Page 140 of My Pucking Crush

Jake starts this round in the penalty box from the illegal contact. I make a point to skate by it and taunt him like a big brother threatens to beat the crap out of a little brother’s bully.

I wait for a reaction. It’s all vacant stares like he’s a programmed cyborg. And Carter has completely shaken off the rude behavior.

We’re up 1-0. Part of me wants insurance goals, but there’s no loss more bitter than by one damn point.

It all could have been different with ONE more goal.

So, we crank the defense into high gear. Quinn’s penalty is finished and he skates to the bench. In between defending my zone, I watch for the dynamic. Is their coach on board with Quinn’s cruelty?

“Max,” Lance Reynolds, the goalie, bellows at me. “Incoming.”

And oh boy. Richmond may not mind losing, but they will not go down by one point. Their entire line heads for us. My body on fire, sweat dripping into my ass crack, I rush toward the goal, and it turns into a street fight.

Sticks slapping, blades tripping, punching, yelling, and the next thing I know, I’m on my back and Jake is wailing onmenow. He lands a punch to my mouth, my lip immediatelyswelling and my nose leaking blood.

“You bastard,” he yells at me. “It’s all your fault!”

What the fuck?

The refs stop the game and Quinn is hauled away by his team. They don’t even drag him to the penalty box, they eject him.

A whistle blows and the period ends.

We go through the tunnel. But instead of making a right to the locker room, I hook a left, my anger driving me to act irrationally.

“Where you going, Ryan?” Philly, the trainer barks from my six. “I need to see your nose.”

“I’m going to the Richmond locker room.”

“Are you crazy? Coach!” Philly bellows, but I keep going.

I know this is illegal. I know this will get me thrown out of the game, fined, and who knows what else. With Quinn off the ice and us poised to win, I know the threat is over. I need fucking answers. I don’t care about me anymore.

Jake’s anger goes beyond the game. He wants to hurt me. He doesn’t want to win.

As I get closer to the visiting team’s locker room, I’m shocked that no one stops me. In fact, it’s eerily empty in this corridor.

That’s when I hear shouting. Like a...bar brawl. I’m Irish, I know the sound.

I pick up the pace and stand in the doorway to the visiting team’s locker room. I can’t believe what I’m seeing. Quinn is on the floor and he’s getting the shit beaten out of him.

Why is their security allowing this? I look closer because it’s happening so fast. Men in Crusher’s security jackets are holding back the Richmond guys. But I don’t recognize any of the men in those jackets.

Holy fucking shit.We’re gonna get disqualified.

I roar with my team captain voice. “Hey!”

All movement stops. The man beating Quinn to a pulp hops off the guy, his knuckles chewed up and bloody.

My heart lands in my throat. Luca...

SEVENTY-SIX

Luca

It took a lot of maneuvering and cash, but I convinced my old Crushers’ security team to go for a cigarette break during this final intermission. I told them about Belova, and gave them an out.

I’ve got solid evidence against Ivan. Texts and wire transfers about Max’s first attack, courtesy of Giancarlo, sit on a thumb drive in my pocket. If what I’m doing gets to the league and they try to disqualify the Crushers, I’ll drop the bomb against Richmond.

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