THIRTY-SIX
Luca
B ack in Stamford, the pregame routine for the first of the two Richmond games unfolds. Morning skate. Team meeting with videos of the opposing players. Lunch. Then back home for Max’s nap, which he and I take together.
He’s working through issues. He still screams when he wakes up in my arms, but with me there, he calms down quickly.
Fans greet us at the stadium when we arrive for the game, and I hang back, letting Max do his red-carpet walk looking like a million dollars. And not like he just sucked my dick.
When he emerges from the locker room each time, it always takes my breath away. With his shoulder pads, helmet, and skates, he’s nearly seven feet tall.
Is this guy actually mine? Can I think like that? Do I dare?
“Halt, Crushers,” the coach says. “There’s an unscheduled presentation.”
With a few minutes to linger, Max stretches against a wall. He looks like he’s got the weight of the world on his mind, and it pains me. These guys are under so much pressure to endure and play at their best and to win. Sure, they’re paid well, but I guess these players don’t stress any less about wins by thinking about all the commas in their bank accounts.
Damien Carter rounds a corner. I hadn’t even realized he wasn’t with the team. Carter catches Max’s attention and motions for him to follow him .
Uh oh...
I suspect it’s team captain-related, but where Max goes, I go. I weave around these monsters who walked in as mere mortals an hour ago, but now have a wave of riotous energy coming off them. They are ready to destroy Richmond.
Carter stops in the hallway where it’s quiet. “Heads up, Ryan,” he says to Max and glances back at me. “One of Richmond’s players is all over social media ranting about secret gays in hockey, and how they need separate locker rooms.”
My spine tenses.
“Who?” Max asks, fury on his face.
“32, a guy by the name of Quinn,” Carter responds. “Just called up from a farm team.”
Max’s jaw drops. “Jake Quinn?”
“Heard of him?” Carter pivots to Max.
Jake... That name. His high school fuck buddy. Who treated him like shit.
“I...” Max looks at me, and I nod for him to answer. “I went to high school with him. He’s talking shit about LGBTQ?”
“Apparently.” Carter’s eyes drop to his phone. “He’s not exactly in isolation. A lot of people feel the way he does.”
Max looks Carter up and down. He’s a forward, but not on the same line. “You want to sit this out, Damien?”
The comment stuns me, and I don’t know what to make of it. For some reason, I thought Max would come out right there and then.
Fuck, how do I feel about that?
Carter’s face scrunches. “What? Are you kidding me?”
“We have playoffs coming,” Max talks like a team captain and not a player with something at stake. “We’re going to kill these brats. I need you healthy.”
“Me? What about you?”
Max straightens. “What about me?”
“You don’t know?” Carter pauses to shoot me a look. “That night in the Vegas lounge, you looked chummy with a dude.”
“Oh shit,” I mumble, and get on my phone to start searching for Max Ryan hits. Sure enough, there’s a photo of Max and the guy he was with at the bar.
How fucking ironic.
“Here.” I show Max, and hate that it seems like I’m rubbing it in his face.
“I was having a drink with a fan,” Max bites out.
We share a look, but protecting his rep or going after people who try to hurt him online isn’t part of my job. I thought that faced with a blatant attack on a teammate and questionable photos, Max would confess to his team to stand in unity with Carter.
That was a fucking fantasy.
“Quinn was a dickhead. And apparently still is,” Max grumbles, dealing with the unruly opposition instead of owning up to his lifestyle. “We can deal with a little taunting.”
“The organization has a stance against racial slurs,” I say, thinking out loud.
“Exactly, racial ,” Carter clarifies. “They haven’t expanded that to sexual orientation.”
“Well, they need to.” I’m faced with stares.
“We have to be realistic. Not everyone is okay with homosexuality,” Max says. “It’s a fact and no matter what, no team will ever shove it down the fans’ throats.”
I swallow thickly and give him a sly look. Carter catches how we look at each other, and his entire body changes.
He knows .
Shit.
The meeting comes to a halt with no resolution other than the plan to ignore Asshole Quinn. I wouldn’t be surprised if Carter sends the guy flying into the boards a few extra times tonight.
Richmond hits the ice first, and I get an extra bitter chill just from their steely gazes. Stamford takes the house down, though. Max raises his stick in the air skating loops around the entire rink, and the crowd goes berserk.
The puck drops, and Max shines as team captain. He’s everywhere on the ice. I have a hard time keeping track of him. The Crushers are all over the Richmond players.
I whisper to Duncan to watch the stands for anything extra suspicious while my eyes focus on one target. Jake Quinn. He’s third shift. So he doesn’t get near Max on the ice.
They can only get you on the ice.
That doesn’t happen.
The argument plays in my head.
Max and Quinn are only on the ice at the same time for seconds each period. I catch him arguing with their coach, who only answers with a shaking head. He’s asking to be moved up.
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 United States 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 to deal 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 ABSOLUTELY nothing 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 tell you.”
“That’s just fucking great.” Max storms from the car, and being a dick, leaves the passenger door open.
Breathing steadily, I close it and follow him.
Duncan is posted in the lobby of his building, doing an extra security sweep given tonight’s events and how Richmond was tied to Max’s initial attack. I nod my appreciation and he makes a slicing motion with his fingers across his neck.
Yeah, I’m screwed.
Max doesn’t waste time. He hits the liquor cabinet and starts slamming back tumblers of scotch. I watch him with deep sympathy. Considering all I went through, I can recognize a man who must feel like a bear ripped his throat out. This game is his life. He has nothing else.
But he has me.
By the third glass, I try to wrestle the bottle from him. His snarl triggers me, making me remember my drunk father beating me with a belt. I push it away.
“Come on. That’s enough. You’re banned from the ice. Not the stadium, the guys still need you. You need to show up.” I push our faces together, and to my surprise, Max kisses me.
It’s a wild kiss. My soul shatters from it. I drop the glass, he drops the bottle, and everything crashes around us.
That also kills the mood.
Max grabs me. “What are you doing to me?”
“Clearly, I’m bringing out who you really are.” I kiss his neck, the smell of fresh soap from his postgame shower hardening my cock.
“I don’t want that life.” He wants to stay in denial.
He’s a man who’s chosen to be in the closet for a reason. Max is an unmoored boat thrown against the waves in every different direction. He doesn’t know who he is. He doesn’t know what he wants.
That kiss tells me he at least wants to fuck me.
Do I let him? Even if it’s punishing me for showing him a side of himself that he’d rather hide?
“Touch me,” Max says, and kisses me.
Stunned, I reach for his belt.
“Mmmm. No. Over my pants. I can’t do more. Not now.”
Breathing heavily, I lay my palm against the hardness throbbing behind his zipper.
“Christ,” Max mutters, his head thrown back. “Yeah. Keep going.”
I stroke him over the silk trousers, trying to grip the thick girth. Getting my hand around it, I squeeze.
Max growls and grips my shoulders as his cock pulses. Seconds later, I feel dampness in his pants.
He staggers back. “Shit. Shit. Shit.”
Without any acknowledgement, he storms past me, and the only sound to break against the blood roaring in my ears is his bedroom door slamming shut.
AFTER AN HOUR, I HAVE my composure back and call Bronwin.
“Jesus, is Ryan okay?” My boss thinks I’d just casually call him if something happened.
“Yeah,” I answer. “Something’s come up, and I have to go to Manhattan.”
“Can’t your club wait?” he says with an edgy tone.
My eyes slip closed. “It’s not for that . I need to meet with someone.”
Bronwin sighs. “Check in with me when you get back and confirm our team captain is well.”
“He’s not well. He’s furious about the suspension.”
“It’s one game, he’ll get over it.”
Given the anger he showed, it may not be good for him to be in the same room with anyone from Richmond.
Maybe I’ll offer to blow him while he watches the game at home.