Shameless Puckboy (Puckboys Book 3)

AFTER DEVOURING room service for dinner, we each retreat into our separate bedrooms next to each other in the two-bedroom suite we’re staying in. I turn the lights out and wait. Oskar hasn’t given me any reason to expect he’ll sneak out tonight, but I’m going off a gut feeling. I have a hunch that Oskar isn’t going to be able to resist the temptation of being in a new city with endless possibilities.

He’s been way too well behaved so far.

Sure enough, just before midnight, I hear the slightest shift. Feet over carpet, the front door cracking open and then softly closing again. There goes my peaceful night.

I grab my wallet and phone, shove them into the pockets of my jeans that I haven’t taken off yet, and follow. The elevator doors are sliding closed as I round the corner, so instead of waiting for the next one, I take the stairs. We’re only five floors up, and by the time I get down there, Oskar is already out on the street.

He really is behaving like a child. The brazen way he walked out and assumed I wouldn’t follow …

Admiring his spunk—and unfortunately, I’m not talking about cum in this instance—probably isn’t the right reaction.

I’m beginning to see where my guys were going wrong though.

They let him get to them.

It’ll be harder for him to do that with me because I’ve dealt with narcissists and liars before. Not that Oskar falls into either category, but he pushes the same buttons in me. I’m starting to work out that Oskar is calculated about what he does. I don’t know much about him, but I’ve picked up enough to tell he’ll push me until he works out how much I can take. Like his own way of finding out what I’m made of. He’s a lot smarter than people give him credit for.

Unluckily for him, I’m ninety percent stubborn grit and ambition.

Oskar doesn’t jump into a car, which is helpful because it would be easy to lose him in traffic. I follow at a distance until we’re a few streets from the hotel and standing outside a gay bar. The bouncer clearly recognizes him and lets him right in, which unfortunately gives me the first hitch in my plans.

Damn it.

If I wait in line, who knows how much trouble Oskar will get into while I’m out here. But I don’t really see another way around it. Maybe if I lurk in the alley, I’ll get lucky …

Oskar’s not dumb enough to pull the same move twice.

Well, shit. I guess I’m going low and praying the odds are on my side.

Gathering up my nerves, I approach the beefy bouncer who’s not currently letting anyone in—not a great sign—and paste on my most professional smile.

“Good evening.” I hold out my hand, which goes ignored. “My name’s Lane Pierce. I’m with San Jose’s public relations department, and I’ve been sent to retrieve one of our players who just went inside.”

He grunts. Fucking grunts.

Resisting the urge to tell this guy he’s a walking stereotype, I hitch my smile wider. “Oskar Voyjik. He arrived a couple of minutes ago.”

“Haven’t seen him,” the guy snarls.

I almost laugh. There’s no way I’m letting Oskar win this thing because of a guy with a god complex. “Would a Boston jersey signed by Ezra Palaszczuk and Anton Hayes help you remember?”

I have no clue how I’m going to get my hands on one, but San Jose management said anything, and if that means shipping some random man a signed jersey, they’ll do it.

His face twitches from its grumpy mask. Bingo. “I don’t know you,” he says.

I have never retrieved my work ID faster. The man squints at it like he’s trying to puzzle out whether it’s a fake or not, and considering I doubt he’s been around a lot of people who work for the San Jose NHL team, I have no idea how he’s supposed to figure it out.

“The whole team,” he says.

“Pardon?”

“I want a Diedrich jersey signed by the whole team.”

Of course he does. “Deal.”

“Got a business card?”

I quickly pull one out, and he swaps my ID for it. “My office line, email, and cell is on there. Send me your address, and I’ll get it organized.” I hope.

He steps aside, and I rush past before he can change his mind.

It’s impossible to know whether my life has reached an all-time low as I step into the crowded club and look around. The odds of finding Oskar here aren’t in my favor, and it’s only my determination not to let him win that has me pushing my way through the throng of people.

As soon as we’re back, I’m asking management what the law is around me handcuffing Oskar to my side at all moments except games and practice. Surely if it’s consensual, they won’t have a problem with it? And if Oskar thinks it’ll lead to sex, I don’t see him having an objection. Even if there’s no way that will happen.

The first places I check are the hallway and some of the back rooms, but either Oskar has already left, or he doesn’t work as fast as I gave him credit for.

The VIP areas are upstairs, and even though I talked my way past the lineup outside, I can’t see me getting into those. I also get the feeling Oskar wouldn’t have gravitated that way anyway. He’s here to hook up and get back before I figure out he’s left, so if my hunch is right … My attention returns to the heaving dance floor … he’s in there somewhere.

I love pressing up against half-naked, sweaty men as much as the next gay guy, but not tonight. It seems almost cruel to put myself through it when I’m not allowed to touch, so I turn my back on the dancers and head toward a group of people sharing a bar table.

“Hey,” I shout. “Can I jump up on your chair for a minute?”

The guy I’ve approached shoots his friend a look.

“Only a second. See, Oskar Voyjik is here, and I want to see if I can spot him. If you get my drift.”

“Who’s Oskar Voy … Vo … who’s that dude?”

I stifle my laugh, wishing Oskar was here to witness his anonymity.

“Famous hockey player!” the friend shouts.

And there goes my fun. I point his friend’s way. “Yup. Him.”

“Nice.” The guy jumps off his stool and then holds it steady as I climb up to see over the crowd. Which really isn’t the smartest move on my behalf because I might not be a hockey player, but I’m still heavy, and I don’t trust this thing under my weight.

“See him?” the friend asks.

Maybe if I’d been looking for more than two seconds.

I ignore him and study the dancers, trying to spot that head of stylishly messed-up hair. I’ve studied it so much professionally—and personally, if I’m honest—that it doesn’t take me long to pick him out amongst the dancers. I watch them for a second before Oskar leans in to whisper something, and he and the guy he’s with start to head in the opposite direction to me.

“Found him.” I jump down, thank the guys, and leave before they can send any more questions my way.

The direction Oskar was heading in leads toward the back of the club where the private rooms are, and I trail along behind them, pausing at the top of the hall to watch which room they walk into.

I chuckle as the door clicks closed and pick up my pace because while I want to toy with him and make him think he’s won, I also don’t want to walk into any compromising positions when that’s the thing I’m actively trying to avoid.

When I reach their door, I whip out my credit card, slot it into the safety latch, and turn until I hear the lock disengage. Then, because I like the idea of making an entrance, I kick the door open and stride on in.

“Gentlemen.” I stuff my hands casually in my pockets. “This looks like …”

Well, I was going to say fun, but … I’d been expecting kissing or groping, and apparently, I’d been completely wrong.

Oskar’s sitting on a couch, arm running along the back of it, nursing a scotch. He’s completely composed compared to the guy beside him, who looks like he’s about to piss himself over my entrance. They’re both completely clothed.

I rock back on my heels. “I’m not sure you know how hookups work.”

Oskar tilts his head. “I was playing the odds. I figured there was a chance you’d followed me and a chance you hadn’t. I was waiting to see which it was.”

That clever shit. I should be mad. Or frustrated. Or … well, literally anything other than amused. I’m smiling in spite of myself. “Now you have your answer. If you want to sneak out, you’re going to have to work harder than that.”

“If you think I didn’t close that front door loudly on purpose, you haven’t worked me out at all.”

I eye him, trying to decide if he’s full of it or not. He wanted to hook up tonight, but I also know he wanted to play with me. Which of those urges would have been stronger?

“Ah, hey,” his trick says. “If this is going to turn into some group thing, I’m out. So not my style.”

“You’re out anyway.” I nod toward the door.

He ignores me and turns back to Oskar, who barely spares a glance his way.

Oskar waves a hand. “What he said.”

The guy scowls and leaves.

“Really?” I ask Oskar. “Dragging some poor innocent horny man into this?”

“Technically, it’s your fault he’s leaving disappointed. If you hadn’t walked in, I’d have had him on his knees already.”

And I don’t let my mind go there because the thought of Oskar’s pants open, head thrown back, hand buried in that guy’s hair is a hot one, and I’m determined to hold on to the one scrap of professionalism I have left: not getting hard in front of him.

“This room is oddly private for you,” I say.

He takes a sip of his drink. “Maybe I’ve learned my lesson.”

“No chance.”

“Then maybe I’m just trying to be a good boy for you.”

“If you hadn’t already made it clear how much you love a spanking, I might believe you.”

He chuckles and takes another drink.

I’m trying to stay detached from his shit, but I can’t help asking the question that’s been circulating through my mind for a while now. “Why do you do it?”

“Have sex? Because it feels good.”

“Make yourself a target,” I clarify. “You play dumb and carefree, but you’re not. You have to know that as good of a player as you are that they’ll trade you eventually if this keeps up.”

There’s something in his expression that’s just out of reach. Similar to how he looked when we first got back to the hotel earlier. “They’ll trade me anyway. It’s part of the game. Good, bad, whatever. We’re all at the whims of people who want to make more money.”

That’s the second time in one night that he’s surprised me with his answer. It makes him more … human. I don’t like it. “I’ve decided Boston makes you depressing.”

He stands, closing the distance between us. “And Boston makes you fun.”

“I’m always fun.”

His piercing eyes meet mine. “Not fun enough to get on your knees though, are you?”

“For anyone but you, Mr. Voyjik.”

And hey, if I screw up this entire thing and end up being fired anyway, I can always take him up on his offer then.

Guys like Oskar are a dime a dozen.

And I refuse to risk my job for a quick fuck.

Even if it’s guaranteed to be a really, really good one.