Page 27 of My Pucking Crush

I think about that. “You think they’ll attack meon the ice?”

Luca glances out the side mirror, and swings back into the road. “They tried to get you off the ice and did a half-ass job. Whoever is behind this in Richmond won’t screw it up a second time. They’ll come at you when you least expect it. But with me around, it will be much more difficult.”

“You don’t know much about hockey. You can’t just attack a guy on the ice unprovoked.”

“It’s the only time I can’t physically protect you.” His visceral tone sends shivers through my veins.

“Trust me, if someone did something stupidly illegal on the ice, they’d have four guys and a cleared bench out there retaliating. What you’re talking about just doesn’t happen. It’s too easy to get caught. There are fines. Losing draft picks.”

“But the damage will be done. I’ve seen people get away with a lot of shit they shouldn’t.” His concern has an unexpected weight that keeps me quiet for a beat.

“I appreciate that, and that you bring a level of...” I want to say paranoia, but that’s rude. “Concern to this assignment.”

I still don’t believe I’m in any real danger. The GM and Coach Beck are being overly cautious.

But I’m too tired to argue anymore.

FIFTEEN

Max

When we get home from the arena, I’m ravenously hungry. I only picked at my dinner before the game, too distracted and worked up. I should be sick to my stomach. But games burn thousands of calories.

I toss my duffle on the dining table and hike into my kitchen to look in the fridge. “Damn, nothing but leftovers.” I think about who will deliver at almost midnight.

“Hungry?” Luca asks.

“Yep,” I say, checking the pantry and snagging a box of instant mac and cheese.

Frowning, Luca tosses his suit jacket onto a chair next to my duffel. Something about the way he rolls up his sleeves, revealing thick, tattooed forearms, tightens my throat. The chaos of colors and shapes etched into his skin suggests his entire body might be covered.

I find that sexy as hell. He’s the sexiest man I’ve ever laid eyes on.

Striding into the kitchen, he takes the box from me. “I cannot in good conscience allow you to eat that in my presence.”

“Ordinarily, I would eat something more nutritious, but it’s late.”

With a level of comfort that floors me, he moves around the kitchen, in and out of my walk-in pantry, and then riffles through my fridge.

A few moments later, he’s sautéing fresh cherry tomatoes in garlic and basil on mystove. I’m too shocked and hungry to complain. When that smell hits me, I’m dying for whatever the hell he’s making.

With pasta now cooking in boiling water, I head to my wine cabinet. There I choose a bottle of red and open it.

“Wine?” I pour, then backtrack. “Oh right, you don’t drink. Sorry.”

“I’m used to it.”

“Wine isn’t really drinking, though,” I say after a hearty sip. “It’s just fermented grapes.”

“And vodka is just potatoes. Whiskey is just malted barley,” he says, briskly stirring the cooked tomatoes.

The guy’s smart. Articulate. Gorgeous. And can cook.

I sip my wine, unable to stop staring at his body. His white dress shirt tucked into flat-front trousers that hug his ass captures my attention.

Luca plates the food and brings me the pepper grinder, offering to season the food like a well-trained waiter.

“I got it.” I take it from him and clutch his arm, the heat of his skin, the solid feel of his muscles sends a blast of lust through me. “You don’t need to take care of me like this.”

---