Possessive Puckboy (Puckboys, #8)

by Eden Finley

Dad would have loved for me to follow in his footsteps, but no matter how much I tried, staying upright while skating isn’t something I managed to master, and it’s sort of a basic requirement for making it to the NHL. Or even a high school team.

Ah, the trauma that was my adolescence.

Unluckily for anyone else, I’ll bankrupt myself to buy this team if I have to.

The man I might have had the most stupid high school crush on that maybe hasn’t completely stayed in high school. Connor Kikishkin.

So while I’m buying this team first and foremost for Dad, to honor his memory and try to keep some kind of connection to him, I can’t deny that having Connor Kikishkin’s career in my hands holds a certain appeal.

So if I can have one thing in this life that makes me happy, I’m going to give it to myself. I’m going to own Connor Kikishkin.

Hey, if we win the Stanley Cup this year, maybe he’ll give me a pass for my past actions. One could hope.

Stay away from Parker, I said. It will be easy, I said. Then why in the fuck is he here every fucking day? Taunting me. Making me think he has it out for me when he’s still pretending he doesn’t even remember me.

I’m realizing I don’t know who I am when fifty percent of my identity has been stripped away.

What’s he going to do? Give me no ice time? Force Coach Macklin to make me a healthy scratch all season? Run me over with the Zamboni and call it an accident? Anything is possible.

“I’ll see you tonight. Hopefully. If not from the ice, then I’ll be in the stands.” If I’m not squashed by that Zamboni.

It pisses me off that I don’t know if I want to fuck Connor or be Connor. I don’t want to want either of those options.

“So do it.” Connor stares at me. “Do what?” “Apologize.” “I just did.” “No, you said you want to.” My smile gets wider at his obvious discomfort. “I’m waiting.”

I’m an overbearing, overprotective asshole, and it’s no wonder more people don’t resent me. Or maybe they do and I’m blissfully unaware of it. I was when Easton felt that way.

On the ice, I’m still a god. Off it? I’m realizing how messy I can be.

Every time a new piece of furniture is delivered, I can’t help thinking, “I bet Parker would love to watch that get repossessed after he fires me.” Or “I wonder if Parker is waiting for me to be happy again before he makes his next move.”

I don’t understand why he’s here, why he bought the team, or why I let him get under my skin the way he does.

Have I been raised with the notion that Easton is mine to give away, like a father figure offering their daughter to be married off in exchange for a dowry? Am I that possessive over my own brother? I wouldn’t have said so, but the way Easton makes me feel when he says shit like I’m too “overbearing” makes me think I am. Breaking that habit is harder than I thought it would be, but I’ve been trying.

“What’s the charity for? You never said.” Parker sends that evil smirk my way once again. “The Bully Initiative. It’s a fundraiser to raise awareness about school bullying and set up helplines and school programs to teach people how to handle that kind of situation.”

And if I can squeeze a few thousand out of Connor Kikishkin toward a charity that exists because of people like him, then I will.

Let them think I’m fashionably late. That’s a thing important people do, right?

Jesus, maybe my billions should be going toward a goddamn shrink.

“When are you going to let this go?” I smooth out where his hold has creased the material on my sleeve. “That’s up to you. I know you’re not capable of an apology I’ll accept, but I’ll take cutting you off from everyone and everything you love as a consolation prize.” “You are so fucked-up.” “Yeah. And you made me this way.”

I have nothing, and I have no idea what happiness looks like for me.

S a m e

Turns out I resent Connor for more than just high school. I resent the rift he caused between my dad and me, and now, I’ll never get those years back. A tiny voice in my head tries to remind me that those choices were my fault, but I’m feeding my anger, and it’s working.

“Exactly what was your apology?” Knox asks, sounding amused. “Don’t remember. But compy-compa-computers were his best friend because of me! He said that. Now, he’s a billionaire.” Easton gasps. “Please tell me you didn’t tell Parker Duchene that he’s successful because of you? And somehow imply he should be grateful he was bullied?” “Ah …” Knox muffles a laugh. “Not …” Connor tries again. “Not in those words.” “For fuck’s sake.” East

It would be so easy to kick him while he’s down. Literally. Right in the thigh.

“Don’t listen to him. He … ate something funny.” “Was it whiskey?” “No … it was, uh⁠—”

“Connor Kikishkin is having a massive existential crisis because his brother told him to stop meddling and someone from high school called him a bully?”

“Repeatedly being called a terrible person means I have to believe it at some point.”

I used to think it was on the ice—no, I was certain of it—but now, I can’t help thinking my place is in the woods, away from everyone I’ve ever unknowingly hurt. I could become a hermit and have rocks for friends.

Though Miles Olsen says his pet rocks hate me too. Mainly when me or Easton score on him, but still. Even the rocks hate me.

“When you say take care of, you’re not meaning in a take him out back and shoot him kind of way, right?” “I feel like that would be giving you mercy, and I’m taking enjoyment from seeing you so miserable.” For whatever reason, that makes me laugh.

“I have one question.” “What’s that?” “Why?” “Why, what?” He’s losing patience with me. “Why is the sky blue? Why is hockey? Why is life? How philosophical do you want me to go here?” “Why are you being nice to me when last night you looked like you were willing to murder me and pay off every single person at the benefit to help bury my body?”

I’m doing the very bare minimum here, and he’s acting like I’ve had a lobotomy.

I’m tired of being alone and trying to fight for myself in a world that doesn’t give a shit.

“Is it possible to have a midlife crisis in your twenties?” “My entire life has been one big crisis, so what would I know?”

“And if it turns out I’m every bit the possessive guy who acts first and thinks later?” The image of us in the locker room flips so that I’m in East’s position and Connor is pulling someone off me in a possessive, jealous rage. It’s a struggle to keep my voice even when I say, “Then you have to find someone who’ll appreciate being possessed. And some people really, really like it.”

“I bought the team because my dad loved hockey. He loved this team. It was the one he played for during his brief career with the NHL.” Oh. Ohhh. Yup. Looking back on our last conversation, where I accused him of buying the team for some silly vendetta, it’s looking a whole lot petty from my side of things.

Yet where she’s running away from those memories, I’m clinging to them. Craving that closeness to him again.

Dogs are equally dirty, with too much energy, and while they might be willing to curl up in my lap, how do I sit there petting it, knowing it’s full well probably trampled through its own shit at some point? The thought of a dog in here makes my skin crawl. Snakes are clean but terrifying. Rabbits are adorable, but are they affectionate? Ferrets are devil creatures. And once again, I’ve successfully talked myself out of a pet.

Being invisible is my thing, and it wouldn’t surprise me that while I’ve been obsessing over our conversation for days now, it hasn’t crossed his mind once. It’d be typical of me to put more emphasis on a conversation than it deserved.

Jesus, if I wore socks with slides, I’d wind up looking like some dad from the nineties.

So why don’t you calm it on all those assumptions and … let it happen?” Let it happen? Me? A chronic overthinker?

“I think the reason I hated you the most in high school is because other than that one time where you threw me against the wall and called me Douche, all I ever wanted back then was your attention, and you never gave it to me after that day.”

“What the fuck is wrong with me?” I slump down on the couch cushions. “Only you can answer that question. Or a shrink.” I smile. “Thanks for the support.”

“Connor … I am very gay and very attracted to you and very, very into the way you’re taking control. Please let go of my neck.”

“You sound like a bit of a neat freak.” “No. My head gets messy enough that I don’t need everything around me messy as well.” “You? Messy?”

“I miss having someone.” I don’t want to say the next part out loud. “I love sex, but sometimes it doesn’t hit that … that other side of me.” “You’re not making any sense.” “I like intimacy, but that doesn’t have to mean sex.”

Connor Kikishkin. Is in my bed. He flicks the covers back. “Come on, then. Don’t make this weird.” “Everything about this is weird.” But I climb in beside him anyway because it’s either that or stand there and let my knees give out.