Shameless Puckboy (Puckboys Book 3)

I’VE SAID IT BEFORE, and I’ll say it again: hockey players are crazy.

The wound goes from his cheek all the way up to his eyebrow, and either Oskar was in shock and didn’t realize how bad it was, or … hockey players are crazy. The only way I knew he was in pain as he was taken to the hospital was because of how tense he held himself. Otherwise, his only concern seemed to be his eye when I swear it looked as though his cheek had been sliced in half.

I hold back another gag at the memory. That was possibly the nastiest thing I’ve ever seen, and the panic that took over as I fucking ran to the locker room didn’t help. But Oskar doesn’t need to know all that.

After being released from the hospital, we rented a car and drove down to Burlington for the fundraiser event and checked into a hotel, but I’m starting to think we should have stayed in Montreal or even flown home.

Oskar looks terrible. Still hot. But …

“You need to clean them,” I say as patiently as I can for a third time. “Properly.”

Oskar lifts his head from where he dunked it under the tap and flicks his wet hair back. “It’s water. Water’s clean.”

I kick down the toilet lid, and with one hand on his shoulder, I push him down onto it. It’s been twenty-four hours since the stitches went in, and if it wasn’t for me reminding him today, he probably wouldn’t have tried washing them at all.

I breathe heavily through my nose in an attempt to stay patient as I grab the soap and a washcloth. “You’re also supposed to keep them relatively dry. You almost drowned yourself.”

When I turn back to him, Oskar is looking up at me in a way that makes me want to pat his head. I step in closer, then tilt his face to the side, getting a better look at his injury. The area all around his eye is bruised like a motherfucker, and the stitches form a line all the way up his face, holding closed the deep gash. They’ve done an excellent job with them, but with something that big, there’s no possible way it won’t scar. Badly. It’s going to be large and prominent, and I worry how it’ll affect Oskar when he’s gotten by on his looks all his life.

Every time I try to talk to Oskar about it, he laughs and says how he got the good drugs. The avoidance isn’t a worry at all.

I wet the washcloth and gently start to clean the area, but the second I make contact, Oskar lets out a loud shout and jerks away.

“Fuck, I’m sorry.” Guilt hits me for a full second before Oskar drops his hand from his face.

He smiles. “Got you.”

That asshole. I punch his shoulder. On his injured side, so he barely sees me coming.

“Hey, I’m wounded, you jerk,” he says, rubbing at where I hit him.

“And I’m trying to look after you, you jerk.”

“You’re just annoyed that you were fooled.”

“Better than having my face slashed open.” I turn his chin again, and this time, I hold his face as I clean it. He doesn’t try his shit again, and the whole time I gently dab at the skin, my mind is spinning, wondering how the hell this kind of injury is going to affect Oskar’s already fragile self-worth. I want to tell him that it doesn’t matter, that the scar will give him that edge to make him even sexier, and that it’s not fair he can take a skate to the face and somehow it makes me want him more than ever.

But focusing on his looks won’t help, and every time I try to point out that his personality is what’s important, he sneers and tells me I sound like a Lifetime movie.

I’m almost done when Oskar reaches out and runs his hands up my thighs. I’m only in my boxer briefs, so it’s immediately obvious what his contact does to me.

“Stop it,” I murmur.

“Stop what?”

I swear under my breath. “You’re such a brat.”

“You like it though.”

His blue eyes flick up to meet mine, and I’m caught in his stare. My thumb lightly strokes his good cheek. “Yeah, I do.” Then my grip tightens on his jaw, and I lean down so we’re a breath apart. “But not while you’re injured and can’t do anything about it. Just remember that everything you do to tease me now will come back at you tenfold once you’re better.”

“That really isn’t the threat you think it is.”

And he’s so lighthearted and matter-of-fact about it that a laugh slips from me. I straighten and drag my hand back through my hair. “What the hell am I going to do with you?”

“You could spank me again. Oooh, better yet, give me a pounding. My ass can take it.”

“With how vocal you are, I don’t trust you not to split your stitches open. We both know how you like to scream for me.”

“I can be quiet.”

“That’s total bullshit.” Smiling, I lean down and brush a kiss over his lips. “You sure you want to do this hockey camp thing today?”

His nod is immediate, and a bit of seriousness takes over. “I promised I would.”

“No one would blame you for backing out.”

“You’re going to make me say it, aren’t you?”

He already knows me too well. “Say what?”

“Urg.” Oskar huffs. “I want to go.”

“There. That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

He flips me off and stands up to take a piss while I pass back into our hotel room to find some clothes. We didn’t share a bed last night, and even though we don’t when we’re at home, usually while we’re away, we collapse after sex and don’t move again. Last night, when I climbed into my bed, Oskar watched me with an unreadable look on his face. Tension flooded the room and existed long after we turned out the lights.

I’d wanted more than anything to crawl in beside him. To let him know I was there and that he could use me for support if he needed it, but without sex, I couldn’t work out how to cross that line that I’m beginning to wish didn’t exist between us.

“I still think you should wear a suit,” I call out to him, grabbing my shirt and shrugging it on.

“Fuck no. This isn’t a game. I’m not going on the ice. I’ll be wearing my San Jose workout gear, and if anyone says shit, I’ll remind them that I took a skate to the face and then ask them how their week is going.”

I refuse to laugh, even though I so want to. Technically, what I should be doing is arguing and reminding him who’s in charge here, but getting a chance to see Oskar in a tight San Jose T-shirt and gym shorts that show off those muscular calves isn’t something I want to deprive myself of.

“You’re going to milk this injury for all it’s worth, aren’t you?”

“If you have to ask that question, I’m going to start thinking you’re not very good at your job.”

“Tell me how many other PR reps managed to get you under their thumb?”

He snorts. “We both know it’s another appendage that has full control over me.”

Once we’re dressed, ready to head out, I steer Oskar toward the mirror in our room.

“Other than your wayward hair, you look good.”

He scrubs a big hand through the mess on his head, making it even more rumpled. “Something’s telling me it’s not my hair people are going to be looking at.”

Then his gaze slides to his cheek. Needing to give him some of the comfort I wanted to last night, I step up behind him and prop my chin on his shoulder. He leans into me, and I can’t help sliding my hands from his waist around to settle over his abs.

“It’ll heal,” I assure him. “Besides, you actually look like a hockey player now. With all those teeth of yours, I was starting to think you were lying to me.”

“It does look badass, huh?”

“Badass. Rugged. Slightly unhinged.” I turn my head so my lips are by his ear. “No one’s going to call you pretty again.”

His chest expands on a deep breath, and it feels like he melts against me. “Is it weird that all anyone could talk about was plastic surgery and it’s the last thing I want?”

“Nope. Because they don’t know you. As your PR manager, I should be encouraging you to go with that option …”

“And as Lane?”

I don’t want to say it, but the way his eyes are pinned on my reflection makes it difficult to keep quiet. “I think you should keep your scar.”

His lips part. “Why?”

“Because I know you want to.”

Oskar straightens and turns so he can see me properly. “Yeah. I really fucking do.”

“Then that’s what’s gonna happen.”

“And if Mick pushes for the surgery?”

“We’ll sic Damon on him. One of the smartest business decisions you ever made was signing him as an agent.” I cross to the hotel room door and hold it open for Oskar.

He sticks close to me in the hall, stands so his shoulder touches mine in the elevator, and when we cross the foyer, his hand ghosts over my lower back.

The whole time, I try to keep my business face on. We’re in public, and even though it’s only a small hotel in Burlington, I have no idea how many others are staying here, considering the fundraiser drew a few volunteers. As far as anyone knows, I’m here in a professional capacity and not because I’m struggling to walk away from the man beside me.

As we collect the rental car from the hotel parking lot, we head south for the one-hour trip out of Burlington to a smaller town called Maybury. It’s beautiful out here. Small and idealistic.

When we pull up out the front of a shiny new facility, I give Oskar’s thigh a reassuring squeeze. “Your friends are all here. Might be a good chance to let them in a little, don’t you think?”

“We’ll see.” He slides his sunglasses on and jumps out of the car, waiting for me on the sidewalk. We’re early, but there are already a lot of people around, so I lead Oskar away from the large doorway with the welcome banner stretched over it and toward the side entrance, where Richard said he’d be waiting for us.

He’s a fair bit younger than me with a thicker beard and a friendly smile, and from what I’ve gathered through emails, the people running this camp were friends of his, so he’s organized the event in his downtime.

“Lane?” he asks as we approach.

I shake his offered hand. “I couldn’t keep Oskar away.”

“That’s great, man. We’re so happy you could make it. Beck’s a big fan, and, well, so am I …” Richard’s stare catches on Oskar’s injury, and he cringes. “So sorry about that too. I caught the game, and I swear I could feel it through the screen. I had a few bumps and bruises when I played, but nothing like that.”

Oskar shrugs. “All part of the game.”

“Damn straight.” Richard holds out his hand for a fist bump that Oskar returns right as Tripp and Dex Mitchell arrive.

They immediately steal Oskar’s attention, replaying the hit to his face. Tripp goads him about having better aim next time, and Dex loudly exclaims Oskar should go to his next costume party as a pirate.

“Or the joker,” Richard happily adds.

“Yes.” Dex throws his hands up. “Oh my God. Idea! Tripp’s birthday. Villain party. You’re the joker, Tripp can be—what’s that chick with all the vines?”

“Poison Ivy?” I ask.

“Exactly. And I could be …”

Oskar, Tripp, and I exchange a look because I’ve never met anyone who exhibits less villain energy than Dex. None of us have a suggestion for him.

“Harley Quinn,” Richard suggests.

Dex gasps. “I could totally do booty shorts.”

“Great idea.” Oskar slings an arm around Dex’s shoulders. “You’d be my bitch for the night.”

Tripp pins him with a look. “If you’re trying to make me jealous …”

Oskar leans in and runs his tongue up Dex’s cheek.

“Yeah, that’s enough,” Tripp snaps, and Dex laughs, ducking out of Oskar’s hold.

Richard opens the door. “Why don’t you guys come in before someone gets hurt? Ah, again.”

Dex bounces after him, still on a roll with this party idea, as Oskar and Tripp follow, shoving and jostling each other like a pair of fucking teenagers. I want to remind Oskar about his face, but there’s no point wasting my breath.

I hold true to my previous thought: hockey players are crazy.