Puck Prince (Houston Scythes Hockey #1)

8. Callie

8

CALLIE

A woman’s sword is her confidence. My dad told me that once. An ironic little nugget of advice, considering marrying a confident woman is exactly how he ended up alone.

But I am not my mother, and I am going my own way.

Currently, that way is to the nearest toilet.

The second I’m out of the locker room and out of sight of Owen, I sprint for the nearest bathroom. I barely make it to the stall before puking.

Thanks to the current events, from seeing Owen again (at work, because fuck my life ) to my shitty personal and financial circumstances (because again, fuck my life ), I am regurgitating everything—this morning’s decaf vanilla latte, the bagel I could hardly stomach to begin with, my composure, my pride, my regrets, all spewing into the marble bowl for me to stare at.

(Note to self: Everything bagel seasoning is a bitch coming back up. I’m going to be sneezing garlic-flavored poppy seeds for a week.)

I grab a wad of toilet paper and wipe my mouth before taking a deep breath and flushing the metaphorical shitshow away. Then I pull my phone out.

Nothing pairs with an actual purge like an emotional one.

“Shouldn’t you be working?” Kennedy’s voice comes in staggered. I know by her panting and the time of day that she’s atoning for her dietary sins on the treadmill.

“Yeah. I got sidetracked.” Silently, I will my gurgling stomach to chill TF out.

“By what? Sexy hockey players? God, how I envy you. I can’t imagine being surrounded by athletes all day, touching and prodding and bending them at your will and getting paid to do it. Like, fuck me sideways—you struck gold, Cal.”

She’s once again ignoring the sweat and athlete’s foot and ingrown hairs, but I don’t have time to burst this bubble.

“I had to vomit.” My stomach rumbles again. I wonder how far away I am from round two.

“Not my standard reaction to hockey players, but you always were a little odd. What’s going on?”

If questions were loaded, that one has enough gunpowder to rocket me to the moon. What isn’t going on? My stomach tightens in anticipation of another spew, so I get right to the point.

“Did you know you share walls with Owen Sharpe?” I demand weakly.

“Last time I checked, yes.”

“That would have been really nice to know, Ken. I work in the hockey industry.”

“Exactly. I shouldn’t have to tell you where players live. Especially not players who look like that. He’s all over the media, you know. For good—and naughty—reasons.”

“That’s exactly what I mean, Ken! I’m hardly escaping the media myself. The last thing I need is binocular-wielding press goons snooping around because the only thing separating me and Owen is a thin wall.”

A very, very thin wall.

“Why does it matter? What’s your aversion to Owen Sharpe?” She snorts. “I didn’t even know there was such a thing.”

“That’s the problem. I haven’t exactly… averted him.”

I can hear the treadmill slow as Kennedy tries to process the vague bits of information I am offering. I don’t want to say it, but she’s gonna make me. With stakes this high, I can hardly blame her.

“We sort of… ran into each other the last time I was staying at your apartment,” I admit, leaning against the stall. The cold tile feels good on my back.

“And by ‘ran into,’ you mean…?”

“His genitals ran into mine. I slept with him.” I squeeze my eyes shut in shame. But Kennedy shrieks.

“Hell yeah! God, I knew your trusty wand of bliss couldn’t do the job forever. But Owen fucking Sharpe? Damn, girl. You really are a little skanky under all that business attire. Tell me everything!”

“There’s nothing to tell.”

“Oh, come on, don’t be a prude! It’s Owen Sharpe. He rakes his opponents across the ice by day and women across the sheets by night. He must’ve been a good lay.”

“He was fine. Acceptable. It was…” I groan. “Fine, he was incredible.”

I know Kennedy well enough to pull the phone from my ear right before she lets out a shrill squeal. “How did it happen?!”

“Well, you bailed on me for another terrible date, and I was on the couch with Ophelia and Jason Momoa.”

“Sounds about right.”

“I was drowning my sorrows with a little cab sauv.”

“Also tracks.”

“And I hear this banging on the wall. The man is yelling at me for being… too loud .”

Callie giggles devilishly. “Dirty girl. Go on!”

“So I go to close the balcony door, but Delilah is on the balcony. And in the midst of trying to catch her, I may or may not have locked myself out there.”

“I keep a key taped to the top of the tunnel.”

“I know that now!” She just chuckles, and I go on. “Owen comes out. We argue. He’s kind of a dick, you know?”

“Oh, I know!” she laughs. “It’s half the appeal. Bad boys do it for me. And for you, too, apparently.”

I ignore that. “So, there we are, fighting about him being cocky and me being half-naked…”

“You were half naked?” she interrupts. “I mean, I guess you would be if you were last seen on your Game of Thrones Pinterest board. But also, Owen knows about the spare key, as well. He saw me use it once when I came home sloshed after a bad date.”

“Something I also learned way too far after the fact to be helpful.” She can’t see it, but I am glaring into the phone. “I hunkered down, not wanting to admit I needed help,”

“A very Callie thing to do,” she sighs.

“And he comes back out and offers to help me onto his balcony so I can get back inside.”

“A very Owen thing to do.” She is enjoying this way too much.

“And then it starts to rain.”

“God, what must it be like to have the universe on your side like that? This was fate.”

“Eventually, I give in. He Thors me onto his balcony, and, well…” I trail off at the memory, but Kennedy picks up where I left off.

“You, Callie Coleman, had to face the harsh realization that Owen Sharpe is a damn snack, and you couldn’t resist taking a bite or two.” She giggles again.

“It wasn’t like that. None of this is like that, Ken.” Although, thinking back, it kind of was like that. “I was supposed to have a girls’ night with you, but instead, I ended up trapped on your balcony with your demon cat and no pants, at the mercy of the biggest dickhead in all of Hockeydom?—”

“Listen, boo, no one is judging you. If men are cookies, Owen is like the Milanos. Double chocolate and buttery goodness. I say, ‘Good for you.’”

“No. Not good for me. Kennedy, I don’t need any more bad press. Not after what happened last season with—” I decide against saying his name. I haven’t said it out loud since the incident, just to be careful. Just to avoid summoning him like the devil spawn he is. “Things are finally starting to quiet down. I actually landed a job. If word gets out that I was involved with another hockey player, HR would need to come up with a whole new manual to write up all the ways I’ve fucked this up.”

My chest tightens at the very thought of the repercussions. The media would explode. And that’s not including what my uncle would do. I’d forfeit my job and be ostracized from the only family I’ve ever had, all because of one heated, rom-com-gone-wild night.

Nope, nope, nope.

Fuck. My. Life.

“Callie, listen.” Kennedy switches to a more serious tone. “It’ll blow over. Much like you blew Owe?—”

“Don’t say it. And for your information, I didn’t blow him.”

Kennedy laughs. “Bad joke. But for real. There’s always a shaken-up wasp nest around hockey players. Hell, watch a game sometime. They do it to themselves! My dad is used to it, Owen is used to it, the press thrives on it. They snag every story they can, pump it through the media, and then wait all of five seconds for the next airheaded player to do something stupid. Then, BAM. Today’s big story is yesterday's news.”

I think about that. Hockey is riddled with drama. From who beat up who on the ice to who slept with who in the afterhours. It’s like the Desperate Housewives of the sports world.

That’s why I stay on the professional side of all of this. The medical side. The health and wellness side where I keep athletes limber and strong and supple… and warm, and muscular, and…

“Repeat after me, Callie: Owen Sharpe is a manwhore.”

“Owen Sharpe is a— Wait! What does that make me?”

“The luckiest goddamn woman I know.” She laughs again. “Sorry, Cal. But for real. It happened. It’s in the past. You can move on with your life. Go to work. Focus on PT, and… try not to fuck anyone you’re massaging.”

“Bye, Kennedy.” I drop the call and let out a persecuted sigh. She’s right about one thing: I have to go to work.

I smooth down my skirt and blouse before heading out of the stall to the sink. I look flushed, but at least my makeup has stayed in place. Thank God for waterproof mascara.

After washing my hands and reapplying more fearless-colored lipstick—I can still fool everyone else even if I’m nothing but a walking, talking fear factory—I make my way out of the bathroom and back to the elevator.

Thankfully, Owen is nowhere in sight, and no one seems to be watching me. That’s the way I need to keep it. I need to remain on the DL.

Clock in, do my job. Clock out, go home.

I mentally add “find my own home far from anyone I work with” to the top of that list. If I’m going to properly avoid Owen, I’m going to need my own apartment. Preferably on the other side of the city, as far away from Hockey Boy as possible. I can’t afford any more run-ins, and I’ll never sleep knowing he is next door.

Just one thin wall away.

I put my hand over my stomach, willing the wave of nausea to go away.

I also will away the urge to look him up. I never follow the drama stitched to my clients. I don’t care about their personal lives or even their stats, not unless it pertains directly to their injury history.

But I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t itching to know Owen’s backstory. Is he married? Or is he in fact just a manwhore like Kennedy said, entertaining single mothers moments after rescuing half-nude women from balconies?

I punch in the button for the top floor, where my uncle’s office is situated. As the doors close and the elevator lifts higher and higher from the ground, I mentally leave everything on the bottom floor. My worries, my mistakes, my past.

And of course, Owen.

That’s where he needs to stay.