Puck Prince (Houston Scythes Hockey #1)

18. Callie

18

CALLIE

I never thought I’d be so happy to be given the cold shoulder.

The pictures from my date with Owen are cycling and recycling on social media enough to keep the sharks at bay, which means I can finally live my life without camera flashes and the paranoia of someone jumping out of the bushes every time I walk outside.

Not that I don’t still check. Paparazzi PTSD is a real thing, apparently.

What the fuck even is my life right now?

The other upside to that is Owen and I are off the clock.

Meaning we don’t feel the need to make any more fake relationship public appearances for the time being.

Meaning we can avoid each other at work and at home and anywhere else we might just happen to run into each other… like crowded sports bars.

It’s been quiet, is what I’m saying.

So quiet.

… Maybe too quiet.

Okay, so I have to admit, it’s a little weird not talking to him at all. Not that I want to—the man drives me batshit crazy. But to go from all day, every day dealing with him to almost nada?

It’s unnerving.

I’m also still curious what is going on with him and the woman with the baby. I mean, here we are, pretending to be in a serious relationship for all the world to see—and meanwhile, I keep thinking about her, with her cherry brown hair cut all cute and edgy. Her perfect smile, no makeup needed. Not to mention the way Owen carries the baby for her. The I love yous and the hugs? I’m itching to know who she is. No, scratch that— dying to know.

Hell, I leave the balcony door open some nights, wondering if I’ll hear her and the baby in his place. But there’s nothing. Crickets.

Funny how dead quiet can actually make it harder to sleep sometimes.

I’m not at the point yet where sleeping on the couch is physically uncomfortable, but I’m a ticking time bomb. My doctor says I’m about nine weeks along. Still very early but also progressing smoothly. I lie in bed, which is a generous euphemism for Kennedy’s sofa bed—luxury line or not—with a cocktail of thoughts swimming around in my very awake mind. It's midnight, but it’s hard to sleep when you have a secret growing inside of you (literally).

I start to wonder about the little things.

When will I be able to feel it?

Is it a boy or a girl?

Who will she or he look like?

If they called me and said they were trapped on a balcony and the options were either wait and freeze, or take the hand of the handsome neighbor next door… would I tell them to reach? Would I tell them to jump?

“Chill out, psycho,” I tell myself, rolling over and covering my head with the pillow. As if that will help the all-too-intrusive thoughts shut the fuck up.

I’m not ready for this. I never asked for this.

But this is very much happening.

I am pregnant, and the father is right next door.

He also has no idea.

And I have no idea how to tell him.

I get up and open the balcony door, letting in a breeze and hoping for some sound. A hint of life existing around me. Something. Anything. But as I drift off to sleep, it is very much quiet.

The next morning, I walk into work right on time, which, for me, means I’m five minutes late. But I made a stop at Starbucks, desperate for a caffeine kick (a baby-safe amount, obviously). After a mostly sleepless night, I am really dragging today. And my schedule is already full.

“Let me guess,” I hear a male voice remark from the weights area behind me as soon as I set my things down. I turn around to see Miles standing there, a broad grin on his face. “Quad shot caramel latte, no whip?”

“Skinny vanilla latte, half-caf, all the whip. But your suggestion sounds heavenly right now.”

“You’re going to need it to keep up with us. Game day is coming in hot, and everyone needs some extra TLC from the lovely new PT.”

“I’ll do what I can.” I don’t know why I feel like I shouldn’t say more than that. Miles is a good guy, according to Miriam and that fan poll that voted him far and away “The NHL’s Resident Dad.” Still, I feel the need to remind him… “I heard you’re getting married?”

He nods, his grin broadening. “Soon.”

“That’s exciting. I always love seeing athletes find love, but most of you goons want to be bachelors forever.”

“Not me. I want a chill life with a beautiful wife. Speaking of love and sports and goons, I’m dying to know how you did it.”

“Did what?” I ask.

“Tamed the wild animal that is Owen Sharpe. I don’t think any of us saw that one coming.”

I offer a forced smile. “Yeah, well, neither did I.”

“Love is funny.”

Or fake…

“I’m not so sure we are quite there yet,” I say instead.

“Well, buckle up, buttercup. It all happens fast. What is the phrase? ‘First comes love, then comes marriage. Then comes?—’”

“A dad bod and a nonexistent sex life.” Lance, my first client of the day, walks in with exquisite comedic timing. He tosses a sweat rag at Miles who catches it just before it can hit him in the face.

“Funny.” Miles tosses it back and heads out.

“I try.” Lance gives me a lopsided smile. “I’m just here for some kino tape.”

“I can do that.” Grateful for something to do with my hands, I turn away and start rummaging through my drawers.

“Do us all a favor and put some on his mouth while you’re at it!” Miles calls over his shoulder as he slips through the door.

Lance flips him off, but he doesn’t see. Then he turns his attention back to me. He’s still smiling, but it feels like there’s something behind it.

“So KT tape? Nothing else?” I ask as he takes a seat.

“Just that. Coach Rand-O has been running us ragged, and I’d like to not fuck myself up ten minutes into the game.”

“Fair enough.” I run my hands over his muscles to feel where everything is at before applying the tape. “You’re pretty loose. Glad to see at least one of you taking care of yourself.”

“Uh-oh. Is Owen in trouble?”

“Always.” A small smirk ticks at the corners of my mouth. “I’m having trouble dislodging the stick from his ass, let’s say that.”

Lance laughs. “I mean, he’s always been a little high-strung. But at least he has you around to loosen him up now.”

It’s quiet for a beat because I really don’t know how to respond to that. I know Lance is Owen’s best friend on the team, and I can see why. He’s not a dick. And he takes the game seriously, like most of them do, but he seems to realize that he won’t always be in that locker room or on the ice. He seems to see a future for himself, where most hockey players can’t see beyond the end of their stick.

“You know, he didn’t even tell me y’all were dating at first,” he goes on.

“No?”

“Nope. I found out through social media. The ‘Gram knows all.”

“He plays things pretty close to the vest.” I focus on the tape and not on the woman and child Owen may or may not be hiding in a second apartment across town.

“That’s the thing, though: not usually. Either you have really spun his world upside down or—ouch!”

“Sorry,” I say with a grimace as the strip of tape yanks at his arm hair. But I want to hear the end of that sentence. “Or what?”

“He’s just acting strange lately, I guess. I’ve never seen him like this. But I’ve also never seen him in love. Maybe this is just standard Lovesick Owen operating procedure.”

I drop the roll of tape on the ground. “Did he say that?”

“Say what?”

“That he’s in love?” My words come out high-pitched and frantic.

I didn’t tell Owen he couldn’t fall in love with me because this isn’t a John Hughes movie, but it was implied. Things are complicated enough already without dropping the L bomb.

Lance narrows his eyes, a hint of amusement on his lips. “Negative. But I assume it’s headed that direction?”

“Right. Yeah. Of course.” This is a real relationship on the course for real love, obviously. Nothing fake here. I turn back to the counter before he can see the ugly truth written all over my face.

“I’d like to hang out sometime, if that’s cool.” He rubs his arm where I just accidentally waxed him. “Owen is my best friend, both on the team and off. If you matter to him… well, maybe the three of us can grab a beer after the game?”

I prepare a normal, believable reaction before turning around to look at him. “Yeah. Sure. Why not?”

Because there’s no need to get more attached than we already are—bun in the oven and all.

Because there might be a red-headed other woman who wouldn’t like it one bit.

The question that’s been burning in my brain for weeks bursts out of me before I can think better of it. “You say he’s never been in love before?”

“Not really.” He winces like he’s knows he’s betraying some guy code. “A lot of flings, but nothing that made his head spin. Nothing like this.”

“No one that’s come in and out of his life? No… commitment?”

Lance gives me an odd look, and I can tell he feels the ice under him getting thinner. “If you’re asking me if he’s ever been married, the answer is no.”

Interesting.

Well… here goes nothing.

“So, the woman who goes in and out of his place from time to time with the baby…”

All at once, Lance retreats. The shutters close and the lights are off. No one is home. “I don’t know who you’re referring to. Owen’s never mentioned that to me.”

“Never mentioned what to you?” Owen strides in the room.

Fuck.

I thought Lance’s timing was good before, but Owen’s is a billion times better.

I’m about to say something, anything—an on-the-spot lie to hide the excavation I’m conducting into his personal life, but Lance steps in.

“Why you started this trend of getting taped before the game.”

Owen stops in front of us, his eyes only briefly grazing over me. “Just something I do. Can’t help it if everyone copies me.”

“If I remember right, you usually go to the athletic trainer for your tape, though; not the PT.” Lance smiles knowingly.

Owen shrugs. “Doesn’t matter. Tape is tape.”

“You said it was good luck. A ritual to never be broken.”

“Yeah, well, maybe I don’t believe in that anymore.” Owen won’t look at me.

“Orrr you have a new good luck charm now.” Lance winks, and my face reddens. Then he makes his way out, whistling “L-O-V-E” by Sinatra as he disappears.

I can’t help my smile. “I like him.”

“I hate him.”

“You do not. Now, sit down.” I smack Owen playfully on the arm. It’s a good arm. Firm.

I only notice because it’s medically necessary, given my job. It’s not because it’s the first physical contact we’ve had since our date. The first anything we’ve had in a while.

There’s static in the air.

I need to put it out before it starts a fire.

“So what other pregame rituals do you have?” I ask.

“It’s not a ritual, really. The guys just like making a big deal out of it because they know it gets on my nerves.”

“Speaking of your nerves, relax your shoulders.” I run my hands down his neck to the middle of his back. “So it’s not a good luck charm, after all?”

“I don’t really believe in luck.” His head is tilted back with his eyes closed, his jaw clenching and unclenching as I work my hands over his knots. I’ve seen him do that with his jaw before… right before he?—

“Do you believe in yoga? ‘Cause you could really benefit from it.” I stop my own thoughts.

His eyes flash open, locking on mine with enough intensity to send electricity down my spine. I swallow hard.

“I like routine.” His voice is low. Direct. Gritty enough to graze across my nerves in a way I haven’t felt in a minute.

“Roger that.” I shudder, then pull the tape out and get to work. “And what else do you do in this routine?”

“Stretch. Run. Lift. Hydrate. Steer clear of alcohol and carbs.”

“Wow. Impressive.”

“Of course, a pregame orgasm never hurts either.”

I nearly choke on my own tongue. “Guess you should go take care of that.”

His smirk broadens. “I already did last night.”

How this man can make his voice go from raspy to smooth as honey in the blink of an eye, I don’t know. But it pisses me off.

It’s too powerful a weapon.

“Oh, really? I had my balcony door open, and I didn’t hear a thing.” I finish up the tape.

Owen stands up, close enough that his chest brushes mine. “Not everyone is as vocal as you are.”

With that, he turns and walks out.

So much for the cold shoulder.

So much for cold anything.