Page 24 of Puck Me Secretly

Max was here.

He was a player on this team.

We would work together this year.

Fuckfuckfuckfuck.

I was now his boss.

I paced the length of my office, freaking out. He knew I was a fraud. He knew I didn’t want to be here. Worse, he had an intimate, carnal knowledge of my body.

Flashes of the night in the hotel blinded me. The things he had done with his mouth. Cold sweat washed over my body. If my father ever found out I had fooled around with one of his precious players, hell would know no fury. It’d be the end of Max’s career on this team.

I stood at the window and stared down at the ice below. Practicewas winding down. I couldn't make out players’ faces but I had no trouble tracking him. He was one of the largest players on the ice and the fastest.

My dad had made a good choice in buying his contract out, any idiot could see he would be an asset to the team, but all the other stuff? That would be an issue.

My issue.

He could call me out to the world. He could degrade me in front of the team, put me in my place, make me small. But that would put him at risk. If my father ever found out about our history, Max would be gone. So, I felt reasonably confident that Max wouldn’t tell anyone about our time in North Dakota.

But this situation was a nightmare.

Judging by his cocky and defiant response on the ice, I knew he hated the power I held over him. I understood his response. That is how I behaved when Dad put the screws to me.

How would this meeting go?

The skaters were leaving the ice.

I needed to prepare.

I returned to my desk and pawed through the files until I found the one with Max’s name on it. I flipped open the cover and read. Max was 26 years old. He stood 6’4” tall and weighed in at a solid 220 lbs. His stats on ice were impeccable. His performance off-ice were dismal.

He got drunk at a gala event and got into a brawl with one benefactor, who pushed him into a chocolate fountain. An incident that left both Max and two women covered in chocolate. That had made front page news.

He picked fights with reporters.

He picked fights in bars.

There was photo evidence of him with multiple puck-bunnies who seemed to enjoy posting pictures of him in their social media accounts in various states of dress in random hotel rooms. I studied each photo with my heart in my throat. The implications of thosepictures were clear. I was not the only one who had enjoyed the Max factor.

Mortification burned the back of my throat.

There was a knock on the door.

Dad opened the door and surveyed me.

“So, what do you think?”

I dropped the file on my desk. “I think I need your help.”

CHAPTER 9

My nerves were pulled sotight, I felt like an elastic band, stretched taut and quivering, ready to snap. Dad stood facing the glass window of my office. He played casual observer, but I knew he’d be listening to every word, taking in every nuance of this meeting.

Did Max know how important it was to not broadcast we knew each other?

Even worse, I was about to read him the riot act, ruthlessly citing a list of points that my father laid out for me. Yes, I was angry that Max had left me in a hotel room without saying goodbye, but it didn’t warrant how I was about to speak to him. Max had been good to me, and now I would verbally crush him.

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