Page 75 of My Pucking Crush

Part of me wants him to try to hurt Max, who unless the guy’s got some kind of weapon on him, or just out and out takes his stick and bashes it in Max’s face, won’t hurt him with petty hip or shoulder checks.

Typically fighting comes to an abrupt halt as the regular season winds down. With playoff slots limited, everyone is out for blood. Not tonight. Sticks are everywhere they’re not supposed to be. Shins. Chests. Faces. Everyone takes some kind of hit. I’ve loved hockey my whole life. The epic Russian vs The UnitedStates Olympic games played on a loop on Soviet State Television.

I’ve never seen a more brutal game. Until this one.

It’s fucking World War Three tonight. More gloves hit the ice during this game than I’ve ever seen. To my shock, Stamford is down by one point in the fourth period but comes back in the last five minutes with back-to-back shots.

Richmond loses their shit with retaliation hits that break the refs’ whistles. Max skates toward the bench, raising his stick in the air, and gets tripped by...

Jake Quinn.

A collective gasp quiets the stadium. I grip the rink door ready to go rip him to shreds, realizing I was watching Max being glorious and didn’t realize Quinn was on the ice, too.

When Max gets up, blood trickles from his nose. I dig into the rubber floor mats to hit the ice on my cleats, ready to make Jake Quinn wish he was never born.

Max beats me to it. He goes after Quinn in a way I’ve never seen another player out for blood. This is personal.

The bench clears and I lose sight of Max, until a ref has his jersey in his fist, blowing the whistle to throw him out of the game. No big deal since there are only seconds left.

The game officially ends with a cheering crowd, and the Crushers leave the ice as bitter winners, fury humming off their helmets.

Everyone gets treated by the trainers for some kind of injury, including Max’s shot to the nose. It turns out he’s also nursing a busted lip.

While the team celebrates with champagne for beating their rival, Bronwin pulls me, Duncan, and the other guards into a meeting with the GM in a war room todeal with the fallout of Max’s game ejection. Only, officials in New York call in and suspend him for one game, which usually in these situations can be served out the following season.

However, they tell Reid Max’s suspension can’t be delayed. He’s off the ice tomorrow.

“Who’s gonna tell him?” Reid says, looking at Beck.

A man I don’t envy. This guy has a lot on his plate. Injured players, a suspended captain, and now he needs to stay up all night shuffling the deck to replace Max.

“I’ll tell him,” I say to a collective sigh of relief.

“You’re carrying a gun.” Reid makes a bad joke. “You’re the safest person to tell him.”

MAX SAYS ABSOLUTELYnothing to me when we leave the stadium. And the silence is even more nerve-racking on the drive home. In the garage, he pushes to get out of the car, anger simmering from him like deadly radiation. He’s already beside himself, so here goes.

“Max, wait.” I grip his arm.

“What?” The way his eyes blaze with rage that he’s being touched sends chills through me. But I don’t let go.

“I know you’re mad, but I have to knock you down further, baby.”

“Don’t call me that,” he grits out.

He’s a live wire now. I get it, so I ignore the dig.

“Sorry. Habit. Tops care for their bottoms, you should know that.” I justify how I feel about him.

“I can’t think about that right now. What do you want?” he snaps.

“You have to sit out tomorrow.”

“What?” He yanks his arm from me and reaches for his phone.

“League reps called during the postgame meeting with the GM.” I ball my hands into fists. “I offered to tellyou.”

“That’s just fucking great.” Max storms from the car, and being a dick, leaves the passenger door open.

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