Page 7 of My Pucking Crush

It feels like a tomb.

“Now it’s just us in here,” Coach says with a glare. “How do youreallyfeel?”

“Like I got attacked by two men with a stick, a knife, and a bitch with a lamp.” I blow out a breath, fighting exhaustion. “Any idea who did this?”

“We’re investigating, but the hotel will only hand over security video to the cops.” Coach seems more rattled than I’ve ever seen him.

“What’s the plan here?” I say.

“So glad you asked,” Coach says and signals for the mystery man in the corner to come forward.

FOUR

Luca

“Luca.” Coach Beck waves me forward to Max’s bedside.

A shiver at the base of my spine wobbles my gait, but I recover. I let my obsession with Max Ryan go too far. Never in a million years did I think I’d be this close to him, even though Crushers security agents travel with the team. They’re the warriors, and we’re the perimeter that keeps the fanatics away. We maintain our distance, never approaching a player except in unusual circumstances.

Like this.

Occasionally, guards wander into the locker room, where athletes are not shy about nudity. Or jerking off in front of each other for fun or to haze new players. How they’re all not raging homosexuals astonishes me the way they all love up on each other’s massive cocks.

I avoid the locker room at all costs, not wanting to see Max Ryan naked, because his dick and ass already show up in every one of my fantasies.

Here he is, in a hospital bed. Hurt. Vulnerable. And naked under that thin hospital gown.

Chin up, arms behind my back, I meet Max’s eyes and nod. “Mr. Ryan.”

“Who the fuckareyou?” he bites in my direction.

Angry. I like that.

Defensemen are the most brutal on the ice. I hate when I see them out of uniform acting like golden retrievers.

Max’s brooding, grumpy personality sticks withhim from what I’ve seen. I’m a masochist for wanting him to turn that anger on me. I top my lovers, but the idea of Max topping me has cranked this obsession into high gear.

Something new. Something filthy. Something forbidden.

“Max!” Beck scolds him. “This is Luca Sheppard. He works security for the team.”

It’s not shocking he doesn’t recognize me. We’re supposed to be invisible.

“Preliminary digging ties the woman who lured you to the hotel room to Richmond,” Beck reports, summing up the intel work I’ve been doing while Max got treated and tortured with tests.

Hearing he was in a hotel room with a woman initially turned my stomach. Then I traced her to Ivan Belova, and my heart nearly burst out of my chest.

Christ, what does the Chicago Bratva pakhan I clawed myself away from have to do with this? He left me for dead five years ago during an attack on the Italians that went horribly wrong.

I’m praying this is just a wild coincidence.

“That woman set me up.” Max’s eyes slip closed. “She let those guys into the room. They were Russian. Does that mean anything?”

When his eyes stray to me again, I look away. I guess I can’t hide my Russian genes. The dark hair, dark eyes, and beard give me away. But I shed my accent to blend in when I got hired five years ago.

Good thing, because Ivan Belova just bought a damn hockey team that happens to be bitter eastern division rivals with Stamford. Maybe I’m being paranoid. They attacked Max and not me.

It’s not like Max means anything to me—except I’m obsessed with him.

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