Puck Prince (Houston Scythes Hockey #1)

7. Owen

7

OWEN

“Well, ladies and gentlemen—if it isn’t Owen Sharpe, star center for the Houston Scythes!” The dumbass reporter with his over-whitened teeth and shitty toupee is grinning like the cat that caught the damn canary. But my words have trailed into a dribble as I realize who it is he was harassing.

“Wh…what are you doing here?” she asks.

I stare at her.

She stares at me.

I stare at her some more.

She stares at me some more.

Then my brain catches up, and I upscale that internal oh, shit to an oh, fuck.

Before I can express that eloquent sentiment out loud, Weatherman Fuckface inserts himself back into the dynamic by thrusting his mic in my piehole. “Owen, the question on every fan’s mind is whether or not you’ll be able to play with that gruesome back injury of yours. I take it that’s where Ms. Callie Coleman here comes in? A little ‘hands-on’ treatment? What can we expect this season?”

“What you can expect is a fist to your meant-for-radio face if you don’t back up and get that microphone away from me,” I growl.

The team’s PR team is gonna get their panties in one hell of a twist whenever this airs, but I don’t give a shit if the camera is rolling or if millions are watching. This toolbag needs to get one thing straight: I don’t like the media up in my face, and I especially don’t like when they use women against me.

Especially this woman. Fuck only knows the kind of headlines she could generate for the press that won’t stop hounding me.

But right before my verbal assault gets a little more “hands-on,” to steal a phrase, something he said snags my attention.

“Callie… Coleman?” My gaze darts to the girl, who looks utterly terrified, rooted to the spot and quivering.

Walter Cronkite here couldn’t be more pleased that I’m just now making the connection. “That’s right!” he crows. “Niece of Coach Coleman and new P.T. for the Houston Scythes!”

Bastard is so pumped up, he’d start flying around the room making fart noises if I stuck a pin in his head.

But truth be told, I’ve already forgotten about him.

I’m slightly preoccupied with the petite problem in a pencil skirt in front of me.

“Why didn’t you tell?—”

“Why didn’t you tell me ?” she interrupts.

“Is that a serious question? Is it not obvious?” Wincing, I lower my voice. The last thing I need is more eyeballs. Not right now. Not with the way people are always talking. Coach will have my ass.

Make that, her uncle will have my ass.

I fucked my coach’s niece.

Jesus fucking Christ.

I’m gonna be skating suicides until it is no longer a euphemism.

“God,” Callie spits, “I knew a lot of hockey players were arrogant sons of bitches—but you, Owen Sharpe, take the cake.”

I give the camera a boyish grin, the fakest I’ve ever done. “Season’s gonna be great. Appreciate all you fans at home. You’re what makes this team special.” With that, I turn to her, dropping the grin and replacing it with a scowl, and snare her by the upper arm. “And you are what’s making this day a fucking nightmare. Let’s go.”

“Get lost, Hockey Boy,” she hisses under her breath as I drag her stubborn ass toward the stadium, leaving Lester Dolt back there to eat my dust.

“Not a chance, Callie .” I emphasize her name. A name that, if I had known it, I would have never gotten tangled up with her. Or tangled around her. Or inside of her. I would have slammed my balcony door shut, turned the TV volume up, and hibernated ‘til the season started.

Coach’s niece AND the new PT? Who the fuck does she think she is? Better question?—

“Who in the hell hired you?”

We enter the building, heading down one of the private halls. She makes her way to the elevator, punching the button. Then she turns to me, raising two sharp eyebrows, a smug, defiant smirk on her pink lips.

I’ve been thinking about those lips in an O shape, gasping for air as she pulls my hair and I eat the ever-loving shit out of her pussy.

I shake the thought from my head. The last thing I need right now is a boner. Athletic pants are thin, breathable, and keep no secrets. There are always eyes watching.

“My uncle hired me.” She jabs the elevator button again.

“That won’t make it come any faster.”

“And you’re the expert on that?”

I snort. “On making things come fast? I’ve got some experience here and there.”

She rolls her eyes, but her cheeks are bright scarlet. The doors open and she leaps gratefully inside.

Starts to, at least. But she’s not getting away from me that easily. Before she can duck inside, I grab her arm, smiling at the group of people already inside, waiting to descend to the parking lot below the arena.

“We’ll catch the next one.” I give them a trademark Owen Sharpe wink. An older woman I vaguely recognize as a secretary in the front office shrugs as the doors close.

Once the elevator is gone, though, the charm disappears, and I go right back to being pissed.

It’s still nothing on Callie. She is flat-out fucking furious.

“You are going to make me late for my first day of work. I don’t appreciate?—”

“And you’ve managed to destroy my reputation before you’ve even clocked in. Ask me how much I appreciate that. ”

A laugh bubbles out from her throat. “You don’t need me to run your reputation into the ground. You’ve done a fine job all on your own.”

It’s not often I’m caught speechless. But this defiant little girl marching onto my turf, ruining my life, is doing the trick. “I— You’re— You cannot be fucking serious.”

“I’m deadly serious. I think we’re done here.” She punches the button again.

But I am not done. I am far from done. I grab her by the arm once more and yank her down the hall.

“Excuse you!” she cries out. “What do you think you are doing?”

I don’t answer. I simply march to the entrance of the locker room, punch in the code, and pull her inside. The floors are checkered in the team colors—burnt orange and black. Around the perimeter are separate, private rooms—one for each player.

“Wow, names in lights above the doors and everything.” Callie isn’t impressed like most of the girls who’ve had the privilege of being snuck in here. Her words are drenched in sarcasm. “So what? When you get tired of stroking your own ego, you just come in here and let the other boys do it for you?”

“I swear to fucking God, woman—” I am about to explode when I hear someone punching in the code to the door.

“Uh oh,” Callie mumbles. “After that hissy fit you just threw on national TV, getting caught in the locker room with a girl is gonna look real bad.”

“Shut up.” I tug her into my private room and close the door. We stand in darkness as Lachlan and Kason shuffle around, talking about last night.

I don’t want them—or anyone—to know I’m in here.

It isn’t until they leave that I remember to breathe. Or that I realize I have my hand over Callie’s mouth.

Her full lips are pressed against my palm. The room is dark, but I can make out the shape of her—her shadow blending with mine, her body brushing against my thigh. The strawberry scent of her hair fills the room, and I feel almost drunk.

It’s that scent that takes me back. One hit and I can feel her smooth skin under my hands. I remember the way she tasted, the way she cried out and tightened around me before we both collapsed on the damp sheets.

Snap out of it, O! I’m still wearing the wrong pants for those memories. Focus!

I flip on the lights—a frame of bright, round bulbs around the mirror—and both of us take a step back from one another. Callie’s eyes scan the closet-sized room—the marble sink, the leather chair, my jersey framed on the wall.

I waste no time in resuming the inquisition. “You tricked me.”

“Tricked you?” she echoes. “ You tricked me !”

“You knew who I was, and you wanted to fuck with me. You wanted to smear my name even further across all the sports pages. As if the shit I’ve got going on isn’t enough.”

“What are you even talking about?” She looks at me like I’m crazy, but I see through her wide-eyed trickery now. She won’t fool me again.

“Let me guess. Coach hired you, didn't he?”

“Uh, yeah, totally.” She slows her words down to make me feel stupid. “My uncle hired me to hang out on my cousin’s balcony without pants until I got one of his players to fuck me and lend me his shorts. Gee, nothing gets past you, Einstein.”

I get right in her face, close enough that I know she can taste my words on her lips. “Cut the bullshit, Callie. Admit it. Admit he hired you to fuck with me so that the press would get a hold of it and blow it out of proportion.”

“Why in the name of all that is good and holy in this world would he do that?” she snaps back. “He’s annoyed with you enough as it is. Whatever you did, it’s all he bitches about. Why would he hire me to make it worse? What would that even accomplish?”

I hate to admit it, but it tracks. Naming me the starting center for the Scythes is the best damn choice Coach Coleman has made in years. Muddying my reputation would do nothing but royally fuck him in the ass. My guess is that someone else, someone with a real motive, set this up.

“Whatever your little scheme is, just know it’s not going to work.”

“You’re insane.” Her face is flushed. She looks like she’s going to be sick. As she takes a seat in the chair, I’m almost worried about her. Then I think about how hard I fought for this career, and my worry shifts back where it belongs: myself. “You interrupted me that night, remember? Or did you huff enough of your own jockstrap to wipe your memory of what really happened? You pounded on my wall. You coaxed me onto your balcony.”

“Because you locked yourself out!” I nearly shout. “What was I supposed to do, let you freeze to death in your g-string? I might be a dick, but I’m not a complete asshole.”

“You could have told me there was a key!”

“Maybe I would have, if you hadn’t wrapped your legs around me as soon as I rescued you.”

“You kissed me!” She jabs an accusatory finger in my chest.

“Legs. Wrapped. Around. Me,” I remind her, punctuating each word with a jab to her shoulder.

“I was trying not to fall to my death.”

“A death only possible because you closed the door with your bare ass after dirty talking through the walls.” I could play this blame game all day long. This was not my fault.

“You could have told me who you were.” Her voice is lower now.

“So you could leave and tell everyone what we did? Sorry, guess I should’ve autographed your tit and taken a picture with you as proof.”

“You should’ve told me so I would’ve known to never, ever fuck you.”

That one stings. I don’t know why. “Well, if I’d known who you were, I wouldn’t have fucked you, either.”

From the way she blinks, I can tell my words sting, too.

She’s quiet for a moment. The air is still sizzling, echoing with the things we’ve shouted at each other. But the more they fade, the more I deflate.

After a beat, she asks, “Now what?”

I chew on the answer for a second. “We make a pact. Whatever happened that night—whoever’s fault it is?—”

“Yours.”

I narrow my eyes. “We forget it happened. We never speak of it again.”

“Perfect.”

“I don’t want to— I can’t afford to fuck up my reputation. This season is crucial for my career.” I can’t tell her why. It also doesn’t matter. “And I doubt you want to ruin your career, either.”

“You’re not wrong.”

“So, that’s that. I’ll never mention that I’ve met you before.”

“And I won’t mention that you live next to my cousin.”

She looks like she’s ready to leave, and I should let her, but I open my mouth again.

“And I’ll never mention that you spend lonely Friday nights with your vibrator.”

Her jaw clenches. “Just like I’ll keep to myself that a woman has to be locked out of her house and close to death before she’ll sleep with you.”

I step closer. “No one will ever know that you kiss with your eyes open.”

“Or that you bite your lip when you’re close to getting off.” Her voice is softer now. Sultry, almost.

“It’ll be our little secret that, when you come, you gush like Niagara Falls.”

“I’ll take it to my grave that you’re actually kind of sweet when you’re at a girl’s mercy.” She angles her head up to mine, lips slightly parted.

“My lips are sealed that I make mistakes when I’m being seduced.” My voice is a heated rasp as I look down at her.

How many mistakes can I make before getting caught?

Then her phone buzzes.

I jump back.

“I should go,” she says at the same time as I say, “You should go.”

We hold eye contact for one more long, agonizing second. Then she opens the door to the empty locker room and walks out.

Once she’s gone, and I feel like I can breathe again, I sigh.

“It never happened,” I say to myself and the vacant room.

But the hard-on in my pants says differently.