Page 115 of My Pucking Crush

They take a seat at a round table near the front window. I think of his head inside an Uzi scope from a nearby building and start to sweat. Max catches my sharp sigh and figures out what has me stressed.

“Let’s sit at the bar,” he suggests, and the group follows his lead like puppies.

They don’t sit on stools, just stand in front of the bar. Max puts his credit card on the scarred mahogany surface, signaling he’s buying.

After the bartender brings a round of beers, each guy gives a synopsis of their life and families including blue-collar jobs, though one is a lawyer in Manhattan. Max talks about college and being drafted to the Crushers. He sings Coach Avalon’s praises, making it sound like Coach was responsible for his success. His modesty floors me.

The conversation is going smoothly, and I relax, sitting further down from them at the bar. They’ve figured out I’m with him, and I’m his protection. He’s a famous hockey player, so they don’t question him. Maybe they think all star players have bodyguards.

Max’s shoulders drop and I feel his relief. He needed this sense of normalcy, this centering. Despite still feeling wound up over the unscheduled stop, I’m happy he’s enjoying himself. It’s a selflessness I’ve never known and it smacks me in the face. I’ve totally fallen for this man.

I wonder if he’ll come around here more often. Try to patch things up with his parents. But those rude people don’t deserve him.

“How’s Oliver?” Max asks, sipping his beer.

His friends go deadly quiet. Oh shit, did this friend die and Max doesn’t know?

“You haven’t heard?” Cory says. “He’s a queer.Came out a few months ago. Was banging a guy he works with.”

Max turns still as a statue.

Right there, I know none of these guys suspect that Max is gay. You don’t call another guy queer to aqueersix-foot-four warrior who wears razor sharp blades, carries a stick, and fights for a living.

My throat goes tight, waiting to hear Max defend Oliver. Whoever the hell he is. Snap at Cory for calling him queer. Even though it’s not really a slur, his tone didn’t sound very supportive.

“Fucking fag,” Kieth mutters into his beer, confirming my earlier assumptions. “He goes to my gym. He’s seen me naked. I canceled my membership because they wouldn’t do anything about it.”

“What did you expect them to do?” Max asks, sounding breathless.

“Kick him out,” Kieth answers.

“For being gay?” Max huffs. “I don’t think they’re allowed to do that. It’s discrimination without cause.”

I grip the seltzer water the bartender gave me. He’s at the far end talking to someone else, paying no attention to Max and his friends.

Come on, Max, say something. They worship you. Their tongues are hanging out.

“There’s plenty cause,” Kieth keeps talking. “He used the locker room as a place to cruise men.”

“That’s a strong allegation.” Max finishes his beer and roughly sets the glass on the bar. “Wouldn’t you say so, counselor?”

Paul, the lawyer, rolls his eyes. “If he gets in trouble, I hope he doesn’t ask me to defend him.”

That’s three for three.

My heart breaks for Max. He wanted to reconnect to the place he grew up, but it’s going down in flames. Doeshe really want to live in the closet the rest of his life? We never discussed if he would come out. For himself. His own piece of mind and pride.I’mtemporary.

“I have to get going. I’m staying at my house in East Hampton tonight,” Max says with an edge in his voice and signals for the bill.

Max signs it and when Cory tries to leave a twenty, Max throws down a crisp Benjamin. “I got it,” he says bitterly.

I’m off the stool and nod a thank you to the bartender.

Max gets to the car, and holds out his hand. “Keys.”

“No, sir. You’ve been drinking.”

“Fine.” He gets in on the passenger side.

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