My Pucking Crush

ONE

Max

I breathe in the scent of musk, deep woods, and spice. My head drifts left and my jaw tightens.

No. Not that. I can’t.

A handsome, masculine face with high cheekbones and full lips lays a knowing grin on me that probably sends plenty of men into the bathroom for a hookup. I’m not just anyone. I’m a professional athlete, and discretion is vital. Especially with men.

I can’t pick up a dude sitting in a musty bar after a game. One where I eviscerated our conference rival and deserve to get my dick wet. When I glare at him, he walks away, but I salivate over the kind of ass that weakens my resolve.

I take a pull on my beer and count to ten.

Whew , that was close. Because I do need relief. The kind of relief only another man can provide. Christ, it’s been so long since I’ve allowed myself to indulge in the taste of a feral male.

To erase that stranger from my mind, I cut my gaze to a table of women. Safe.

Shots. Shots. Shots.

Their cheers ring out like a sweet chorus.

Promising.

Until I see a veil.

Not another bachelorette party. It sickens me knowing a woman about to marry another dude will easily get on her knees and blow me. I know this because it happened once .

Maybe twice. In my defense, I didn’t initiate the blowjobs.

A woman wanting nothing but her lips around my cock is a valuable perk at my level of sports fame. And winning tonight’s hard-fought game against our rival, Richmond, should offer more of an award.

I could talk up one of the uncommitted BFFs, but tonight at Norwalk City Grill, the bride is the star. With my status as a hockey god, attention to anyone but her will pivot this into a real shit show.

The team, the league, the press, and the fans all expect me to be with a certain type of woman. But even when I end up with a perfect ten, her looks don’t truly matter. Not to me.

It’s a body, and it keeps my reputation intact. If people knew the truth, my career would be over. Fans would never accept who I am.

It doesn’t matter what I really want. Where my true desires lie. What stirs a fire in my gut and hardens my dick to steel. My needs and wants are still wrapped in shame and confusion.

Doing what’s expected of me is my brand. Everyone wins. Except me. My heart.

I’m thirty-six, single, and I’ve never had a girlfriend. Sure, I’ve fucked plenty of women. But it’s always me going through the motions. It’s the means to an end, an orgasm. The culinary equivalent of empty calories.

With the increased high-pitched cackling, I ignore the party. Taking another swig of beer, I wonder if I should just get hammered and go home. Alone. Again.

“Number 43. Max Ryan!” someone blurts from behind me, flattening my smile.

I adore my fans, but psycho enthusiasm is for the arena. I’m here to unwind.

Turning, my eyes widen. Jesus. Talk about utter female perfection. Is she even real?

“That’s me, darlin’.” The overused and meaningless endearment rolls off my tongue. “And you are?”

“Yours. For tonight. If you want me.”

I snort. Too fucking easy. Then again, I like the no-complications, and more importantly, the no-strings aspect of what she’s offering. If I were a nobody, some lawyer or finance guy from Manhattan, I suspect I’d relish a little more chase.

I’m a public figure.

A celebrity.

A hockey star.

I can’t be too careful these days. As much as I need to bury my dick inside something warm and tight, anything at this point, I can’t look so easy.

“Wanna tell me your name?” I ask to sound like I care, even though I don’t.

“Where we’re going, we don’t need...names.”

I bark out a laugh at the Back to the Future pun.

“Do you live around here, Marty McFly?” I ask.

“No.” She downs the shot in her hand and a waft of vodka hits my nose, overtaking her perfume. “I live in California. I’m in Connecticut for business.”

My hockey team built an arena right smack in the middle of Stamford, Connecticut. Even here in trendy Norwalk, a few towns over, I’ve not run into too many out-of-town businesspeople.

“Are you staying long enough to get fucked by a hockey god?”

She leans against the bar. “How many times can you come before my eight-a.m. flight tomorrow?”

Nothing long-term, thank God.

I gulp down the rest of my beer and toss a twenty on the bar. “Let’s go find out.”

Ten minutes later, I’m strolling behind her on the street as she leads me to her hotel room at the nearby Mariner Inn. The balmy late March air seeps in from the harbor a few blocks away.

A hotel room is ideal. And since it’s not mine, I can leave at any time. I don’t have to be rude and ask a woman to leave when we’re done. I’d never go to a strange woman’s house after hearing horror stories of married women wanting to taunt neglectful husbands.

My date makes no attempt to kiss me in the elevator, which I prefer. My eyes stay focused on her lower regions. That ass underneath a tight skirt is all I need tonight.

My speech sits on my tongue: On your hands and knees, grab the headboard. Yeah, that’s lube on your asshole. Hold the fuck on...

At the end of the hall, I’m surprised she brings me to a suite. The door opens, and that familiar smell of fresh cotton and citrus hits me, kicking up memories of nearly fifteen years traveling with the Stamford Crushers.

Slipping off her shoes and tossing them aside, my date says, “Make yourself comfortable. I’ll be right out.”

Glancing around at a fancy sofa and two chairs in front of an accented wall with a television, my speech might have to be amended to say: Grab the back of the sofa.

Not as sexy, but neither command is very intimate.

The sound of a door opening pulls my attention, and I think I’m hearing things. It couldn’t be the front door to the suite, but when I spin around, my heart lands in my throat.

Two men the size of tanks stand there wearing ski masks. One is wearing a black leather jacket, the other a navy wool pea coat.

Fuck. I try to stay cool. “Look, I just met her.”

Leather Jacket Guy brandishes a hockey stick in lieu of a response.

Whose stick is it? It can’t be mine. All my equipment is locked up in the arena.

“Whoa, whoa.” I step back. “Come on. She wasn’t wearing a ring. She invited me here.” My frantic brain catches the tape on the handle, the lime green color jogging a memory.

From the enforcer’s gear in tonight’s game against Richmond. What the fuck?

Leather Jacket Guy lifts the stick and twirls it in a practiced move. When he smacks the wood against his meaty palm, the sound of skin on skin triggers a memory. My sight goes fuzzy for a moment.

“Should we make him beg?” Leather asks Pea Coat, using a Russian accent.

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 weapon and his 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.

That familiar perfume forces my eyes open.

The woman.

“Sorry, handsome.”

“Oh shit.”

“Nothing personal.” She lifts something, a shadow covering me.

The last thing I see is a metal lamp coming down on my head.