Puck Prince (Houston Scythes Hockey #1)

16. Callie

16

CALLIE

“Give me five minutes.” Owen unlocks his apartment.

“For what?”

“To shower.” He gives me an exasperated look. “It was your condition. Keep up, girl.”

“Wait. You mean we are going out now ?”

I was planning to collapse against Kennedy’s door the second it was closed and spend a few cinematic minutes—or days—pondering how in the hell I found myself in a fake situationship with my baby daddy.

But dinner is another insane alternative.

“Why not?” Because of the aforementioned insanity. “I’m hungry. We’re both free. Let’s go out, make an appearance, and get it over with.”

“How romantic,” I mumble under my breath. “You must really sweep the girls off their feet.”

That’s probably how he gets them into prime position to sow his very powerful seed.

His mouth quirks into a devilish smile, and I’ve changed my mind—that mouth is how he sweeps the girls off their feet. “Oh, you want this to include romance? That wasn’t in the original terms, but I suppose we can make adjustments.”

I roll my eyes as my heart gives a hopeful, pitiful thump. “Just go shower.”

Owen disappears, and my head is spinning. How did I get myself into this? Any of this?

I was just trying to go to the doctor to figure out one of my major life crises and, in the process, landed myself in an even bigger one. I look down at myself and realize that maybe I should change, too. Joggers and a tank top don’t really qualify as date attire.

Not that this is a date.

“Jesus Christ, Callie, listen to yourself.” I shake my head, go inside and slip into a short, black, cotton dress and a pair of wedges. Nothing too dressy, but cute enough not to look like a slob. I run my fingers through my hair and apply some lip gloss, a spritz of some flowery perfume, and head back out.

I assumed five minutes was an optimistic timeline. Men as pretty as Owen must spend at least that long staring at themselves in the mirror. But he’s already in the hall waiting for me, staring out the window that overlooks the parking lot.

“Wow, you really meant five minutes, didn’t you?”

“I’m a man of my word.” He turns to me. “Now, let’s—Oh. Uh… go, I meant. Let’s go.” He trips over the last word as his eyes trail up and down my body.

“What?” I ask, looking down at myself. Last time I wore this dress, there were ketchup stains involved. Did they not come out in the wash? “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” He shakes his head. The next thing I know, he has his hand on the small of my back and is leading me down the stairs. Despite the gentlemanly gesture, it feels staged.

It is staged, you doofus. This is not a real date.

Either way, he’s abnormally stiff.

“What’s wrong?” I ask again, trying my hardest to ignore how good he smells. Spicy. Sweet. Delicious. I swear I can feel the steamy heat rolling off of his skin in waves.

His blue eyes cast my way quickly before refocusing on the floor in front of our feet. “You clean up nice, that’s all.”

“So do you.” I can’t pretend I didn’t notice his nice jeans or his fitted Henley. It works for him. Painfully well.

He guides me through the parking lot and opens the passenger door of his blue BMW. A fitting car for him. The inside is pristine and still smells new.

“Thank you,” I mumble as I duck into the car. There’s a team hoodie on the seat, and I pull it into my lap.

“Oh, you can just—” He leans in, over me, taking the hoodie and throwing it. “—toss it in the back.” He’s basically hovering over me, so when he turns his head to look at me, our mouths are so close that we’re sharing the same air. His exhales are my inhales.

He shudders half a second before he rips himself away and slams his body into his seat.

Wordlessly, we buckle up, and he speeds out of the parking lot into the city.

So far, so awkward.

“I take it you know where we are going.” It’s not a question, it’s a statement. He’s driving with the confidence of a man who knows exactly what lies ahead.

Must be nice.

“Yep.” His eyes don’t leave the road and his fingers drum on the wheel. I think this is the first time I’ve seen Owen nervous. I can’t decide if it’s satisfying or if it’s making me nervous, too.

Music plays softly through the speakers, and I focus on that to ignore the racing thoughts in my own head. “Shaboozey,” I say after a beat.

“What?” He looks at me for the first time, and I almost regret saying anything at all.

“The music.”

“Oh. Right. Yeah, I like him.”

“Hmm,” I hum.

“Does that surprise you?”

“I don’t know. I just figured you’d be a Post Malone kind of guy.”

He turns up the volume another notch. “Again, Coleman, you don’t know me.”

He isn’t wrong.

Quickly, I lay out the things I do know about Owen Sharpe.

He’s a popular hockey player. One with a reputation I don’t exactly love or trust.

He seems to take the adventurous route through life. The whimsical one. From erotic nights in to spontaneous date nights out. He’s flighty, just doing what feels right in the moment.

As romantic as that sounds on paper, it’s not exactly a dependable trait.

And dependable is something you want in a baby daddy. I know from experience.

We pull into the parking lot of a sports bar, a neon sign illuminating the cracking asphalt. Pour Boys Taproom .

“Are you sure this is the right place?” It’s not exactly the wine and dine I was sold.

“Trust me.” Owen unbuckles his seatbelt. “This is where we want to be.”

He opens the door for me and follows behind. I am hit with a rush of greasy pub food, stale beer, the dull roar of sports TV chatter, and people. Hundreds of people, all of them talking, laughing, having a good time.

“Sharpe!” one of the bartenders calls. In that instant, the attention of the entire establishment turns to us.

Owen grabs my hand and dips to whisper in my ear. “Here we go.”

It’s like being thrown in the deep end of the pool before I have the chance to plug my nose.

People swarm us from all sides, pulling him into man hugs, shaking his hand, slapping him on the back while they talk about the upcoming game.

Women approach, too, asking for autographs and photos.

What the hell did I sign up for?

After about ten minutes of dizzying hype, he takes my hand again. “If y’all will excuse us, me and my girl need a drink.”

I feel lightheaded. I don’t know what’s fucking with me more: the fact that he grabbed my hand again or the fact that he just publicly referred to me as “his girl.”

Instinctively, I hug my body close to his, but I still have to yell close to his ear for him to hear me. “Are you sure we shouldn’t go somewhere else?”

“Why would we go somewhere else?” He continues to smile and wave as we weave through his adoring fans.

“Oh, I don’t know. I thought maybe we should be somewhere more… private? Someplace where everyone doesn’t know you, where people aren’t taking pictures and ogling while we try to?—”

“Try to what?” He leans in close enough that his lips brush my cheek. “Date? It’s not a real date. We just want it to look like one. Which is exactly why—” Another smile and wave. “—we want to be in the most public place possible. I am the Sam Malone of this place.”

Great. And what does that make me? His stick-up-her-ass date that is grossed out by a sticky bartop and sloppy onlookers? Not a chance. I might prefer a glass of wine and a charcuterie board, but I can Cool Girl? with the best of them. I am a hockey coach’s niece, after all.

We make our way to a booth in the back corner.

“How did you land this?” I ask, surprised.

“It’s reserved for players.”

“Oh. Fancy.” It is nice to be a little farther from the chaos, not gonna lie. I’m not loving all the camera flashes and catcalls, but I guess he’s right: if we’re going to do this for the sake of face, I guess we have to be in the limelight.

I just didn’t expect it to be so bright.

Several waitresses eye the table, but a young brunette with bouncy curls and even bouncier boobs beats the others to it. “My name’s Bailey, and I’ll be takin’ care of y’all. What can I get you to drink?”

Her eyes are locked on Owen, but he nods towards me without even glancing at her. “Ladies first.”

Oh, brother.

“Just a ginger ale for me.” I answer, setting the menu aside.

“I’ll take a Jack and Coke.”

She smiles and skips off, and I can feel Owen staring at me.

“What?”

“Ginger ale?” He arches an eyebrow. “Want some saltines to go with that, just for the extra flavor?”

Actually, crackers would be nice. My stomach is a mess because of his baby. Not that I can tell him that.

My cheeks flush, and I pick up the menu again to hide it. “What’s wrong with ginger ale? I like it. And maybe I want a clear head. This is more of a business meeting, after all.”

He doesn’t look convinced, but I’m sure enough he hasn’t guessed at the real reason that I can sit back and take in the ambience.

Or, I try. It’s hard with a constant stream of fans interrupting every couple minutes.

More people drop by the table, haranguing Owen to sign this and that. I’m irked after the third one, but Owen eats the attention up, his smile never fading.

Once they leave, I lean in. “I don’t get it.”

“Don’t get what?”

I motion around the room. “This. I thought the point of our fake relationship was to keep us out of the spotlight.”

“It is.” He leans in as well, taking my hand from across the table. It’s weird how not-weird it feels.

“We need to be in the headlines for a couple months first, and then we will be old news. No one will give two shits about it after the honeymoon phase is over.”

A couple months.

Well, I have a couple months before my secret starts making itself known, so I suppose that works out.

“Fine,” I agree as the waitress returns and sets our drinks down. “But we need ground rules.”

“Shoot.” He takes the skinny straw from his drink and licks it off. I have flashbacks of his tongue on my skin.

I clear my throat. “This is pretend. You can lay it on thick in public, but nothing—and I mean nothing —goes on in private. Understand?”

Owen takes a casual sip of his drink before replying. “Alright. But define ‘lay it on thick.’”

I blink. “What do you mean?”

He takes my hand again, caressing it with his thumb. “Is this too much?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Hand-holding is a given.”

“Alright. What about this?” Suddenly, I feel his hand under the table, rubbing my knee.

I swallow discreetly. “Sure. Just stay south of the border or you won’t be getting that hand back.”

It makes him chuckle. “Fair. Now, how about this…” Owen leans over the table, and I keep waiting for his chiseled jaw to pump the brakes and stay on his half, but he keeps coming. He takes my face softly in his palms. Then his lips cover my stunned mouth in a kiss.

Again, despite all the reasons why I should pull away, I sink closer.

When he pulls away, I realize my eyes are closed. When I open them, I realize everyone else’s are on us.

“Too far?” he asks, sitting back down.

“I think… that’s probably… the line.” My words come out breathy, broken.

Owen’s mouth tugs into a third of a smirk as he takes a sip of his drink. “Pleasure doing business with you, princess.”

After dinner, Owen drives me home. We stop in front of my door, and he smiles, his hands shoved in his pockets. “I think that went well, don’t you?”

“Yeah, I think… we did what we intended to do,” I agree. I’m still feeling a little heady from all of it. “I am afraid to look at my phone, though.”

“It’ll be a shitshow for sure. But it’s what we want; just remember that.”

I nod. His eyes are warm. Maybe from the whiskey. Maybe because there’s something good in them somewhere. Something sweet. Something?—

Back the fuck up, Callie.

I take a step closer to my door and unlock it. “Well, I’ll see you at work.”

“Sounds good.”

I start to walk in, but turn to him before closing the door. “And, uh, thanks for dinner.”

Owen just gives me a slow nod down.

I close the door and finally get the chance to sag against it, all cinematic like. I really need to get my own place. Because living next to Owen, fake relationship or not, is going to be torture.