Page 3 of My Pucking Crush

Russian. Oh, dear God, this is a fucking robbery scam I heard about!

I wave my hand and reach for my wallet. “Okay, you got me. How much? I got two hundred and change on me. Or I can go to an ATM. No one has to get hurt.”

A few thousand to save my life is a no brainer.

“We don’t want money.” Pea Coat pulls out a knife from an inside pocket.

The glinting blade should terrify me, but it kicks up the opposite. Anger-fueled adrenaline rushes through my veins like liquid fire.

“Then what do you fucking want?” I bark, eyeing the stick.

“You,” Leather says.

All kinds of wicked thoughts momentarily pulse through me. Is this some kind of prank? From someone in my past? Or the guy I turned down?

“Me? Why?” I ask with a tight throat.

“Shut up.” Leather Jacket swings the hockey stick at my head.

Decades of instincts shoot my hand up to block the collision, the stick slamming against my wrist. Pain explodes up my arm, but I grab the end of the stick.

We struggle, and moments later, I own the stick.

“Okay, motherfuckers. Come on.” I swing with all my might, smashing Pea Coat’s left shin.

He drops the knife and falls back, crab-crawling toward the door where he uses the handle to get to his feet.

This fight is still two-on-one. Three, if I include the chick, who I’ve lost in the melee.

It all happens so fast. Leather picks up the knife and rushes me, but I grab his arm, my agonizing wrist keeping the blade from... From what? He’s just holding it.

He isn’t trying to stab me in the chest. Or the neck. He’s not trying to...kill me.

To the amateur, a hockey stick against a knife might be useless. But if this came from Richmond, a professional club, the blade part of the stick should be sharp enough to give me a fighting chance.

Before I start slicing these douchebags, something I’ll have to explain if I’m not stabbed, I swing the stick again and take out Leather’s knee. He goes down too, the knife falling to the ground.

I stomp my left foot on the blade and raise the stick over his head.

“Who sent you?” I yell, my gut screaming that this wasn’t random. “Did my uncle send you?”

Confusion pinches Leather’s eyebrows, and I shake that ridiculous suggestion away. It’d been years since I’d seen Uncle Harris. Years since the summer he damaged my soul.

A secret I’ve kept from my father about his sketchy brother.

“Come on,” Pea Coat yells, yanking the door open. “We tell boss he’s too strong.”

Boss? Whose boss?

Leather rises to his feet but sways from side to side, ignoring his Pea Coat friend. He’s got bloodlust in his eyes. He wants another piece of me. But he’s lost his weaponandhis partner.

Years of watching an opponent trains me to notice the shifting of his weight. He’s not on his front feet to make a retreat, he’s resting on his back foot.

I try to prepare, but he’s too fast. Grunting, he charges forward with the speed of a doped-up Olympic athlete and crashes into me. I drop the stick as my back slams into the wall, knocking the wind out of me. My head snaps back, too. I see stars, and slump to the ground.

“Someone coming down hall,” a voice yells.

I’ve lost track of who’s who, as I’m fading. The room starts to spin, but I catch the two men leaving, and I breathe a sigh of relief. I’m fighting consciousness, and the last thing I see is someone standing over me.

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