Shameless Puckboy (Puckboys Book 3)
Shameless Puckboy: Chapter 16

EVEN THOUGH I showered back in the locker rooms, I was still feeling dirty when I arrived home. Not because of blowing Lane, but because practice was terrible. Nothing was replaceing my blade.

I’ve had off days before, but this is all new levels of suckage.

Didn’t help that Damon chewed me out for the second time in twenty-four hours right afterward as well.

Shit’s getting real. Too real.

I never let anything get to me—the rumors, the bad press, the fans who say I’m not as good as I think I am. Though that last one is easy to ignore, because please, I am that good. But my point is, I have thick skin. I can take a hit, physically or mentally, and my game has never suffered.

Because of that, my confidence in my future as a hockey player has always been solid, but I’m realizing that maybe it’s been overinflated.

I’m not infallible.

And now I have to work for what I want.

I thought that getting off with Lane yesterday might have made me less tense, but all it’s done is make me realize just how much trouble my career is in. If Lane Pierce is willing to risk his job to keep me in line, how much danger am I in here?

Once I’m done showering for the second time today, I head downstairs to replace Lane where I left him.

“You lied,” he says.

“I lie about a lot of things. What specific lie are you talking about?”

“According to Keerson, your practice was a mess.”

Accurate, but still, ouch. “Off day. They happen.”

“Explains the attitude though.”

“What attitude?” I go to my kitchen and pull out a protein bar from the cupboard.

“You’re … weird.”

“Way to boost my ego. You played shit today. You’re weird. What, you think now that we’re hooking up, you can be blunt about everything?”

Lane’s gaze narrows. “I’ve always been blunt with you.”

Doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt. I don’t say that though. “True.”

“Want to talk about it?”

“About why I did so badly today?”

“Or … anything else that might be bothering you.”

I take a bite of the protein bar, talking with my mouth full. “You’re my orgasm buddy and PR rep, not my therapist.”

Lane stands. “This is what I’m talking about. Where’s Oskar Voyjik gone, and who is this grump who hasn’t so much as made a joke about having my cock in his mouth?”

I straighten. “Let me get this right. I’m a smart-ass, and you tell me to stop being a smart-ass. I’m not a smart-ass, and you tell me something must be wrong. Is that what I’m hearing?”

“Yes. Since when do you do anything I say?”

I drop the protein bar wrapper on the kitchen island and approach him until I can lean in close to his ear. “I think I did a fucking good job of it yesterday while I was on my knees for you.”

His body coils tight, but then he places a strong hand on my chest and pushes me back. “Nice try with a deflect, but it won’t work.”

“Then what will work to get you off my case?”

“I’m not even on your case. I’m asking if you’re okay after a hard practice. That’s all.”

Then why does it feel like more?

I don’t like that Lane has learned to see through my act already. He hasn’t been here that long. But with him in my living space, Damon breathing down my neck, threats from the owner of the team, it’s all … too much for my brain to handle.

And for once in my life, I’m not dealing with that by going out and blowing shit up. Because for the first time in my entire career, I’m worried about the fallout.

For a hockey player, doubt is worse than superstition. It has the ability to get in your head and not let go.

My playing is what has saved me in the past, and sure, one bad practice doesn’t mean it’s all over or that it’ll happen again, but I can’t go into tomorrow’s game in this headspace. I just can’t.

Thank fuck we’re playing Vegas tomorrow because I need to see Tripp. Maybe he’ll take pity on me and let me slapshot a few past him.

“Do you have anything planned for the Vegas trip?” I ask. “Publicity-wise? Can we get the Mitchells in on that action?” At least with them there, it would be more believable. People would totally believe do-gooder Tripp Mitchell and his husband dragged me to some kind of charity thing.

“Yes, actually. It’s already organized. Tomorrow morning, you get out of the early skate because you’ll be doing it with the Rainbow Raiders. It’s a junior team in Vegas that Tripp Mitchell has strong ties to.”

“Sounds good.” Well, it sounds doable, but I don’t say that.

Lane is surprised by my words too. “Okay, who are you, and where is the Oskar Voyjik I know?”

“What would the Oskar Voyjik you know do instead?”

“Flat out say no. Or barter. Maybe say he’ll do it if I give him an orgasm first.”

My lips quirk. “Ah. I get it. Didn’t take you long to get addicted to me. You want me to want you again.”

“And there he is. All is right with the world.” Then the asshole pats my chest and asks what’s for dinner.

How can Lane Pierce be my least favorite person and my favorite at the same time?

As Lane and I enter the rink on the outskirts of Vegas, my best friend—or, I guess the closest thing I have to a best friend—smirks over at me from where he’s on the ice with a bunch of kids.

He hands the reins over to his husband and skates toward us. “So it’s true.”

“What’s true?” I ask.

“That your babysitter signed you up to do all this positive PR crap.”

“Please, I am doing this out of the goodness of my own heart, and I’m offended you would think I’m here for anything other than the kids.”

“What a load of shit,” Tripp says.

I turn to Lane. “Having to deal with Tripp Mitchell’s brand of mean wasn’t on the list of things I needed to do today. Make it stop.”

Lane slaps my shoulder. “Sorry, but I can barely get you to do what I want. You think Tripp is going to listen to me?”

“Trippy!” Dex, Tripp’s golden retriever of a husband, calls out. “We need you.”

The group of teenagers around him all say, “Oooh,” and make kissy noises as Tripp makes his way back over to them.

Kill. Me. Now.

“What was that groan for?” Lane asks.

“I didn’t realize it was out loud. I don’t know what to do with these kids. They’re teenagers. They’re, like …” Scary.

“Your mental age?”

“You know, just because something is true, that doesn’t mean you have to point it out.”

Lane laughs. “You’ll be fine. You have about half an hour to get comfortable with them before the reporters show up.”

“Mm. Can’t wait.”

His hand lands on my shoulder. “If it helps, I have complete faith in you. You can do this. Because, well, you literally have no other choice.”

Asshole.

I throw on my skates, grab a stick, and head out there, skating up to Tripp to ask him what he wants me to do.

“Have fun. Dex and I love coming here because it’s not about winning. Think of it like a good old game of pond hockey, where you let other people score on you because it’ll make them feel better about themselves.”

“I literally do not understand any of the words that came out of your mouth.”

“Pretty sure you know what it’s like to let people score on you.”

“Not on the ice.”

“It’s really simple. We want to build these guys up while pushing them to be top of their game.”

“Okay. So no yelling obscenities at them like my junior coach?”

Tripp touches his heart. “Your life makes me so sad.”

“Thank you. So much. I love when you hug me with words.” And unlike Lane, Tripp doesn’t actually realize how horrible my teen years were. I have every right to replace these kids scary; teenagers literally don’t give a fuck about anything.

“Hey, everyone!” Tripp yells out. Everyone on the ice stops and pays attention. “Oskar Voyjik from San Jose came by to smack-talk Vegas.”

That’s really going to win me points. Thanks, Tripp. As expected, the kids all scowl at me.

“Who wants to see a shootout between him and Dex? Player who gets the most shots by me wins. Vegas versus San Jose. It could be a preview for tonight.”

“Oh, you are so on,” I say.

Tripp’s in full goalie gear already, but Dex is like me—in jeans and his team jersey, gloves, and that’s it.

The teens clear the ice, and their coach or someone who works at the rink brings us three pucks each to put at our feet.

Dex looks at me. “Who wants to go first?”

“Ladies first.”

“I was thinking brains before beauty, but if you insist. You can go first.”

“Am I the brains here, or are you?”

Dex cocks his head. “Did you really just ask that? Even I know I’m the dumbest person in this room.”

“I’m not so sure about that.”

I can tell I’ve confused him even more. “Who are you, and where is the Oskar asshole I know?”

“I wasn’t finished. You somehow got Tripp to marry you. If anything, he’s the dumb one here.”

Dex bursts out laughing, but when Tripp calls out, “I can hear you! And so can the people in the stands,” we break apart.

“Visiting team shoots first,” Dex says.

Flashbacks of the shitty practice yesterday try to take hold, but I shake them off and do what I do best. Dex might be an expert at scoring from beside the net, but I do my best work from afar.

I skate forward and prepare for a slapshot. It moves like a bullet, right past Tripp’s head into the top of the net.

Even if I am the enemy team, the kids are good sports and cheer for me. I turn and give them an obnoxious bow, which makes them cheer louder.

Dex goes next and also scores.

“Hey!” I complain. “Clearly, that’s favoritism at work. He let his husband score, or there’d be no … cuddles later.”

Dex shakes his head. “Dude. The kids are teenagers, not five. They know you mean sex.”

Oops.

I glance at Lane, who’s in the stands, and he’s face-palming. Lucky he gave me this warm-up time before the reporters get here.

“Besides,” Dex says, “Tripp isn’t that nice. Even to his husband. When it comes to hockey, he’s in it for the W.”

“So am I.” This time, I go for a quick wrist shot and get it through the five-hole. I fist pump in the air and dance on my skates.

“Don’t count your Easter eggs before they’re snatched,” Dex says.

“You mean … don’t count your chickens before they hatch?”

“No. Easter eggs. That’s the phrase. Don’t count your Easter eggs before they’re snatched.”

“Umm …”

“Because if you do, then you get upset when your sister snatches them. So you have to wait until the next day so you know how many you really get.”

“Oh, honey.”

“What?”

“Did your sister tell you that was the phrase?”

“Yeah, why?”

“Maybe, uh, you should take your shot. The kids are waiting and all that crap.”

He gets started, but as he tries to shoot, it’s like the lightbulb goes off above him. He misses the goal and turns to me. “Phoebe stole all my chocolate!”

When he gets back, I pat his shoulder. “Sorry, buddy. But that revelation will be nowhere near as devastating as seeing this go in and you losing. On your home turf.”

I take off with the puck, fly down the ice, and try to deke out Tripp, but he doesn’t fall for it, and my shot hits his pads.

When I get back to Dex at center ice, he smiles.

“What was that again? Complete devastation I’d be feeling?”

“Yeah, yeah. You still have to get this one in.”

“I’ve got this in the bag.”

He doesn’t. When Tripp catches the puck in his glove, I take another bow to the crowd, and then Tripp tells them all to come down to the ice and try to get one past him.

They rush the ice, and I have faced many big guys in the NHL. I’ve been flattened by them, pushed into the boards, and gotten into fights with them. None of that is as scary as twenty teenagers coming at you with admiration in their eyes.

But as they pull up to a stop beside me, offering me high fives, I have to admit they’re not so bad.

“Even though you’re from San Jose, you deserved that win,” one of them says.

I’m actually impressed by their sportsmanship. I know people in the league who’d throw a hissy fit over losing a shootout.

“Thanks, man.”

The kid’s face falls. “I’m nonbinary.”

Fuck. “Sorry. Ah, thank you, awesome person.”

They light up, and offer their fist for me to bump.

We spend the next hour playing hockey with the kids, and I hate to admit it, and no way will I actually do it aloud, but … this is actually cool. It’s been a long time since anyone really looked up to me like this.

Sure, there are fans, but they come across like a hockey fan. Dex and Tripp, Ezra and Anton … Hell, basically everyone in the Collective has dedicated fans who love them. I’ve never had someone come up to me and say I’m an inspiration. Mainly because my antics off the ice are anything but inspiring.

The time goes so fast I don’t even notice the reporters show up or take photos. Only when we’re leaving the ice do I see them talking to Lane, and when I reach him, the reporter says, “You look so cute out there with the kids. I have all I need. Thanks.” Then he walks away.

“They didn’t want to ask me anything?”

“I handled it for you. Ready to go? You’ve only got two hours of downtime before you need to get to the arena.”

That’s a relief. Playing hockey with the kids, easy. Talking about it? Not so much. “I can shower back at the hotel.”

“Why bother when you’re going to get all sweaty again?”

“Is that an invitation?”

“Only if you do one thing for me.”

I groan and throw my head back. “What?”

“Admit today was fun.”

“Never.”

“I saw your face out there. You loved every second of it.”

“Lies.”

“You’re allowed to like it, you know. You don’t have to be this arrogant ‘I don’t give a shit about anyone but me’ asshole all the time.”

Except that’s just it. I do.

It’s all I know how to be on the outside.