Shameless Puckboy (Puckboys Book 3)

FOR THE REST of our time away, I’ve been subdued. Given Oskar a little more leash. Maybe I shouldn’t have. Maybe the whole conversation in our hotel room was fabricated, his way of manipulating me, and given how many times I’ve been manipulated in the past, you’d think I’d be able to pick it by now. But true or not, something has shifted.

I want to believe him, and doesn’t that make me the dumbest person alive?

But do you know how long it’s taken for someone to ask who I truly am?

I steeple my fingers and stare unseeing at the screen in front of me. If I thought I’d get more work done in the office while Oskar is safely at training, I was wrong. I’m as restless and distracted here as I was while we were traveling. Oskar was never supposed to be a person to me, just a job. A problem to fix. And now, unbeknown to him, he’s gone and poked at my soft spot by showing vulnerability, and my whole being is screaming at me to fix it.

Fix it. A problem that likely doesn’t exist.

Oskar plays people. It’s what he does. And even though it’s happened to me with men in the past, somehow, I’ve reached thirty-nine and still can’t see what’s right in front of my face.

I like to think I have my shit together, but if the familiar empathy swimming in my gut is any indication, I’m every bit as pathetic and easy to read as I’ve always been.

On the surface, his problems are ridiculous. Oh no, I’m too pretty. But somewhere along the way, he decided the person he is inside isn’t good enough and created this whole other persona. Someone loud and attention-seeking. Someone untouchable. Someone who doesn’t need people or to be taken seriously.

And maybe I’d call bullshit on all that, but … well, I’m uncomfortably aware that I haven’t exactly taken him seriously, myself.

I push away from my desk and approach the floor-to-ceiling window that overlooks the park across the street. The entire time I’ve been shadowing Oskar, I’ve either treated him like a child or swung in the complete opposite direction and took every chance I had to objectify him. Sure, he encouraged the behavior, but maybe that’s because he’s never learned to deal with it any other way.

I have a flash of Oskar ten years ago, building up unhealthy coping mechanisms to get attention from his peers. Jesus … with a laugh, I rub my rough jaw and acknowledge the fact I’m losing here. Oskar’s getting the better of me.

When Oskar was nothing more than a shameless playboy, I had no qualms treating him that way, but this shift, this acknowledgment that he’s human and hurting, has made my job so much harder. Either my hunch that he’s incredibly smart and playing me is correct, or I’m the first person Oskar has ever shown that side to, and I’m not sure what to think of that.

There’s a light knock on the door.

“Hey,” Keerson says. “I saw you were in today and thought I’d take you out for a charitable lunch.”

“Charitable?”

His voice is laced with amusement. “For your Voyjik sacrifice.”

This is the point where I’m supposed to point out that one lunch doesn’t start to cover it, but the words won’t come. “I have a question for you.”

Keerson looks surprised by the abrupt change of subject, but he walks in and leans against my desk anyway. “Shoot.”

“How were you with Oskar? With your interactions.”

“Ah …” He folds his arms. “Professional, I’d say. Why? Did he mention something?”

“No, nothing like that. Did you ever—I don’t know—ask how his day was?”

“I tried to talk to him as little as possible. The less I talked, the less he talked, and a quiet Oskar is the only kind I want to deal with.”

I completely understand where he’s coming from and feel like shit because of it.

“Why?” he asks.

“I get the feeling he’s lonely.”

Keerson lets out a skeptical choking sound. “Lonely? That guy? I’d ask if you’ve seen all the same footage I have, but you’re the one who showed it to me. He’s rich, reasonably famous, and gets as much dick as he likes. Where’s this coming from?”

“Maybe lonely isn’t the right word. Isolated? He doesn’t have a safe space to be himself? Just a feeling I get.” And if he’s playing a part every day, I can only imagine how exhausting that must get.

“Nah, no way. He’s manipulating you. It’s what he does. Everything you see is all that man is.” He lowers his voice to a mock whisper. “Don’t let him sense weakness. He’ll devour you.”

My immediate thought is how much I’d like to devour him, but I push it away. It’s not helpful, and I’m trying not to think of Oskar that way.

I thank Keerson for his help but decline lunch. “I need to be done here by the time they finish practice to pick Oskar up.”

“You his chauffeur now too?”

“Every good babysitter knows you don’t allow children to drive themselves.”

“Fair point. Okay, well, will you be around tomorrow? I’ll pick something up, and we can eat here.”

“I’ll text you.”

Keerson nods, then taps the doorframe on the way out.

I turn back to my computer and the emails I’m quickly falling behind on. Who would have thought that trailing around a hockey star you want to sleep with would be detrimental to productivity?

My lips twitch as I remember Oskar’s ridiculous bathroom show. After buying the headphones, he did away with the theatrics pretty fast, and the sounds he makes when he’s not focused on performing are criminal. I only made the mistake of shifting my headphones to listen in once before I worked out very quickly what a terrible idea it was.

And if I want to switch to full-on professional mode, I need to do better than that.

As I’m skimming the subject lines to check for anything urgent, an email arrives from the team owner himself. With the subject Oskar Voyjik.

I know I’m not going to like whatever it says before I even open it, and when I see the words “progress report,” my suspicions are confirmed.

I take my now lukewarm coffee with me and head for his office.

Technically, I’m doing my job. Oskar hasn’t been in a single scandal since I took over, but assigning him a babysitter isn’t a sustainable option when I have a whole team of players I need to keep my eye on. No. For this to work, Oskar has to actually want to change, and even after getting a peek at that softer side of him, I’m not convinced it’s something that will ever happen.

Mick Alcott, child star turned business mogul turned hockey team owner, is perched in his office on the top floor. San Jose has a huge redevelopment plan in the works for a new arena and management offices that should be coming in the next year or two. I can only hope I’ll be around to see it built.

“Mick,” I say, forcing a relaxed tone. “Got a minute?”

He gestures to the chair across from him, so I enter and close the door behind me. “I assume you’re here about Voyjik?”

“Who else?” We share a short laugh, and while that twinge of guilt tugs at me for joking at Oskar’s expense, the last thing I want is Mick thinking I’m getting close to him. “I thought it would be easier to go over it in person than in an email.”

“I can’t believe you stepped in yourself.”

“I know.” I drop down into the offered chair. “But he’s a handful, and my guys couldn’t stay on top of him.” It’s almost painful to get that much innuendo out with a straight face.

Mick makes a thinking noise, clearly hesitating over something.

“Everything okay?”

“Yes, yes … Well, it’s unorthodox for you to be living with him, isn’t it?”

“Highly. Believe me, it wasn’t my first choice.” We share another of those short laughs. “Unfortunately, Voyjik being left unsupervised is like a red flag to a bull. I’ve already caught him sneaking out and had to literally drag him back home again.”

Mick runs a hand through his thinning hair. “What do we do here? He’s our best player, and between us, we can’t afford to get rid of him. With where we’re sitting on the table, we have a good chance at playoffs, but without Voyjik, we can kiss that goodbye.”

I’m hesitant to bring this up, but it needs to be said. “Would that be so bad? It’ll be short-term pain with him gone, but then next year, you might make it to the playoffs with a team that isn’t dragging San Jose’s name into the tabloids. His behavior reflects as badly on team management as it does on his image.”

“Trust me, the GM and I have discussed it. The problem is, Voyjik’s contract lasts for another two years, and I can’t even convince Coach Bowman to consider a trade. If it came down to us telling him to, he might, but our only option is letting him go, and then we’d have to pay out the contract, which means less money to offer another player. Which puts us back at square one of not making playoffs.”

“Morality clause.” Every player has one. “It’s an easy out for you, and if anyone’s in breach of that, it’d be him.”

“Yes, but letting a player go in bad faith draws headlines. That’s the kind of thing that sticks around—”

“And threesomes in seedy alleyways don’t?”

Mick takes a long breath, and when he talks again, the conversational tone has been replaced with something harder. “I understand what you’re saying, but we have a delicate balance we need to maintain. With the new arena coming, we need to be profitable in order to fulfill contracts and keep our players happy. To do that, we need playoffs and solid ticket sales. And to do that, we need Oskar Voyjik. I’m only going to say this once because I don’t like saying it at all: keep him under control. If that means living with him, fine, because one more—just one more—indiscretion and I may need to use that morality clause after all. Your only job is to turn Voyjik into a star player off the ice. If you can’t do that and I’m forced to let go of our only hope at that Cup, there will be a domino effect. A PR department who can’t do their jobs is worthless to me.”

With every word, my gut sinks. When Mick’s business side comes out, he’s ruthless, and people become collateral damage.

Anything for the team.

I lie through my goddamn teeth. “I have everything under control.”