Puck Prince (Houston Scythes Hockey #1)

9. Callie

9

CALLIE

“There she is!” Uncle Randy booms with a wide grin as soon as I walk through his office door.

I smile back—a real smile, my first in a few days—and make my way over to him. He rounds the desk, enveloping me in one of his signature bear hugs.

I pull away, my cheeks a little warm. “Sorry, I’m not sure if hugging is job-appropriate now that I officially work here.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Alley Cat. Professionalism can suck a big one if it means hugging my second daughter.”

I smile at that and hug him again. My uncle has always treated me as though I am his own. After my parents’ nasty divorce, he basically raised me. If anyone has rights to my childhood, it would be him.

He goes back around to his side of the massive, mahogany desk and gestures to the chair next to me. “Sit, please. Mi casa es tu casa. ”

I take a seat across from him. “Sorry I’m late. I had to take care of some… business downstairs.”

“I heard.”

Whatever good mood I mustered on the elevator drops off my face. Surely, he doesn’t mean?—

“Sounds like that Vince Fontaine wannabe tried to interrogate you at the gates.” He nods grimly, taking a sip of black coffee from a stainless steel thermos with the Scythes logo engraved on the side.

I swallow back a nervous laugh. “Right. Reporters can be real jerks sometimes.”

“Bane of my existence. You won’t have to worry about that one again, though. I told security to eighty-six his ass.”

“Oh?” I reach for a bottle of water from the mini-fridge.

“You want something stronger?” he asks. “I can have cocktails in here at the snap of my fingers. A little first day celebration, if you’d like.”

I shake my head. “I’m good.”

“You sure? I have Angel’s Envy.”

He knows I am a sucker for good whiskey. “Uncle Randy, it’s not even lunch time.”

“Mimosas, then?”

“I’m fine with water.” I cheers his coffee thermos and take a sip, only now realizing how parched I am. Crossing metaphorical horns with Owen— not a sex reference, just to be clear—is super draining. (Also not a sex reference.)

“Like I was saying, that jokester won’t be bothering you or any of my boys again. Those cameras were live, and the way he was talking to you? He’s lucky I didn’t escort him off the property myself. I would have done it with my foot up his ass.”

“It was already on the news?” I feel sick.

“Meh, yeah. But that’s the nature of the beast that is pro hockey, Alley Cat. I am just glad Sharpe shuffled you out of there. He’s a loaded gun, that’s for sure. But all that huff and puff has its uses. One, he got you away from the hungry cameras. Two, he’s a viper on the ice.”

I can hear the little Kennedy on my shoulder cackling at that one. That’s not the only place he’s a viper.

“That said,” Uncle Randy continues, “I wouldn’t get too close to any of these guys.”

My eyes snap up to meet his as my thoughts bounce around my skull like an overturned bucket of ping pong balls.

“Hockey players are charming, Cal. But the problem is that they know it.”

He’s being protective, which is nothing new. In high school, he scared away my prom date by asking him if he knew that the blade on a pair of hockey skates is strong enough to crack a human skull. The poor guy ducked out before even opening the corsage box.

“I am painfully aware of just how charming pro athletes think they are, Uncle Randy. I’ve worked with them for years. You don’t have to worry about me. I’m no rookie.”

He rests his chin on his fist and gives me that paternal look he does so well. “I know you’re not, sweetheart. I also know you’re great at what you do. A real go-getter. You always have been. You know, you got that from your?—”

He stops, but he doesn’t need to keep going for me to get the point. We both know where I got it: my mom.

“Yeah. I think we both know where I got my work ethic.” I smile at him to pull us both back to the present. “And my stubbornness. And my temper.”

“And your mouth.”

“What the fuck’s wrong with my fucking mouth?” I joke.

He lets out that booming laugh, slapping his desk for good measure. “You really are the niece of a hockey coach, that’s for sure.”

“Are you disappointed?”

“Fuck no!”

We both laugh for a while, and it feels good, easy, normal. All of that thorny Owen Sharpe business fades into a distant memory.

After we catch our breath, Uncle Randy’s grin cools to a warm and knowing smile. An obvious change of gears is imminent. “Just be careful here, Callie. Be professional. People are always watching, always listening, and always looking for a story to tell.”

I nod. “Got it.”

We both stand, heading for the door. “It’s a fresh start. And if I had to guess, it’s going to be a great season.”

We smile and hug again, but as he squeezes me, my smile dims a little. Somehow, I have a feeling this start isn’t that fresh. I can’t shake the feeling that my past is going to follow me everywhere I go.

I can’t shake the feeling that, even here…

The walls are very, very thin.

Uncle Randy and Miriam, the head athletic trainer, lead me around the rest of the arena, pointing out rooms and faces, awards and jerseys. We gaze down at the ice from the VIP section, and he offers me a drink for the second time. I decline again.

“Professionalism. I love it.” He grins proudly. We then make our way downstairs and round the corner. “And this, as you may have guessed, is the locker room.”

Yeah. I’m aware.

My stomach somersaults at the déjà vu.

He shoves the door open and bellows out, “You ladies decent?” He looks back at me with a wink, but I’m having a hard time smiling. I was very, very much hoping not to see you-know-who again.

“Hold up, Coach!” one of the guys calls out. “Thatcher’s gotta get his bra back on.”

“Shut your mouth and go finish shaving your vagina, Craven.” Thatcher backhands him in the chest and a brief scuffle starts.

Then everyone notices me standing there.

Some are in pads and jerseys, ready to go. Others are shirtless. But they all straighten up and look my direction.

“Gentlemen,” Randy says, “meet Callie. She’s going to be the new PT.”

“Hot damn,” one of them mumbles under his breath. Another one nudges him for it, though the way he’s half-smirking with his tongue pressed to the corner of his mouth is really not much better.

“She’s also my niece,” my uncle tags on, making all tongues go right back into their mouths.

Honestly, I don’t give a rat’s ass about the Horndog Squad. My eyes are scanning for Owen, who, for whatever reason, isn’t here.

I will not look this gift horse in the mouth.

“Why do I feel like I’ve seen you before?” one of them asks as he approaches me.

“I’ve been in the industry for a minute,” I answer casually. Meanwhile, my heart is pounding so hard I’m pretty sure they can see it pulse through my shirt.

“Well, I’m Miles. And I swear I’ve met you before.”

“Maybe in your dreams,” one of the others jokes, earning a laugh from the whole room before they start to disperse.

“Callie, this is Dax, Kason, Heath, and Lachlan.” My uncle points as he introduces the ones who stuck around. It’s a dizzying array of tall, broad, good-looking men, even if some of them are one or two teeth shy of a full set. I do my best to remember which name goes with which face.

“It’s nice to meet all of you.” I offer a kind but professional smile. “That being said, hopefully, I don’t see any of you again too soon.”

“I don’t know.” Dax sighs mournfully and rubs his chest. “I feel an injury coming on right now. Think you might need to take a look at it.”

“Is that so?”

“Yeah. It’s my heart. I think it might have stopped.”

The guys all explode in laughter.

“I think it’s your head that’s stopped.” Heath shoves Dax and another mini-scuffle breaks out, laughter rising above the mayhem.

“I think it’s time to hit the ice,” my uncle drawls. “If you’ve got energy enough to be wiseasses, you’ve got energy enough to run sprints until I remember where I put my whistle.” He turns to me. “Miriam and I are gonna escort these idiots downstairs. We’ll let you get to work.”

“Thank you.” I smile. Or, at least, do my best impression of what I think a normal human being would consider a smile.

Truth be told, my brain is still racing at what Miles said. I make a mental note to look him up, and I turn to walk out—but just as I do, the door to one of the private locker rooms opens, and the shirtless man who walks out slams directly into me, almost knocking me on my ass. Everyone stops just as they are about to walk out the door to the arena.

“My bad, I—” he starts to say, and I don’t even have to look up at the name above the door to recognize the voice.

Owen Sharpe rips his hand from my forearm as though he grabbed a hot burner. His look of alarm fades to a poisonous grimace.

“Sorry, I was just leaving.” I yank my eyes from his abs and step to the side, but he mirrors me. For a moment, we are shuffling, trying to get past each other, around each other, away from each other. And in the process, my hand grazes over his crotch.

“Will you just?—”

“You’re in my way.”

“You’re in my locker room!”

“Your locker room? What, do you own the place?”

Owen answers by pointing up at his name plate hanging above his locker stall.

“You hear that, fellas. Owen owns the place,” one of the guys cackles. “All hail!”

I look around. Between shirtless Owen and the not-so-distant memories of what happened in this locker room earlier, I forgot we aren’t alone.

Owen seems to notice the crowd, too, because he glances around, cheeks hot. But it’s not embarrassment coursing through his veins, it’s annoyance.

Feeling is mutual, bud.

A smirk crawls across the lips of several players. Even Miriam arches an eyebrow.

That’s it. We’re busted. The tension between Owen and me is obvious. We’re screwed. And by screwed, I mean they can see on our faces that we have, in fact, screwed.

As my mind spirals, I feel Owen grip my upper arms before physically lifting and moving me to the side so he can pass.

“Why is no one on the ice?” he barks. “Y'all are gonna tank if you don’t practice. Now, let's go!”

I don’t wait around to see what happens next. I bolt for the exit, breathing the fresh air as I put distance between me and that damn room. I don’t look back until I am in my office, closing the door behind me.

If there was a deadbolt, I’d be karate-kicking it into place. I’m half tempted to roll my desk in front of the door and cower in here like a doomsday prepper. Hey, there’s an idea—maybe I can just line the shelves with Pop Tarts and never see or speak to anyone ever again.

My uncle must think I am such a ditz. And Miriam probably doesn’t take me seriously. I’m going to be drinking punch alone at the Christmas party, that’s for sure.

Meanwhile, Miles' words are still echoing in the back of my head. I know you from somewhere. Have we met?

That whole thing about the past not staying in the past? Well, I wasn’t wrong.

The past is here, alright, and its name is Owen fucking Sharpe.