Shameless Puckboy (Puckboys Book 3)
Shameless Puckboy: Chapter 2

IT’S NOT my fault I was left unsupervised. Or that Lane’s guys trusted me to do as I was told. Everyone from the PR department has been really slow to learn their lesson.

But Lane’s certainly figured it out. Or figured me out. I’m not sure which it is yet, but living with him is going to be fun. So fun.

Starting now.

When my doorbell rings, I drop my sweats to the floor so I’m completely naked and then run a hand through my hair to make it look messy in that I’ve been fucked six ways till Sunday kind of way.

Yet, when I answer the door, I don’t get the reaction I expect. Or want.

There’s no exasperation, no large sigh. In fact, Lane’s not even looking at me.

He’s looking up at the house, which is only a few years old. It’s boxy and modern but lacks all the frills of what people expect a professional hockey player to have. I’m only renting because I’m not dumb enough to think my antics will be tolerated forever; I assume San Jose is only a short stop on the ever-changing trades the NHL like to do. I’ve been with San Jose for almost three years now; before that, I was in Texas, and before that, I was with Columbus. I get passed around more times than a bottom in a gang bang. And hey, I will never complain about being that guy.

I don’t want to lay down roots. It’s not me. I get antsy if I’m in one place for too long. My talent as a hockey player keeps getting me contracts, but my PR nightmares are what get me traded.

After an insulting amount of time, Lane looks at me, and there’s the reaction I wanted: a loud sigh, a set jaw that’s unshaven and has speckles of gray filtered through the dark scruff, and his intense brown gaze locked on my face. As if he’s picked that one tiny, singular freckle I have on my cheek to stare at so he’s not tempted to look anywhere near my junk. Or my full chest of tattoos that’s a fucking work of art.

“Your house is unexpected,” he says.

“My house or my dick?”

“Definitely the house. The dick is … typical.”

I act offended. “Excuse me, there is nothing typical about my dick at all. It’s a phenomenal specimen of masculinity and pleasure.”

“Uh-huh, sure. Is that why you had to tattoo a phrase that translates to orgasm above it? To remind your partners of what they’re supposed to do?”

“I didn’t realize you’d taken that much notice of my tattoos.”

He does the grown-up version of rolling his eyes—directing a derisive, unimpressed look my way, gaze still firmly set on my face. “I’m your PR manager. You don’t think I had to approve those naked shots you did at the beginning of the season? We actually had issues finding one that hid that specific tattoo.”

“What’s wrong with my tattoo? It’s advertising what to expect.”

Outside, a neighbor walks by and glances up as Lane follows my gaze and turns. His shifting means I’m no longer blocked from view and ends up giving them an eyeful.

I wave. “Hi, Mrs. Huxley!”

“You might want to put some clothes on for once, Oskar. It’s a bit cold out here.”

My mouth drops, and I ask Lane, “Did she just say my dick is small? She obviously needs glasses. Poor old bat can’t see properly.”

“I can’t believe she didn’t even blink at you being naked.”

“Oh, they’re used to it. There’s one rule in my house, and that’s no clothes allowed. Welcome.” I step aside to let him in. “You may enter once you get rid of that awful sweater and suit pants.”

“Not going to happen.” Lane pushes past me. “And while I’m here, your rules are void. I make the rules from now on.”

“Okay, Daddy.”

“Rule number one: no calling me daddy.”

“Yes, Daddy.”

He already looks like he wants to kill me.

“Okay, fine, I won’t call you daddy. But I’m not calling you Mr. Pierce either.”

“Lane is fine. If you put some goddamn clothes on.”

I pick up my sweats and pull them back on. “Better?”

“Rule number two: clothes consist of pants and a shirt.”

It’s my turn to sigh. “We really are going back to kindergarten rules, aren’t we?”

“You act like a child, I will treat you like one.”

“If you treat me like one, I’ll act like one.” I stomp up the staircase like a pissed-off teenager, but I’m already having fun.

I go to pull out a team shirt when I remember I have some mesh tank tops for when I go out. I pull out a black one that has a rip in it from an overeager plaything I hooked up with once and throw it over my head. It’s technically a shirt.

When I walk back downstairs, Lane’s head is in his phone, so I stand at the bottom and wait for him to take in the view. It doesn’t take long. Only this time, he does actually roll his eyes. But there’s something else there. Something that says he doesn’t want to like my antics but can’t help himself.

“It’s an improvement, I’ll give you that.”

“I think you’re the first man to ever prefer me in clothes. I’m trying to work out if I should be insulted or flattered.”

“Flattered?” Lane asks.

“Well, yeah. The only reason I can think of why you’d want me to cover up is because you’re too worried about resisting my charms.”

“If being naked is the only charm you have, we won’t have a problem.”

I chuckle. “Damn. You have willpower of steel.”

“Or, you’re not as loveable as you think you are.”

“Everyone loves me.”

“Must be nice.”

“Being so adored? It is.”

“No, I mean living in a world full of delusion. Now, where is my bedroom?”

“Right this way.” I turn on my heel and run back upstairs, waiting for him to catch up. “I put you right next to me so you can keep an eye on me and make sure I’m not being a naughty boy.”

“Works for me. Shorter distance to walk to kick out random hookups.”

“I thought I wasn’t allowed to hook up? Ooh, does this mean you’ll come to my rescue when they won’t leave the next day? Once they’ve had a taste of me, they never want to stop drinking from the fountain.”

Lane blinks at me.

“My dick. They want to always suck my dick.”

He lets out a loud breath. “I’m starting to see why you’ve been through so many PR reps already.”

“Aww, you say such sweet things to me. We’ll be fucking each other before you know it.”

“Sorry to disappoint, but I actually know how to keep a professional distance.”

“That sounds like a challenge to me.”

“Of course it does. I’m going to settle in and unpack a few things. Why don’t you go jerk off or something? You’re going to have to get used to having sex with only your hand for a while.”

Hmm, that actually sounds like a good idea. I touch my chest. “Moving in. Asking me not to have sex with anyone else. You want to be my boyfriend that badly?”

“Wrong B-word. I’m your babysitter because you don’t know how to keep it in your pants. If chastity belts were still a thing, I’d be buying you one.”

“You know, they have cock cages for that now. Kinky. I like having a boyfriend who’s kinky.”

Lane starts muttering to himself, but I can’t understand what he’s saying.

“What are you doing?”

“Reminding myself that I love my job and I can’t hurt you because prison isn’t fun.”

I laugh. “We’re right on schedule, then.”

“Speaking of schedules, you need to give me yours for All-Stars week coming up, seeing as you’re not going.”

“I’m flying to Boston to hang out with my boys.” Anton and Foster won’t be there because they are playing for All-Stars, but the rest of the Queer Collective will be, and I can’t wait. I love All-Stars week. Especially when I’m not chosen. It’s like I get an extra week to recoup and fuck around while everyone there has to work.

Not that hockey is work. Well, it is. It’s a lot of hard work, but given the choice to do anything else? Hell no. Hockey is my life. But by this point in the season, we’re all ready for a break, and anyone who says otherwise is lying.

“Please tell me ‘your boys’ is not a code word for a weeklong orgy with twinks.”

I whistle. “Damn, I wish, but no. I’m hanging out with the other queerios from the Collective.”

“The Collective? Tell me the truth. Are you in a cult?”

“Yes. We worship dicks, and on Wednesdays, we wear pink. But for real, the other guys in the league who are queer catch up every now and then so we don’t feel so alone with all the heteros floating around in hockey.”

Lane smiles, but it quickly drops. “It’s an orgy with other hockey players, isn’t it? Who’s involved? I need to get their PR guys onto it too.”

“You know, considering you’re so adamant we won’t have sex, you’re certainly picturing me in a lot of different sexual situations.”

“You had a threesome on camera, and you have made it my job to make sure that doesn’t happen again. I need all the details.”

I fold my arms. “Oh. Well, settle in because it’s story time. It all started when this guy approached me at the bar and said he wanted me to fuck him and his boyfriend in that little private room out the back. You know how some places have those? Anyway, wasn’t public enough for me, so I suggested—”

“I need to know the details of any of your more permanent arrangements. Like with this sex collective you’ve got going on.”

Sex collective. I’m so telling Ezra we need to change the name to that. But then when Lane eyes me expectantly, I realize …

“I don’t have any permanent arrangements.”

Permanent means serious, and no way in hell am I letting anyone get that close to me.

The guys in the Collective are as close as I’m comfortable with, and even they aren’t that close. I’m used to being alone. It’s how I survived childhood. It’s how I live my life.

The only person who’ll ever truly have my back is me.

I accepted that a long time ago.

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