Page 8 of My Pucking Crush

“Luca did some of his own investigating. That hotel room was paid for with a wire transfer from an account that also received money from Richmond,” Beck says.

Max’s jaw tips open. “The tape. On the stick they used to obliterate my wrist. It was the same color tape a couple of Richmond players used. I figured the stick was stolen.”

Beck goes ramrod straight and barks at me, “Did you recover a stick from the room?”

“No, Coach. Those guys were sloppy, but even idiots wouldn’t leave evidence like that behind. They were slick enough to charge the room to a shell company.” One I recognized because I used to work for the man who did this. “I talked to the security guard at the hotel, and he said when his front desk manager asked those low lives why they were carrying a hockey stick through the lobby, they said they knew a few players were at the bar nearby and they wanted an autograph.”

The guard told me off-the-record they’re known local thugs who are more goofballs than anything. Figures they screwed up.

“It’s not a coincidence. Richmond wanted you to know it was them,” Beck grumbles, his anger growing. “We have two more games against them. It’s mental warfare.”

“I’m going to slaughter those motherfuckers at the next game,” Max says gruffly.

“You keep up that energy, but first, you have to make it to the next game.” Beck grips his shoulder. “They got you off the ice. They may try again. Which is why I asked Luca to meet us here.”

Max’s eyes widen. “No.”

Yeah, he figured out why I’m here.

“Absolutely not.” Max shakes his head, wincing in pain he’s trying to hide.

I see everything.

“It’s not up to you,” Beck says, and turns to Max’s agent. “Noah, back me up here.”

“Listen to your coach, Max.”

“Why the fuck would Richmond do this?” Max asks, rubbing his forehead. “Cole Ferris—”

“Cole Ferris sold Richmond right at the deadline,” Beck informs Max.

“Wait...” Max attempts to sit up, and it kills me to watch him in pain. “Who bought the team?”

“That’s not important.” Beck shakes his head. “There’s no way an owner would condone this type of attack.”

Ivan Belova would. The new Richmond owner is known to the world as a European oil baron who loves hockey. It can be just a coincidence, but it doesn’t feel that way. I’ve been listening to my gut for years, I’m not stopping now. It saved my ass in Boston when Belova tried to have me killed.

“We don’t have enough proof to go to the league with a formal inquiry,” Beck adds, swearing under his breath.

“You don’t want things like this on your record, Max.” Typical for his agent to worry about his rep more than his health.

“This is hockey, not ice dancing,” Beck hammers home the point. “You’re a tough bastard who can take a hit. You don’t need the league to fight your battles.”

Only, Belova is a monster.

I should know.

He’s my brother-in-law.

FIVE

Max

Iknow where this is going.

“Spit it out, Coach. I’m exhausted.” I steady my gaze on the man with the most gorgeous and haunting dark eyes I’ve ever seen.

“Luca will be your personal bodyguard.”

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