Page 148 of My Pucking Crush

Then I start my prepared speech...

EIGHTY-TWO

Luca

Working for a mafia organization makes a man think he’s a god. It’s why they’re usually not the best husbands. The power imbalance.

Max...

He’sthe hockey god. And I’m just the working assassin who comes home with blood on my clothes. But Max is there for me with a washcloth, chilled vodka, and his warm lips around my dick.

This ishismoment, and I’m so happy for him.

“This was my last hockey game,” Max says.

Wait. What? I lean on the glass, our new best friends, the Montgomerys, lined up next to me.

“My name is on this cup more than any other player. And I want to go out like that. I’m in my mid to late thirties. And before I get traded, I wanted to secure one thing...” He removes his jersey and fists it in the air.

Max stands there shirtless, his bucket pants hanging low on his waist. God that body. The place erupts in camera flashes. There will be photos of him like this on the internet forever.

When anyone GooglesHockey Godfrom now on,thatphoto will top the search results.

“I’m announcing my retirement,” he says to gasps and clapping. “I hope that makes my number eligible to be retired.”

He’s the most winningest man in professional hockey, of course Stamford will give him that honor.

Even more reporters crowd him on the ice. His announcement means we’re not going home forseveral more hours.

“Oh, one last thing,” Max says into the array of microphones in front of him. “I’m married. I’m in love.”

I feel a warm blush spreading through me. Max’s friend, Ash, knocks my shoulders with a great smile.

Before anyone snidely asks,who’s the lucky girl, Max grabs one of those mics in a death grip. “With Luca Sheppard-Ryan. My bodyguard.”

EPILOGUE

Luca- One Month Later

“You rapedanotherkid?” I pistol whip Uncle Harris on the cracked linoleum floor of his disgusting doublewide trailer.

A shaking twelve-year-old boy cowers in the corner, but Max covers him with a blanket near the main door.

“Take the boy out of here,” I mutter to him.

The kid’s been through enough trauma. He doesn’t need to witness more violence.

“Make his last breath choke on blood,” Max says, and carries the kid outside.

I manage to tie his uncle’s hands behind his back with coarse rope, then break his legs with a sledgehammer. Harris moans at such a high pitch, the pain must be cresting into numbness. Soon, everything will turn black, and the torture won’t matter.

I could have just come here while he was sleeping and put a bullet in his head, but that was too good for him. I wanted him to suffer. I wanted him to knowwhois ending his pathetic life and why.

With a final crack of my gun on his already broken nose, I slip on the silencer and empty my clip until there’s nearly nothing left of his head. Some hitmen castrate rapists to let authorities know the reason for their demise. I don’t want any of this to ever come back to Max.

Now Harris is a bloody pulp with half a head, and there’s not a talented mortician in the world who can put this scumbag back together for an open casket.Who would show up anyway?

Maybe Max’s dad. I don’t give a fuck. Max hasn’t spoken to his parents, who hung up on him when he told them we were getting married.

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