Page 1 of My Pucking Crush
ONE
Max
Ibreathe in the scent of musk, deep woods, and spice. My head drifts left and my jaw tightens.
No. Not that. I can’t.
A handsome, masculine face with high cheekbones and full lips lays a knowing grin on me that probably sends plenty of men into the bathroom for a hookup. I’m not just anyone. I’m a professional athlete, and discretion is vital. Especially with men.
I can’t pick up a dude sitting in a musty bar after a game. One where I eviscerated our conference rival and deserve to get my dick wet. When I glare at him, he walks away, but I salivate over the kind of ass that weakens my resolve.
I take a pull on my beer and count to ten.
Whew, that was close. Because I do need relief. The kind of relief only another man can provide. Christ, it’s been so long since I’ve allowed myself to indulge in the taste of a feral male.
To erase that stranger from my mind, I cut my gaze to a table of women. Safe.
Shots. Shots. Shots.
Their cheers ring out like a sweet chorus.
Promising.
Until I see a veil.
Not another bachelorette party. It sickens me knowing a woman about to marry another dude will easily get on her knees and blow me. I know this because it happened once.
Maybe twice. In my defense, I didn’t initiate the blowjobs.
A woman wanting nothing but her lips around my cock is a valuable perk at my level of sports fame. And winning tonight’s hard-fought game against our rival, Richmond, should offer more of an award.
I could talk up one of the uncommitted BFFs, but tonight at Norwalk City Grill, the bride is the star. With my status as a hockey god, attention to anyone but her will pivot this into a real shit show.
The team, the league, the press, and the fans all expect me to be with a certain type of woman. But even when I end up with a perfect ten, her looks don’t truly matter. Not to me.
It’s a body, and it keeps my reputation intact. If people knew the truth, my career would be over. Fans would never accept who I am.
It doesn’t matter what I really want. Where my true desires lie. What stirs a fire in my gut and hardens my dick to steel. My needs and wants are still wrapped in shame and confusion.
Doing what’s expected of me is my brand. Everyone wins. Except me. My heart.
I’m thirty-six, single, and I’ve never had a girlfriend. Sure, I’ve fucked plenty of women. But it’s always me going through the motions. It’s the means to an end, an orgasm. The culinary equivalent of empty calories.
With the increased high-pitched cackling, I ignore the party. Taking another swig of beer, I wonder if I should just get hammered and go home. Alone. Again.
“Number 43. Max Ryan!” someone blurts from behind me, flattening my smile.
I adore my fans, but psycho enthusiasm is for the arena. I’m here to unwind.
Turning, my eyes widen. Jesus. Talk about utterfemale perfection. Is she even real?
“That’s me, darlin’.” The overused and meaningless endearment rolls off my tongue. “And you are?”
“Yours. For tonight. If you want me.”
I snort. Too fucking easy. Then again, I like the no-complications, and more importantly, the no-strings aspect of what she’s offering. If I were a nobody, some lawyer or finance guy from Manhattan, I suspect I’d relish a little more chase.
I’m a public figure.