Shameless Puckboy (Puckboys Book 3)
Shameless Puckboy: Chapter 21

OSKAR’S LYING STRETCHED across the other couch, holding his phone high above his head while I work opposite. We’d been as close as two people could be barely half an hour ago, which has to be the only reason all this distance feels wrong.

From where I’m sitting—right beside where we had sex—I have a direct line of sight out the front window, but no one can see in. I know because I checked before Oskar got home. With the porchlight on, all you can see in here with the lights off is shadow.

“Why do I feel like you’re ignoring me?” I finally ask.

“How am I supposed to know why you feel what you feel?” His voice is dry, giving away that something’s up.

I’d thought things were good. Oskar made a choice today I never would have expected, and the fact he didn’t go out to lunch or come here to sulk—or worse, head to a strip club—speaks volumes about where he’s at.

Oskar is actually trying because he’s scared of losing the one thing he truly cares about: hockey.

But while he was happy and relaxed right after we had sex, it’s like something tripped in his brain, and that contentment disappeared.

“How was it today?” I ask.

He grunts but doesn’t answer.

“Oh, goodie, one of those nights. At least with you ignoring me, it’s quiet around here.”

Oskar flips me off.

Okay, I’m done with this. I set my laptop aside, then push to my feet and reach over to steal his phone.

“Hey.”

“Tell me what’s going on.”

He scowls. “Why? As we’ve established, therapy isn’t in your job description.”

I perch on the side of the coffee table, right beside his head. “Did I overstep earlier? Should I not have done that?”

“If I didn’t want you to fuck me, I wouldn’t have let you fuck me.”

“Then where’s this attitude coming from?”

He closes his eyes and tucks his hands behind his head. “News flash, I always have attitude.”

But stupid me assumed he was changing. Growing. And there I go proving I can’t be trusted in these kinds of situations. Both hands scrub over my face as I resist the urge to shake him. Maybe I should have thought things through more, taken a step back today and planned out my next move instead of getting home, scrambling for supplies, and then spending the afternoon pacing the living room as I waited for Oskar to get home so I could pounce on him.

Seeing him being kind and putting himself out there was such a turn-on, I forgot for a moment that I was supposed to be more calculated in my moves.

My laptop dinging alerts me to an email coming in, so I leave him to his weird mood and open the web page. I still have too many to count left unread, but something about the subject line of this one catches my attention.

Fundraising volunteers needed—LGBTQ players encouraged.

It’s from someone named Richard Cohen from Montreal’s PR department.

I open the email and skim through the details. A training facility is being opened in Vermont for hockey players ranging from pre-K to eighteen, focusing on readiness for college. The kicker? It’s all not-for-profit, and their plan is to supply everything for kids who wouldn’t otherwise be able to afford it. Hence, the fundraiser.

It’s a great idea—hockey is expensive, and there’s a lot of gear involved before you even factor in the cost of training. It’s why hockey has always been considered a rich man’s sport. Opening the door for talent that wouldn’t otherwise get that chance is a game changer.

The email is asking for pro-league volunteers to attend a fundraising day and highlights that LGBTQ players are not only welcome but wanted, as the center wants to send a firm message that You Can Play isn’t just words.

Before I let my excitement get the better of me, I check what Oskar’s schedule looks like. Having an event like this during the season isn’t ideal, but the center wants to be up and running for the summer, so it doesn’t look like there was much choice there.

This is the kind of thing that would be perfect for Oskar.

The problem is that it’s the day before an away game. Normally players take the day for light training and conserving their energy, but his game is in Montreal, so it wouldn’t be that far to travel.

I grab my laptop and move to the other couch. Oskar doesn’t move, so I lift his legs, sit down, and drop them over my lap.

“Read this.”

He skims through the email, and even though he tries to hide it, I swear I catch a hint of excitement. “Could be cool.”

“I’m going to reply that you’re available.”

“Whatever.”

It takes a deep breath to stop from returning his attitude. As I’m replying, Oskar picks up his phone and types out a message. It’s distracting, and I keep glancing from what I’m doing and over toward the smile he’s wearing.

“Aleks?” I ask, not able to keep the disapproving tone out of my voice.

“The Collective, actually. Foster said he’s doing that thing. The others are looking into it.”

The knot of jealousy lessens. “Good.”

We’re quiet for a moment, and I can feel him watching me.

“If you have something to ask, just ask it,” I say.

“I need your help with something.”

That gets my attention. “Is it an orgasm? Because you’ve already had one of those.”

“No …” Something about his tone makes me glance over. He looks … uncertain.

Shit. It’s such a fine line with him. On one side, I can view him as a petulant hockey player and protect myself; on the other, I see the real him. The one who wants to try and doesn’t know how. And as much as I’m holding back, I always find myself slipping onto the side of compassion. It’s the side my dumb ass wants to be on.

I set my laptop down and turn my attention on him. “Sorry. Let me try again. What do you need my help with?”

“New strategy? Pretending like you care?”

“This might be a complete shock to you—it was to me—but I do care. So how can I help you?”

I’m sure he’s going to throw back a taunt, the thought definitely crosses his mind, but at the last moment, he breaks eye contact and clears his throat. “I need to make a donation. But I need it to be anonymous.”

Okay, that I can do. “How much?”

“Not money. Phones, day-to-day supplies, shit kids with nothing would want.”

Motherfucker. There he goes, making me cross that line again. I rub a hand over my short beard, trying to hide the way my lips twitch happily because the last thing I want is for him to think I’m laughing at him when I’m actually laughing at myself and how one good deed is making me light up inside. “First step is making a list. So why don’t we do that, then go pick it all up? The mall is open late tonight, so there’s no reason to wait.”

He springs upright, the renewed energy making me lighter. His hair is the same chaotic mess it always is, and I can’t help reaching over to flatten some of it down.

Oskar freezes for a second but doesn’t acknowledge me, just pulls out his phone and starts typing.

“Okay, phones and clothes are a good start. What else?” he asks.

“Practical things. Deodorant, shampoos, bodywash. Think like you have nothing and work your way up to the big things.”

He types away, clearly excited but trying to hide it, and we scrape together a list that looks easy enough to obtain—for someone with money. Oskar calls the shelter he was at today to find out how many people are staying there and then gets changed, ready to head out.

Before we reach his car though, I put a hand on his arm to stop him.

The words are harder to get out than they should be. “After my parents kicked me out, I was too embarrassed to go to my friends, and I wasn’t out at that point. The shelters in the area were full, and there weren’t as many back then, but one of the ones I went to had a woman who let me sleep in the office overnight. The next day, she put me in contact with people who set me up with an apartment to lease in a building full of people in similar circumstances to me. She helped me with my college application, dropped me at the library on the weekends, kept me motivated through the rest of senior year … I was still in an incredibly privileged position, but she didn’t make me feel bad about having money where the others didn’t. So … thank you. What you’re doing will make a difference to the people there, and I thought you should know it isn’t an empty gesture.”

Oskar shifts, looking uncomfortable, before he forces out, “You okay?”

I give his shoulder a playful punch. “I just had incredible sex, my hockey player is behaving himself, and we’re about to spend the night doing something charitable. I’d say I’m better than okay.”

He unlocks the car and crosses to the driver’s side. “Don’t tell anyone that somewhere in amongst the black sludge in my chest, there might be some semblance of a heart. I have an image to uphold.”

“You better be careful, then, because at this rate, your wayward reputation is going to be more or less ruined. Another couple of weeks and you won’t need me anymore.”

And isn’t that some shit?

Oskar’s finally doing everything he’s meant to be doing … and there’s a small selfish part of me that wishes he wouldn’t. Because with the way he’s going, I won’t have an excuse to stay.

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