Page 92 of My Pucking Crush

During that last intermission, I make the most of the eighteen minutes to hydrate and focus. With a few minutes to go, I approach Luca waiting near the tunnel. He stares agog at me in full gear, and my cock thickensinstantly.

“You sure you’re okay?” he asks again, his eyes cutting across my face looking for damage from the Paloma hit. “I could have fucking killed that guy.”

It’s the first time I think he’s going through something, and not just being more guarded because of the intense back-to-back games.

“That would be a problem.” I nudge his arm and smile like he said something hilarious. “I can’t visit you in prison for eight months of the year.”

He looks at me like I’m crazy.

“Your parents are here,” he says, changing the subject. “I got a call on the radio to make sure they got to their seats. You should have mentioned—”

“They never told me they were coming.”

Luca cocks his head. “Is that...normal?”

“For them, yeah,” I huff out.

Not caring who’s watching, I reach for his suit jacket sleeve and tug him near me. “I’m sorry if I’ve been distant for the last week.”

Seeing how he ran to the ice to go after Paloma stirred the life back into me. Got my warm blood moving again. And that blood is moving south.

“Tonight,” I breathe out.

“Yeah?”

“Tonight, I want to fuck you,” I mutter.

His jaw tightens. “You mean if you win?”

“You better hope we win.” Oh, we’re winning this game. I feel it. I see it. It only took about five minutes to see what Albany brought tonight, and we’re masters at defeating it. “If we lose, I’m still going to fuck you, but I’ll make it hurt so much more.”

FORTY-SIX

Luca

The Crushers win 4 to 2. The two goals Albany scored were flukes in my opinion. Just bad timing from the goalie.

“Would you like to see Max after the game?” I ask his parents when the house lights come on.

His mother sets her shoulders back. “How... How long will he be?”

I never timed how long it takes the players to do their postgame meeting, shower, dress, and interviews. Fuck, it will be a long time. But true fans love to wait. Me, too. The time flies because I’m usually thrilled to see Max exit, showered, and in his suit.

Moody parents apparently don’t share that excitement.

“A while. But I can bring you down to the locker room and—”

“Mom. Dad.” Max’s voice booms over my shoulder.

His mother looks utterly terrified of him. His helmet is gone and his wet, golden brown hair sticks to his face. His cheeks are flushed and he’s breathing heavily, finally letting all the tension go.

“Maxwell. Good game.” His mom speaks like he’s a ten-year-old who lost miserably. Not a warrior who just won Game One of the professional hockey league playoffs.

Max steps closer to me, our hips connecting. His father catches it instantly and he gives me a glare that sends shivers up my spine. I’ve been stared down bymob bosses, enforcers, hitmen, and mercenaries holding a gun at me. But this is Max’s father.

I don’t know if we have a future, but parents who do not support their adult children’s sexuality are a nightmare.

After making space between us, something Max notices, he says to his dad, “Are you staying?”

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