Shameless Puckboy (Puckboys Book 3)
Shameless Puckboy: Chapter 11

THAT’S what I get for meddling, I suppose.

I knew that tipping off Damon wasn’t smart. Picking Oskar over the team is the kind of thing that would put me squarely on the chopping block if it gets out, and if Oskar clues in on that, with how angry he is at me, I wouldn’t be surprised if he goes right up to Mick and spills. He has no idea what I’ve risked for him.

But not following him? Yeah, that I can’t do. I grab my keys and march outside.

This is exactly the type of mood that’s likely to send him spiraling to a point where he gets himself into trouble. Which would be the opposite of what he needs.

I’m pissed. At him, at myself. Like, fuck, why won’t Oskar look out for himself? Why do I feel like I’m the only one actually fighting for him to clean up his image and keep his job?

And why? Why won’t I let him burn it all down when he’s so intent on doing it anyway?

Do I really love my job this much?

Or is it that something about Oskar won’t stop drawing me toward him? The hint of a good person underneath all that … him.

My gut gives a familiar flutter and stalls my steps on the way to the car.

Ah, shit.

That … didn’t feel good. The fluttering, my elevated heartbeat, the need to rush out and protect.

Nuh-uh. Sex is one thing, but this is almost like …

I never learn.

As much as I try to hide it, I’m a goddamn bleeding heart.

I’m torn between climbing in my car anyway and heading back inside the house. The only two real relationships I’ve ever had were toxic as all hell, and I’m recognizing the red flags already.

Broken boy, inner sadness, my protective need to swoop in and save him from himself.

It’s not Oskar, specifically, that I’m drawn toward—it’s his vulnerability.

The last time this happened, I came home from work to find my house stripped bare by my boyfriend of a year, who’d told me he’d stopped using but had been lying the entire time. The guy before that was closeted … and married. Only I didn’t find out that last part until I worked out that everything I knew about him—including his name—was a lie.

Oskar has all the markings of someone who can’t be trusted and who will discard me the second he gets what he wants. He doesn’t need some knight in shining armor. He needs a therapist.

My keys dig into my hand as I force myself to turn and slowly walk back up to the house instead of making the mistake of hunting him down. If those protective feelings are already taking over, I need to take a giant step back. Oskar’s his own person, and while I’d love to believe he’s suddenly been given a reality check, I don’t have my head in the clouds.

The only way to prevent myself from falling into familiar patterns is to do the complete opposite.

I trust him to make his own decision.

And pour myself a stiff drink while I wait for my world to implode.

The whole time I’m pacing, drink barely touched, I’m fighting myself over my decision. Not like it matters now—Oskar is long gone, and finding him in this city would be an incredible stroke of luck. But fuck if I’m not kicking myself.

In the split second I decided not to chase him down, I all but threw my job to the wind. Gave up my entire livelihood, for what? An entitled, cocky hockey player who would sooner see me lose my job than give up his childish ways.

He doesn’t give a crap about me or the team.

And somehow, I put him first.

Because even if he is entitled and cocky … I know now that it’s not all he is.

And I hate him for showing me that side.

I can fight my instincts over keeping my ass in this house all I like, I can’t stop that need to wrap him in bubble wrap and keep him here with me.

The next sip of scotch I take deepens the bitter feelings. I push the mostly full glass aside, then refresh my phone for the fourteenth time. I have notifications set up for all of the players’ names, and every time I pick up my phone, I’m waiting to see Oskar Voyjik flash up on the screen.

It’s only a matter of time. And while apparently past Lane was fine with throwing my job in, the selfish asshole made the decision for Oskar too. Because one more headline and he’s gone. I’m gone. The team is left the mess of trying to replace him.

The weight of pressure bears down, and I resist the urge to pick up the scotch again.

Instead, I send a text to Damon King.

Me: No chance you’ve heard from Voyjik?

Damon: No. And if I have to miss my flight home because something’s happened, he’ll be calling Maddox to explain why.

Me: I’m sure everything’s fine. He just wasn’t happy when he got back and now he’s left again.

Damon: Isn’t your sole job at the moment to keep tabs on the man?

Me: I was caught off guard. 

Lies. Total lies.

Damon: Why don’t you call him?

Me: Because I’m not dumb enough to think he’ll answer. What did you actually tell him?

Damon: The truth. His ass is on the line. We’re all sick of the shit. He needs to sort himself out. Not to sleep with you. 

I blink at the last line, not surprised at all that Oskar had that conversation but surprised that Damon mentioned it.

Me: Why do I feel like you’re telling me the same thing?

Damon: Because I am. He’s hot and he’s persistent when he knows what he wants. 

Me: Noted.

I toss my phone on the couch and scrub both hands over my face with a scowl. Damon isn’t telling me anything I don’t already know, and I’d be offended over him doubting my professionalism if I hadn’t already jerked it to the sound of Oskar getting himself off. And if I didn’t want to do it again despite all my warning signals telling me to abort that hot mess.

But no. Fucking Oskar and his fucking emotions. He just had to go and put it out there, and now I can’t close the door on how those vibrant blue eyes dulled at whatever memories he has.

I’d almost be relieved to find out he was playing me and none of it was real.

I pace some more, pick up my drink, and set it back down again. And as I cast my eyes around the room, it sticks out to me that there aren’t any photos. Sure, he’s younger than me and has social media accounts full of them, but while I don’t have a lot of ties to people, I have some Polaroids from a snow trip I took with my PR team back in Dallas framed on the den wall. I have a picture of my college buddies from back in the day, even though we’ve all lost touch over the years. And once upon a time, I had a photo of my parents and me on my desk with the hope that they’d someday come around and accept me for who I am. That never happened, and I got sick of staring at the stupid picture where we all looked so happy, so I threw it in the trash. But I still had it.

Oskar has … nothing.

It’s not only photos missing; there are no books, no trinkets, nothing decorative. His place is minimal and staged, but there’s literally nothing in it that screams Oskar.

Stop trying to psychoanalyze him, jackass.

He’s probably got hard drives full of his personal sex tapes hidden under his bed. Or, knowing him, stills of them printed off and plastered over his bedroom walls.

My mind gets stuck on his bedroom.

Surely there’d be something personal in there, and I can’t help wondering what kind of thing a guy like Oskar finds important.

Of course, it’d be completely inappropriate for me to go snooping. Even in the name of finding out more about the guy I’m supposed to be babysitting.

But given I’ve failed at my job multiple times already, does any of it really matter? By the end of the night, there’s likely to be photos or videos of Oskar’s dick being shared all over the internet. Hell, maybe he’ll even take it all the way and go live as he fucks someone.

I clench my jaw at that thought, and I wish I could say it was because of how it would destroy both of our careers, but nope. That nasty feeling taking hold is straight up jealousy over the thought of someone else getting to have him that way.

Before I can follow that line of thinking to places that would only get me in trouble, my phone gets an obnoxiously loud alert.

Damon: I’ve spoken to him and he made me promise not to tell you where he is. So I won’t. But I’m sure you’ll be getting a call soon. 

Almost as soon as I’ve read those words, a call lights up my screen.

“Hello?”

“Hey, is this Lane Pierce?”

“It is …” I say hesitantly, not recognizing the voice.

“This is June from the San Jose training facility. I thought you might like to know that Oskar Voyjik and Aleksander Emerson are here.”

I hurry to thank her and hang up, unsure what to do with that information. Oskar … isn’t out? He’s not blowing up both our lives?

None of it is computing in my brain.

I trusted him and gave him space, and somehow—somehow—he made an actual decent choice. But enough playing chicken with both of our careers, and enough of this animosity between us. This shows Oskar wants to do better, doesn’t it? This shows the guy I knew was hidden deep down is in there. I’m almost dizzy at the realization.

Time to make amends. Time to show him we can work together and turn around his reputation.

Starting right now.

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