Puck Prince (Houston Scythes Hockey #1)

19. Callie

19

CALLIE

“God, I love hockey,” Kennedy swoons right after two of the players slam against the glass.

We’re several rows up, but I still jump back from the crash. “I always thought football had the most contact, but I was wrong.”

“Football is alright, but it’s more of a brute force game,” she yells into my ear over the roar of the crowd combined with the announcer losing his shit. It’s a tight game. “Hockey, on the other hand, is a bunch of hot-headed men with spiked testosterone running around with sticks and beating the ever-loving shit out of each other just for kicks.”

Another body slams against the glass. “Y’know what? I can see that.”

“How have you never been to a game before?” She takes a sip of her beer, managing to still look disappointed in me.

“I have. I just usually had to leave early because the players would get hurt and need my help. Which, as I’m saying it — I should’ve realized how aggressive it is. I just never paid attention.”

“But now that you’re dating a superstar, you’re paying attention?”

“I guess.” My ginger ale tastes sickly-sweet on my tongue, but I force it down anyway because my stomach is in a pretzel twist.

“You guess? Girl, your eyes were locked on that boy. I saw you watching him during warmups.”

“I was making sure he was doing the stretch right,” I lie, poorly. Because we both know that while his knees were sliding around on the ice, opening his hip flexors with an undeniable thrusting motion, I and every other warm-blooded woman in this arena was only thinking about one thing.

The problem is that I’m probably far from the only warm-blooded woman in this arena to have up close and personal experience with those hips.

“And you’re the one always complaining I don’t take advantage of the perks of my job enough,” I add.

“I told you to bang a hockey player; not fall in love with one.”

My attention whips over to her. “What is the obsession everyone has with love today? I hardly know the guy!”

“Down, girl. Damn.” Kennedy is laughing. I, meanwhile, am trying not to have a panic attack or puke into the popcorn of the guy seated next to me. No one ever told me how revolting popcorn would smell when you’re pregnant.

I take another meager sip of ginger ale and try to keep it all down.

The game goes on, and I have to admit, it’s hard not to get pulled into all the excitement. The Scythes are doing great. As much as they horse around like a bunch of neanderthals in the locker room, they really are fluid on the ice. I’m not super familiar with the terminology of it all, but it doesn’t take me long to get up to speed. Hockey is a fast-paced sport, and I find myself at the edge of my seat.

“The barn might be cold tonight, folks, but with rival teams going head-to-head, the ice is hot!” The announcer’s voice ricochets off the walls, amping up the arena, which is packed to the rafters. “And speaking of hot, let’s talk about Scythes center, Owen Sharpe. One thing is for certain, this kid is no cherry-picker. He runs the rink like a ping-pong ball. Never know where he’s going to end up and keeps everyone else on their toes!”

“A cherry-picker?” I ask Kennedy. “Is that, like, a euphemism?”

“Get your head out of the gutter. I think they’re just saying he gets the job done or… something.” Kennedy shrugs.

“A cherry-picker kind of just stands in the center, hoping for something to come their way.” The guy next to me leans over to answer. “Sharpe’s never been guilty of that.”

“She would know.” Kennedy grins over at him, and I start waving her off. I’m trying to lay low, and there’s nothing incognito about my cousin. “She’s dating him.”

He nearly chokes on his popcorn—which he is dumping into his mouth straight from the helmet-shaped souvenir container. “You’re dating Owen Sharpe? Riiight. And I’m going out for a nightcap with Kate Beckinsale after the game.”

I’m good with ignoring him at this point. He smells like fake butter and cheap beer. But Kennedy doesn’t seem to know when to quit. I thank the cheap beer for that, as well.

“She is! It’s all over the internet!”

I slam my knee into hers. “Kennedy!”

“What?” she asks. “Might as well flaunt it.”

The guy pulls out his phone. In the meantime, another guy in front of us who is part of a string of college age kids, turns around. “Aren’t you the coach’s daughter?”

I shake my head. “No.”

Nothing to see here. Turn back around. Be lulled into complacency by the violence.

“She’s his niece,” the girl next to him says before looking back at me. “You’re his niece, right?”

I pull my baseball cap over my face. I felt stupid when I grabbed it. I’m not Keanu Reeves or something. Who do I need to hide from? “I’m just here to watch the game.”

Instead, I’m watching the news spread through the rows in front of me. One by one, heads turn. There are whispers and points. People hold up their phones, but they’re aiming the wrong way. They’re snapping pictures of me.

Not because I’m the coach’s niece, but because I’m Owen Sharpe’s girlfriend.

“Well, I can see what he sees in you.” The guy next to me scoots close enough that our legs are smashed together. “You’re a pretty little thing. The name is Josh.”

“Just ignore them,” Kennedy tells me. “They’re just jealous.”

“They wouldn’t be jealous if you hadn’t opened your big mouth,” I whisper-yell.

“What did I do?”

“You brought Popcorn Josh over here into the conversation for starters.” I hitch a thumb at my seatmate, too mad to care if he’s offended.

“You can’t hide that you’re Owen’s girlfriend!”

Camera’s flash in my face. I don’t even want to think about how many angles I’ll be able to see my sweaty, panicked face tomorrow morning. “No, but we didn’t have to go and shout it out to everyone, either.”

“What’s it like being Owen’s filly?” some random guy shouts over at me. “Is he as good at scoring in the sack as he is on the ice?”

A roar of laughter comes from his group of sycophant frat boys. I shake my head and ignore them. A baseball cap was not enough for the job. I should’ve worn a ski mask.

“Don’t look now, but people are already posting shit…” Kennedy mumbles. I grab her phone from her and scroll through. There’s everything from filtered pictures of me with hearts around my face to altered ones with angry eyes and horns on my head.

“What the hell is the matter with people?” I screech out.

Kennedy snatches her phone back. “I said don’t look. Listen, we are ignoring them from here on out and watching the game.”

I nod. It’s easier said than done, though. Even with the game remaining neck and neck, I can’t help but hear the conversations raging around me.

“You think there’s a reason he’s dating her? Maybe to get good with Coach?”

“I think she’s hiding something. Gold-digger, probably. PTs don’t make as much as they used to.”

“I bet they hooked up, like, one time, and she roped him into being with her.”

“Yeah, maybe she’s knocked up. Baby-trappin’.”

I have got to get out of here.

I bolt out of my seat, only drawing even more attention.

“Where are you going?” Kennedy asks.

“I need to use the restroom,” I lie, though I might actually be sick.

I glance at the ice just in time to see Owen’s attention on me. For one fleeting second, I think he might save me again. Then an opposing player slams into him while his guard is down. He shoves the guy aside and gets back into the game.

Looks like I’m on my own this time.

“I’ll come with you,” Kennedy offers.

“It’s fine.” I am growing increasingly sure I’m going to puke. Between the popcorn and the panic, everything in my stomach is threatening an emergency evacuation.

Kennedy is still shouting after me as I shove down the line of people. I finally make it to the aisle and am about to flee down the steps when a hand grabs me. “Hey, aren’t you that girl?”

It’s a guy with a bad attempt at a mullet wearing a jersey for the opposing team.

“I doubt it.” I try to pull away from him, but his grip tightens.

“Let go of me!”

Everyone around us stands, but it isn’t because Hillbilly McDouchFace here is pulling me towards him.

“Sharpe snags the puck and makes a run for it!” the announcer booms over the speakers. The crowd is losing their goddamn minds.

“No, you’re definitely her. You’re Sharpe’s girl.”

“And you’ve had too much to drink,” I inform him, making a second attempt to pull out of his grasp. I glance down the line for Kennedy, but she is caught up in the game. Everyone is.

“Maybe so,” he drawls, “but I could eat you up.”

“Listen…” I raise my voice, pressing my hand against his shoulder. He grabs my wrist and whips me around, pulling me against his chest.

“Check it out! I got Sharpe’s girl with me. Bet Mister Hotshot ain’t gonna like that too much.” He laughs, holding his phone in front of us for a selfie. His friends are all just cackling. Bunch of Zyn-gobbling hyenas with bad goatees.

“Let go!” I try to wriggle away. I catch sight of us in his camera—and just like that, my mind falls backwards into memories.

Memories I’ve tried to bury. Tried to forget. Not just because one stupid mistake ruined my reputation, but because it also got me into one of the scariest situations of my life.

“Let go!” I demand again, but the words echo, taking me right back.

Let go.

You’re hurting me.

Don’t touch me!

“Get off of me!” I scream—but just as I do, the crowd roars.

“Bar down! Owen Sharpe scores for the Scythes in an incredible play!” The announcer’s cry echoes over the arena. Everything around me seems to explode in a cacophony of screaming, cheering, and blaring of horns.

It’s too much.

I can’t handle it.

I don’t know where I am.

I don’t know how to get away.

I don’t?—

“Get off of her!” Owen’s voice is the only clear sound. It breaks through the white noise, and my eyes flutter as he materializes in front of me out of absolutely nowhere, climbing over the wall and bounding up the riser steps. In his skates, no less. “I said, get your fucking hands off of her!”

I knew he’d save me.

Owen tears me from the man’s grasp and the entire arena is focused on us.

“So, you are his girl after all. Well, look at that. Hotshot is hot in the head as wel?—”

The man doesn’t even finish his sentence before Owen’s fist collides with his face. People scream, scrambling back as the guy hits the ground. I feel Kennedy behind me, cradling me against her. Everything else is muffled by the deafening ringing in my ears.

I can hear my own heartbeat as I shift from flashbacks of his face, his voice, his hold on me.

Things I’ve tried to forget.

Things I can’t forget no matter how hard I try.

But as Owen shakes his hand out and walks towards me, I feel the anxiety fade.

I think he’s going to ask if I’m okay. If I’m hurt. But instead, he takes me in his arms and kisses me.

It’s only for a moment.

Only a brush of his lips against mine.

But it’s enough to slow my heart. To calm my nerves.

And it’s enough for the jumbotron to catch every last bit of it.