Page 22 of My Pucking Crush

“Are your tires made of lead that they can’t be blown out?” Beck adds.

“Stop.” Max scrubs a hand down his face. “You made your point.”

Beck pulls down Max by the back of his neck. “Richmond hurt you because they don’t play by the rules.”

“Last I checked, those who choose violence rarely play by the rules,” Max smarts off to Beck.

“Bratva and rules don’t mix,” I say under my breath.

“Max...” Beck points. “If I see you and I don’t see him, I’ll make sure he’s fired. Do you want that on your conscience?”

Beck is bluffing. That would be a shitty thing to do to someone. And strategically ill advised, knowing I could show up on any competitor’s doorstep with a shitload of security information about the Crushers to sell in exchange for a big paycheck.

“No, Coach,” Max grunts.

“Keep it that way.” Beck leaves us alone in the office.

I close the steel door and twist the white metal blinds, giving us privacy.

“What the fuck?” Max steps back.

I want to throw him on Beck’s desk, but I don’t.

I want to knee him in the balls then suck his dick until he feels better, but I don’t.

Instead, I amble to the calendar on the wall. It’s a 60-day fill-in type that someone updates with games, practices, travel days, and other events.

Signing my own pink-slip for fucking with Beck’s carefully color-coated schedule, I take a black sharpie and circle the days left before playoffs.

“How long have you been playing hockey?” I ask over my shoulder.

Max doesn’t answer. With his gorgeous face flushed red, he comically falls into a seat. With all his gear and his jersey, he massively overpowers the metal guest chair made for a normal human.

Not a god.

“Well?” I push.

“Since second grade.” Max’s answer halts mywriting.

“I should have figured.”

It makes sense why he’s a phenomenal player. When young kids are exposed to sport, what they learn grows into their DNA.

Everything Max does is on instinct like the rest of us muggles walk and talk.

“Have you noticed as we get older, time goes by quickly?”

“Depends,” he argues.

“Your time is valuable, let me cut to the chase. I get a bonus at the end of the season. I need that money.”

“Jesus Christ, Sheppard,” he scoffs, condescendingly. “Do you know how much I make? I’ll take care of you.”

My cock thickens.Yeah, take care of me, big boy.

God, it’s like I’m a different person around him. Submissive and wanting to be on all fours.

For him.

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