it’s safe.

“I’d like to stick around,” Max whispers to me.

“Here?” I point to a seating area, hoping that’s what he meant.

“No, in town.”

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