Page 137 of My Pucking Crush

Belova was right, the Crushers may not win without me. It’s not fair for my team to suffer that kind of loss when they worked so hard to get us to this point.

I squeeze my eyes shut and want to tell Coach that this is my last season. That he better figure out a way to win without me. Now isn’t the time. He sounds like he’sready to have a heart attack. My retirement announcement will make his head explode.

“Fuck, Max,” he whines. “And you really don’t know where... Oh shit.”

“What?”

“Bronwin just texted me back.”

“Yeah?”

“Luca quit.”

SEVENTY-FOUR

Max

Isleep for nearly ten hours straight, shocked my brain let me. I showered last night, but could only let the water glide over my bruised skin. I could barely lift my fucking arms to cleanse myself.

This morning, I’m feeling a little better, but I nearly scream in pain when suiting up in my Armani, challenging very sore muscles.

At the stadium, I make like I’m too busy to let trainers get a look at me. I don’t let anyone fucking touch me. I’m the team captain, so I do what I usually do. I focus on the team.

Coach Beck holds a pregame meeting focusing on his new play strategy. It mostly affects the offense. I have a secondary meeting with each wingman, then the centers.

Whoops, there’s no time for anyone to check me out, so I get dressed for the game. And I feel like I’m going to die. But I’ve been doing this forever. I hold my breath strapping on the shoulder pads, then I look down and cringe.

My skates.

“Guys, go on without me. I have to answer these texts.” I wave my empty phone, lying to them. When I catch an equipment intern rushing by, I bellow, “Hey!”

The shadow creeps back toward the locker room entrance. “Um, yeah?”

“Can you help me with my skates?”

The guy pales, and jams his finger into his chest, making a permanent dent in his Crushers golf shirt. “Me?”

“Yeah, you.” Especially him because he’s so low in ranks, I can vomit all over him and make him promise not to tell anyone. “Come on. I got caught up in the strategy meeting. Lost track of time.”

“Okay,” the guy says, and tosses the equipment bag on the floor.

I sit and walk him through the lacing-up process. Turns out the guy’s pretty good.

“Do you skate? Or play?”

“In a church league. Been playing since I was a kid.” He sounds so proud.

But he’s only an equipment intern. I look around, realizing how lucky I’ve been. That I made it. I’m raw at this point and will start blurting shit I need to keep inside.

“You’re still fucking around with your skates?” Stefan Willis says from the entryway.

The intern snaps up. “Um.”

Willis stomps inside. “What the hell are you doing?”

I get to my feet, blocking the intern. “He helped me with my skates. Everyone else was busy. He did a great job.”

Willis looks dumbfounded. It’s the most important game of the season. We can clinch the round, right here at home. Send those Richmond assholes back to Virginia as the losers they are.

---