Puck Prince (Houston Scythes Hockey #1)

6. Callie

6

CALLIE

EIGHT WEEKS LATER

“So apparently, Smash is not a normal dating app.” Kennedy heaves an armful of groceries up onto the counter.

“Of course not. It’s called Smash .” I set a bottle of wine and my purse down. Tonight, we are having an actual girls night. No men, no dating apps (once I get her off the subject), no stress.

“It’s a hook-up site! Which, I don’t necessarily hate. Not always. But I like to believe—” She opens one of the bottles of wine. Meanwhile, I unload the ingredients for homemade alfredo. Wouldn’t be a girl’s night without carbs and cheese. “—that someday, I will meet a nice man. A good man. A man who does more on the weekends than watch hockey and won’t be offended if not all my underwear are crotchless.”

“That’s a high bar, Ken.”

She tosses the cork at me in response.

As much as I don’t want to be thinking about men, especially hockey-playing men, I haven’t forgotten about the stranger next door despite my best efforts. It may have been two months ago that I was here in Houston for an interview, but if he remembers the night like I remember it… well, I’d hate to run into him and his wife and child coming back from the farmer’s market, let’s say that.

Now that I’ve got the job as PT for the Houston Scythes, I have no intention of staying with Kennedy longer than I have to. Once I get settled in at work, I’ll find myself a place and won’t have to worry about running into you-know-who next door.

I don’t love that I got the job through my uncle, who just so happens to be the head coach of the Scythes. But I also don’t hate the pay raise. We’ll call it a wash, all-in-all.

Regardless, I’m taking the job and I’m keeping it. Keeping my head down, too, while I’m at it.

I’m going to dodge accusations of nepotism and cheating scandals like the plague.

The last thing I need is to make another mistake that gets people talking.

I’m sick of being the freakshow attraction.

“Alright, well, needless to say, I am done with apps. For real done.” Kennedy hands me a glass of wine. “And you can hold me to that.”

I raise my glass to cheers her. “You sure?”

“Absofuckinglutely.”

“If you say so. To new jobs and no men?”

“New jobs and no men.” She clinks her glass to mine, and we laugh before starting in on dinner.

“So how are things going at the radio station?” I ask as I chew around a bite of alfredo. The sauce is perfect. The Two-Buck Chuck is perfect. Everything is perfect.

“Pretty good. The morning show slot really is the best. The best part is this segment we do called Ghosted where we hunt down people who did a no-call no-show on first or second dates and figure out why. It’s hilarious and awkward and I love it.”

“You know, for being such a love expert, you really have the worst luck in the dating world.”

Kennedy nearly drops her fork as she shoots me a glare. “Bitch.”

I laugh. “I don’t mean it like that. It’s just, there’s irony in it, that’s all.”

“It’s bullshit, that’s what it is. I’m like a professional matchmaker who can’t find her Romeo.”

“Romeo is overrated anyways.” I shrug.

“Right? I’d love a Tybalt.”

I reach for my glass of water. My wine is mostly untouched. “The villain?”

“Fuck yeah! Morally gray and orally great. That’s the mantra. What’s the matter with your wine?”

“Nothing. I just probably shouldn’t be getting shit-faced the night before I start a new job.”

“Suit yourself.” She shrugs.

I sigh. And this right here is why Kennedy is always riding the perpetual wheel of singleness. Not that I can talk. The last man I slept with has a joint banking account and a baby.

But with my new job starting tomorrow, sex is the last thing on my mind. Even mind-blowing, wine-induced, post-balcony rescue sex.

Head down. That’s my mantra. I plan to stick to it.

I press the button for the elevator and take another look in the mirror hanging on the hallway wall outside of Kennedy’s apartment. I went with red lipstick today. I don’t wear it often, but according to TikTok, it makes women look fearless.

I could use that, because right now, I’m a wee bit terrified. Whether or not my uncle is the coach—he is, and I’m sure that fact will come up no less than a dozen times today—I feel like I have something to prove. Women aren’t easily accepted in the world of sports, so I have to be on my game.

I apply a little more and smack my lips together. Fearless. I got this.

Just then, I hear a rustle from one of the doors down the hall.

Owen’s door.

“Fuck,” I whisper, hitting the elevator down button three more times. “Come on, come on, come on.”

I’m not sure it’s him. It could be his wife.

Which would be so much worse.

“Come the fuck on!”

The doors open, and I sprint in—as much as one can sprint in a pencil skirt—then jackhammer the button again until they slide closed. My heart is in my throat, and I don't let out a sigh of relief until I start to descend.

I shake it off. “Alright. Game time. Head down. Fearless.”

The commute from Ken’s apartment to the arena is quick, despite Houston traffic being an eight-lane clusterfuck at all times. I pull my car into the designated spot, checking my hair and lipstick one more time in the visor mirror. “Fearless,” I remind myself.

Then I see the reporter standing outside and my stomach swoops. A flash of anxiety washes over me.

Is he here to talk to me? Did someone slide my name under some back room table somewhere?

I tend to stay off of social media so I don’t fall ass-backwards into the gossip, but even I know pipes are leaking. People are starting to talk about Spencer Santos and the allegations against him. Everyone is trying to put two and two together with, hopefully, no idea that I have the answer key.

“You’re being paranoid,” I tell myself sternly. “You’re not a celebrity. You’re nobody. Why would he be here to talk to you?”

I get out of the car and march fearlessly towards the doors. As I pass the reporter—who is busy fixing his own hair and harassing the cameraman about bad angles—I don’t even look at him. I am almost to the building, almost inside, and I finally let myself start to smile.

Too soon, as it turns out.

“Miss! Excuse me—” The reporter runs another hand through his over-oiled hair before shoving a microphone in my face. “What’s your role with the team, Miss?—”

If he’s waiting for me to offer up my name, he better pull up a chair. He’s gonna live and die in this very spot.

I sidestep him. “Sorry, I’m running late. I have to go.”

“Are you the new physical therapist?” That catches my attention, and the greedy look on the reporter’s face tells me he knows it. “Callie Coleman, I believe?”

Witness protection was the way to go. I should’ve shaved my head and slapped on a fake mustache the second everything with Spencer blew up. Full incognito is the only way to dodge the dicey mistakes of the past.

“Um…” The lights are on, the camera is rolling. The good people of Reddit would have this mystery sussed in three clicks. There’s no point in lying. “Yes.”

“Have you met the team? What was your impression of Owen Sharpe?”

I was too busy packing up my apartment into boxes I fished out of the recycling bin behind Barnes and Noble to meet anyone. I did glance through the injury reports last night before bed, though. Owen Sharpe has ongoing issues with his right knee, but I doubt that’s the kind of intel this guy is after.

I sidestep him again. The doors are so, so close. “Sorry, I really have to?—”

“Come on, you must get up close and personal with the men.” He wags his brows the way every sleazy, chauvinistic asshole does when they find out I, and I quote, “spend my days feeling up men.” If they knew what the locker room smelled like after a game, they wouldn’t find it quite so titillating.

“Part of my job involves discretion.” Something he clearly knows nothing about. “I can’t walk around handing out private medical information.”

Mostly because I don’t have any. I expected to be in the college circuit for a few more years, at least. I barely even know the team lineup, let alone the hot dish this guy wants.

“I’ll keep you anonymous, sweetheart.” He actually winks at me.

I open my mouth to tell him I’ll make that wink permanent and jab his eye out of the socket if he doesn’t step his over-greased hair out of my way, but before I can, I hear a voice from behind me.

“Leave the lady alone.”

A deep voice.

A gravelly, gritty voice that felt like silk whispering those dirty little lies in my ear.

The reporter jolts past me to his real target—to Owen.

And it all starts to click together.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

This is so much worse than a run-in in the elevator.

My one-night stand turned married lifelong regret is not only standing next to me—he’s the star player for the team I now work for. Is it too late for the incognito mustache?

As the tall, broad, lying shape of him comes into view, I glance just to be sure, and yeah, it’s him. Fuck.

“Goddammit, how many times do I have to tell you press boys to lay the fuck off? Stop harassing…” He gestures at me, and then he looks at me. Actually looks at me. The recognition settles in and he says the words I am internally screaming.

“Oh. Shit.”