Shameless Puckboy (Puckboys Book 3)

“DID I GET POSSESSION?” I croak and roll over.

The bright lights of the arena make me squint, and the ice underneath me is cold, even through my layers, and I’m hit with an overwhelming dose of pain that almost makes me pass out again.

Aleks appears above me, eyes wide. “Only you would be worried about that right now. You’ve got bigger problems than possession. Taking a skate to the face, for one.”

“Wha’?” I’m disoriented, and when I sit up, the team trainer, Zee, appears out of nowhere and gently pushes me back down.

“Stay still.”

There’s a flurry of action, and out comes the dreaded neck brace.

“No, I don’t need this.” I try to bat away the hands fixing the collar to my neck as someone else shoves something against my cheek. “It’s just a little cut.”

“You lost consciousness,” Zee says. “You know what that means.”

“Nooooo,” I complain. Not concussion watch. “It was from the skate. I didn’t hit my head. I’m fine.”

Coach joins in on the fun, appearing next.

“Put me back in, Coach. I’m good.”

Coach purses his lips and shares a glance with Zee. They almost look … worried?

Oh, fuck. Maybe I’m not good? That’s when I realize I still only have one eye open. I can’t open the other one.

I stop struggling against not getting up and resign myself to the knowledge that I’m out for at least the rest of the game.

There are murmurings of plastic surgeons as they take me off the ice, but none of that is as terrifying as the words that follow. “He might lose his eye.”

A pro hockey player with only one eye and no peripheral vision? There’s no such thing. I swear to the hockey gods that I will disown them if an injury takes me out. I’ve been working so hard on reining in my attitude, and to go out this way … No. Panic clogs my throat.

It won’t happen.

It can’t happen.

Oh shit, what if it happens?

What has been the point of behaving if it’s all for nothing?

I’m quiet and introspective as the team doctor bandages my face and management discuss what to do. My face and neck have the familiar sticky feeling of blood.

“If it was only a matter of stitches, I could do them right here and now,” Doc says. “But the cut is right near his eye, plus isn’t Voyjik known as one of the prettiest guys in the league? I don’t want to be responsible for mangling his face.”

“Mangle it,” I say. “I don’t care.”

“No, he’s right.” It’s a new voice. One I only hear when things are serious. I didn’t realize Mick Alcott was here in Chicago with the team. “You make more money from your face with endorsement deals than we pay you.”

That’s so not true, but I’m not going to point out he overpays me and my salary is ridiculous.

“You’ll go to a hospital here in Chicago, and we’ll find the best plastic surgeon in all of Illinois.”

“And my eye?” I ask because that’s the actual only thing I’m worried about.

“It’s too swollen to know anything for sure,” Doc says. “We need to get you to the hospital to find out more.”

Dread as heavy as an anvil hits me in the gut, and I know I’m going to be on edge until I get a definitive answer, but with four little words, not everything seems so bleak.

“I’ll go with him,” Lane says right before appearing in my vision.

“You should stay here and handle the press about the injury,” Mick says, and my panic deepens.

“No. I’ll keep Keerson up to date with Oskar’s progress, and he can relay it to the media. I want to be there for firsthand information.”

I can’t be entirely sure, and maybe I’m reading into it because I want it to be true, but the direct tone and concern on his face makes me think that Lane isn’t doing this for his job. He’s doing it because he cares.

That warm-belly feeling floods through me again, the same one that got to me in the arcade when Lane called me a loser and somehow made me feel accepted.

I make a mental note to ask one of the doctors at the hospital if this heat in my gut is normal, because mushy, emotional warmth isn’t something I’ve ever had to deal with before.

Maybe it’s stomach cancer or something.

The wait is excruciating, even more so than the gash on my face. Though that doesn’t actually hurt at all right now. “Drugs a good,” I murmur, answering a question Lane didn’t ask.

We were taken to a VIP suite in one of Chicago’s top hospitals, which I didn’t even know was a thing. We need to get on this VIP thing back in San Jose because my room looks like a hotel suite. Only thing is I’ve been left here alone with Lane since we arrived and they pumped me full of painkillers, and Lane has barely said a word since.

It only makes me more worried about my eye.

If you strip hockey away from me, what’s left? Hockey has been the only consistent thing in my life. It became my lifeline. My support.

The last couple of months, I’ve had it in my head that the end of my career will happen because every team in the NHL would get sick of my antics and think I’m not worth the drama. An injury was the last thing on my mind. Lane sits on the side of my bed, next to my good eye, and he grasps my hand.

“I know you’re trying to reassure me, but quit it with the pity.” I pull my hand out from under his.

He takes it back. “I’m not trying to reassure you because telling you everything will be okay would be complete bullshit when a doctor hasn’t even looked at you yet. I’m just letting you know that I’m here for you because no matter what the outcome, you’ll need a support system in place.”

“You think I’m going to lose my eye, don’t you?”

“I’m more worried about your mangled face. You’ve practically gotten away with murder because of your looks. You’re going to have to learn to—” He gasps. “—be friendly and bring out your real personality.”

Why is it that when he insults me, I want to swoon?

I laugh, but it’s hard because my face feels tight. “Shit. Does that mean I have to be genuine? I don’t know how to do that.”

Lane’s hand squeezes mine. “Yes, you do. I’ve seen it. All you have to learn is how to show it to other people. From the couple of times I’ve seen you with your friends, I get the impression the Collective don’t even know who you are deep down.”

They don’t. No one does.

And I’m starting to suspect that neither do I.

“No one likes the real me.”

He’s quiet for a moment before he says, “I do.”

We’re thankfully interrupted by them collecting me for some tests, including a CT to make sure I don’t have a bad concussion. Because the laceration is so close to my eye, they want to put me under to stitch it up and get a better look at my actual eye to assess the damage and possibly repair it if they’re able to.

It’s going to be a long night.

It’s tempting to ask them to sedate me so I can sleep through everything, not just for the surgery, but I already know the answer will be no.

Seconds tick by, and now that I’m alone and only with the doctors, I get a glimpse of my future without hockey.

It’s fucking lonely.

I let the medical staff poke and prod me. I sign forms I can’t even read because my bad eye is covered, and my good eye is blurry, but before I know it, I’m waking up in recovery with half of my face numb.

I ask the recovery nurse if they took my eyeball, but all she says is, “Don’t worry, dear. All of your important parts are still intact.” Then I have to wonder what actually came out of my mouth. I thought I asked about eyeballs, but maybe I said balls …

“You can ease up on the painkillers,” I say. “I think they’re making me loopy.”

“Sure, it’s the painkillers that are doing that.” Lane sounds close, but I have to twist my head to find him.

“Have they told you anything?”

“Only that you hit on every single male in your operating room before they put you under.”

“Did I?”

Lane laughs. “No, actually, but that you even asked tells me all I need to know.”

“What’s that?”

“You’re going to be fine. I was worried when they said you were on your best behavior, like maybe you were dead and they hadn’t realized because you were so quiet, but you’ve reassured me you’re not a corpse.”

“Are you seriously kicking me while I’m down?”

Lane throws up his hands in defeat. “I can’t win with you.”

Just his presence is making every worry and thought somewhat calmer. He gives me the illusion that it’s not only me who’s injured but him as well, and that’s comforting.

I reach for his hand this time, and he comes willingly. “Thank you for being here for me even when Mick told you to be there for the team.”

Lane squeezes my hand. “I wouldn’t be anywhere else.”

A throat clears, and Lane pulls away as my surgeon steps up to my bed.

I manage to get out, “What’s the verdict?”

My heart is in my throat until I hear the words, “The blade missed your eye completely.”

I let out a loud, relieved breath, but his next words are the ones that bring dread.

“But because your stitches are so close to your eye, you’ll be unable to play until they’re completely healed, which can be anywhere from ten days to two weeks.”

I’m going to be okay, but I still can’t go back on the ice until the playoffs?

I glance at Lane. “So, I’m heading back to San Jose while the team plays the rest of these away games?”

“If you’re up to it, there’s still that charity fundraiser in Vermont.” He turns to the doctor. “Would that be okay?”

“So long as his eye is nowhere near ice or blades or anything else sharp, and he doesn’t mind looking bruised and worse for wear, then it’s fine by me.”

Lane’s attention’s back on me. “It’s up to you.”

If the doc had given me bad news, it would be the last place I’d want to be, but knowing I’ll be back on the ice for the playoffs? Not only do I still have to work on recovering my image, but I actually want to do it. Stitches or no stitches.

I’m making a decision because I want to do it. It’s not armor. Not defensiveness. The thought that my pretty face might be gone is giving me this heady kind of freedom I haven’t had before.

People only stick around for two reasons.

Maybe with both those things gone, I’ll find out who’s around for real. That thought is terrifying. I could end up friendless and alone.

And for the first time ever, I care. If my friends write me off, if Lane walks away, I’m not so sure I could bounce back easily from that.

But I still want to try.