Puck Prince (Houston Scythes Hockey #1)

23. Callie

23

CALLIE

If I thought being in a car was brutal for morning sickness, that was because I hadn’t been on a plane yet.

As I sit in the back row of the 747, I keep my head back, eyes closed, and hands strangling the armrests. The team is all sitting in front of me, day-drinking and throwing things at each other like the bunch of overgrown middle schoolers they are.

My uncle was smart enough to book first class for himself and is oblivious to (or purposely ignoring) the shenanigans. Meanwhile, I am debating rushing into the bathroom so I can scream or puke. Screaming while puking is also on the table.

“Is this seat taken?” I don’t even have to open my eyes to recognize Owen’s voice.

I’d rather not, anyway. The sight of him does weird things to my insides, and I’m on the verge of an Exorcist moment as it is.

“I’d advise against taking it,” I mutter. “Even my uncle has chosen not to sit with me.”

“He’s a wise man.” I feel—or rather, smell —Owen plop down in the seat next to me. For reasons I won’t unpack, it’s the one scent that doesn’t make me want to gag. That in itself annoys me. “Who knew you were such a nervous flyer?”

I’m not. I love flying. The third wheel in my belly here is the one that does not.

“Motion sickness.” I lie. Owen places something in my lap, and I peek one eye open to see a handful of vomit bags. A grotesquely sweet gesture. “Thanks, I think?”

“Consider it an apology for shoving you out of my apartment the other day.” He buckles up like he plans to stay awhile. It’s not like he can run off to handle mysterious phone calls when we’re thirty-thousand feet in the air. He probably would if he could. Whoever was on the other end of the line was obviously more important than the preservation of our fake relationship.

He’s also taking a risk sitting in the splash zone, given how green in the gills I am.

Speaking of that…

“Excuse me.” I open one of the bags and dry heave into it. Painfully—or thankfully, I can’t decide—nothing comes up. But the very act is embarrassingly painful in itself. I lower the bag and take a deep breath. “Seriously. I won’t be offended if you’d rather hang out with the guys.”

On cue, one of them belches. Another one farts. They all laugh.

Men. They are foul creatures, every last one of them.

“I’ll pass. They’re nasty.” He offers a quarter of a smile. A smile that, if I weren’t so nauseous, would make my stomach flutter.

“Nastier than me nearly puking?”

“Even nastier than that.”

I playfully nudge him with my shoulder. It earns me the other seventy-five percent of that smile, and suddenly, the morning sickness doesn’t stand a chance against the release of butterflies in my abdomen.

“Besides,” he adds, “a real boyfriend would sit with his girl. Not the team.”

“Guess what?” I whisper, and he leans in closer to me. “You’re not my real boyfriend.”

“Guess what?” he whispers back. “They don’t know that.”

I giggle, and he smiles, too, our mouths very much in the danger zone.

Close enough I think he might kiss me.

Close enough I might kiss him.

“Get a room!” Lance shouts back at us. Owen gets whacked in the head with an empty shooter bottle of Fireball. And the moment—whatever it was—is gone.

“So,” I say, moving on, “are you going to tell me why you rushed out of your place so quickly the other night?”

“Wasn’t planning on it.”

I look at him. His body language has shifted. “It’s okay if a friend… or someone… needed help.”

“Yeah.” He lets out an involuntary sigh. “They seem to need help a lot.”

I fish a little deeper. “It’s kind of a pattern for you, I’m finding—rescuing women in need.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” His eyes dart to me and narrow.

Uh-oh. Maybe that was a little too deep of a fishing expedition. I attempt a speedy recovery. “You know, the vomit bags, rescuing me from Kennedy’s balcony—though your altruism in that instance is still under serious investigation—and you ran to your friend when she needed help, too.”

I’m coolly, casually tossing out that I know his “friend” was a woman, curious if he’ll admit it. Maybe the woman with the baby, even? If I play this right, maybe he’ll finally tell me who she is.

I can’t imagine that it would be good for any of us if he was caught with a woman and a baby.

But I also feel, considering the contract and what I am investing in all of this, that he kind of owes me an explanation.

Owen clearly disagrees. Without a word, he undoes his seatbelt and flags down the flight attendant. As she makes her way down the aisle, he turns back to me. “Yeah, well, I guess I try to do the right thing from time to time. If only to buck expectations.”

When the attendant arrives, he orders me a ginger ale before going back to sit with the guys.

I wouldn’t say that I’m avoiding Owen when we get to the arena in Denver.

Mostly because I’m fairly positive he’s avoiding me .

Ever since the flirty-conversation-gone-awkward on the plane, we haven’t spoken.

Not that I can blame him. I pried. I can admit my part in the awkwardness. Still, considering our current quote-unquote relationship, not to mention my looming (and growing) secret, I think that if Owen is involved with a woman and a baby, I have a right to know who they are.

Owen, however, seems to think I don’t even have a right to lay eyes on him because he is nowhere to be seen.

The training room is pumped full of testosterone and what sounds like a playlist of party anthems from the 2010s as the players amp up for the game. Dax and Lance pick their way through the madness to find me in the corner.

“More tape?” I ask Lance as soon as they walk over to me.

“You know me so well.” He smiles, and I smile back. I do like Lance. I can see why Owen would want to be friends with him.

Dax, I don’t know as well.

“And what about you?”

“My hamstrings are fucked,” he offers. How eloquent.

“We’ll make this fast, then. The game is about to start.” I start with Lance, applying the KT tape like last time. My mind should be focused on the work—on bones and musculature. And in a way, I suppose it is. “Where’s Owen? I assume he needs his good luck taping before the game?”

“I think he already got it,” Dax answers with a weird, sideways glance. “From Miriam.”

My smile fades as something in my stomach sinks. I recover quickly, though, shrugging it off. “His loss. My tape is much luckier.”

“You feeling better?” Lance asks. “You seemed like you were really struggling on the plane.”

“Yeah. I just hate flying.” It’s the second time I’ve tried out that lie. It still sounds stupid.

“I get that. I usually just sleep through flights.”

“Emphasis on ‘usually.’” Dax and Lance trade places. “This time he was going shot for shot with Miles.”

I shake my head. “I don’t know how you boys can do that. Drinking all day and night and then ready for a game the next day.”

“It’s a gift.” Dax winces as I stretch his leg.

“It’s overrated.” Lance adds. “You, though, seem to be a breath of fresh air.”

I look over at him. “Me?”

“For Owen, I mean. He seems better since you came into the picture. Happier. I don’t know. For a while now, O hasn’t been himself. He’s been very… distracted.”

The way he says the last word, I know it has to be linked to the woman and the baby. But I also know asking about it won’t get me anywhere.

“Well, that’s good, I guess.”

“It’s been a while since Owen has been in an actual relationship,” he tacks on.

“And you’re nothing like the girls he usually dates,” Dax says.

I arch an eyebrow. “How so?”

“Easy, tiger.” Lance laughs. “Not in a bad way. Most of the girls act all cool and chill and nonchalant, but they just want him for his money.”

Gold diggers or not, those women would have to be stupid to want him just for his money. There’s also his body and his mouth… and his hands…

I blink through the lusty thoughts. Even if I was considering dating Owen for real—which, to reiterate, I am not—money was never on my radar. I do perfectly fine for myself. “Well, he doesn’t need to worry about that with me.”

“You’re just less complicated,” Dax agrees as they get ready to make their way out. “And that’s probably good for him. He doesn’t need more drama in his life.”

All I can offer to that statement is a forced smile.

As they walk out of the room, I touch my stomach gingerly. Neither of them has any idea just how complicated I could make things for him.

I organize my things as the game starts. Owen has seen to it that I have a seat waiting for me in the VIP section, away from the opposing team’s fans and away from anyone that might give me shit for being the coach’s niece and dating one of the players.

I’m about to make my way out of the empty training room when Miles hobbles in, medics on both his sides. I drop my duffle bag and rush over.

“What happened?”

“Took a hard hit,” one of them explains.

Miles shakes his head, looking more annoyed than anything. “I twisted my ankle, that’s all.”

“It swelled up before we even got his skate off. I’m thinking maybe it's a sprain,” the other medic adds.

I look down at it. It’s definitely swollen. I wince as he peels down his sock to reveal mottled bruise marks already blooming on his skin.

“Oh, stop looking like someone died. It’s not that bad.” Miles shrugs out of their grasp and treks over to the bench on one leg. He’s sweating bullets and obviously in pain, but also determined not to get benched.

“I’ll take a look at it and see what I can do.”

The medics leave, and I turn my attention to Miles. “How did this happen?”

“Just got caught up in the middle of a pile-up around the goal. I fell back, but my skate was caught between two sticks.”

“And you twisted it.” I nod. “You boys need to be careful. It’s crazy out there.”

“Yeah. Crazy, violent, fun. It’s what hockey is all about. It’s why I love my job.”

“I love my job, too,” I say as I rotate his ankle gingerly. “But part of my job is making sure you guys don’t get hurt.”

“You really are sweet. I can see why Owen likes you.”

It sounds like a compliment. And when I look up, Miles is smiling at me. He’s one of the nicer guys on the team, but something about the way he is smiling now feels… off.

I chalk it up to a blow to his head during the pile up and back away, dusting off my hands. “I think you’re going to be okay. I wouldn’t go back on the ice just yet, though.”

“It feels better already,” he insists. “You’re good at what you do. Owen is very lucky to have landed you.”

That’s another compliment, so I don’t know why my spine straightens.

I turn back to my bag, reorganizing supplies I already sorted through earlier. “I mean, I like to think I had some say in it. But I’ll take that as a complime—” The word falls short.

Because when I turn around, Miles is standing right behind me. So close that I bump into his chest.

Those familiar alarms sound in my head. The same ones I heard at the last game when the drunken idiot grabbed me. The ones I heard before that, back when…

I take a step away from him. “Look at you, standing up. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe you are ready to get back on the ice.”

I take another step back as my heart rate climbs.

Miles is just smiling.

He takes a step forward, and I respond with yet another step back.

But I trip over something behind me. He reaches out, snaring me by the wrist before I can fall.. “Be careful. You wouldn’t want to get hurt.”

My chest is rising and falling jaggedly. I look at the door, wondering if anyone is around. If anyone can see that this doesn’t look right, doesn’t feel right.

But we are alone.

Completely and utterly alone.

“Th—thanks.” I try to pull away, but Miles’s grip tightens. The alarms rise in pitch. It’s a shrill sound that blurs every coherent thought in my head except the one screaming at me to get away from him. I wrench myself back. “Good catch, but I think you should get back to the game.”

“But it’s more fun back here, isn’t it? Maybe I’ll relax for a few more minutes. It can be our little secret.” He studies me for a beat before finally retreating. “Do you have any little secrets, Callie? I’m sure you do. If there’s anything I’ve learned, it’s that everyone has secrets. Everything has a past.”

My heart is in my throat. “I think you should go,” I tell him stiffly.

“You’re probably right. No one can really hide back here, if you know what I mean.” But he’s still standing in front of me. Still smiling. “Not even your boyfriend. Owen tries to protect people, but everything comes out eventually.”

With that, he lets go of my wrist and walks out of the room, limping only a little. I wait until I truly know he is gone.

Then I rush to the bathroom just in time to get sick.

After my stomach stops retching, I sit down, my back against the cold tile wall.

What just happened?

One thing is for certain: Miles is not who I thought he was. He also seems to know more about me and Owen than he should.

I need to get up and go watch the game—pretend everything is fine. But after that, I can’t bring myself to go anywhere. I tuck my knees against my chest as the moment plays over in my head, laced with memories of the past, a nightmare on endless loop.

I squeeze my eyes shut, tears escaping down my cheeks, and will the images away.

It doesn’t work for a long, long time.