Puck Prince (Houston Scythes Hockey #1)

27. Callie

27

CALLIE

I really should stay off of balconies. Every time I’m on one these days, something catastrophic happens.

Doors lock. Cats attack me. Lightning storms appear spontaneously.

I end up sucking face with Owen Sharpe.

In my defense, he kissed me.

In his defense, I didn’t stop him.

Hell, I didn’t want it to end. But that’s beside the point. The point is we are breaking the rules. The rules that very blatantly stated our relationship starts and ends at the threshold of apartment doors.

Then again, technically speaking, the balcony is outside. If we want to get really legalese about it…

“Now, you’re just making excuses.” I say out loud to Delilah. Of course, she just twitches her tail and meanders away with a slow purr of indifference. “Yeah, yeah, fuck you, too.”

Delilah has been judging me all day. I don’t often spend an entire day in my pajamas, but lately, I feel like Satan’s asshole from the moment I wake up until the moment I go to sleep. I’m coming up on the second trimester ( how is that even possible? ), and I’m teetering on that ultra-thin line of Is she pregnant or does she just need to lay off the Dunkin’?

Baggy sweatpants or anything with a control panel over the stomach have become my best friend. But I’m finding out the hard way that you can’t really flatten out a baby growing inside you. Nor should you, I’m guessing.

I put my hand on my stomach. As much as I’m trying to hide it, this little person is very much there.

And with the swell of my belly, there’s a swelling of my soul, too.

I’m like the Grinch—my crabby, cold heart growing three sizes. I always saw myself being a mom, but it was a distant, far-off thing. More like, “ One day, when I have kids…” Never, “In six months, when I give birth…”

So this being thrust upon me—no pun intended—is a little jarring. I’m scared, obviously. But somewhere under the fear of stretch marks and pain and pooping on the delivery table, there’s love.

I always struggled with the idea of love a little bit. Given the spotty track record with my own parents, I grew up thinking that love meant staying. If my parents loved me, they would’ve stuck around—they would’ve stayed together and supported me.

Then again, I can’t think of anything worse than being trapped in a house with the two of them and their loveless marriage. Maybe the real show of love was leaving me with Uncle Randy and Kennedy.

I also thought children were born out of love, but now I know the only thing required is a lot of wine, a splash of self-pity, and an unfortunate logistical situation. Add to that a hot hockey player with a great tongue and an even greater, well, you know… and BAM . Here we are. Standing in the kitchen at 3:00 P.M. in flannel pants with a violent craving for Cinnamon Toast Crunch.

I find myself thinking back to the other day. To the way I opened up to Owen. I also can’t help but replay his response. He was genuine. Concerned. Sweet, even.

Then he let down those walls of his and opened up to me about Summer, who, mercifully, is not another secret baby mama, and it’s obvious why I had trouble keeping my mouth off of his. It’s obvious how I got here in the first place.

A knock at the door pulls me out of my thoughts. I open it to find… no one. Just a box.

Probably an Amazon order for Kennedy. That girl has her finger hovering over One-Click at all times. But when I set it on the counter, I realize there’s no postage label. Just a handwritten note.

With my name on it.

At first, I panic. I’m running through a highly improbable list of bombs, Anthrax, and severed heads when something sort of probable creeps in—what if it’s from Spencer? What if he’s trying to fuck with me? Or worse yet, make amends? I’m tempted to throw it away or toss it off the balcony, when I decide I should at least read the note first, lest I do anything hasty.

To Callie,

For the Charity Ball.

See you at 7.

—Owen

“Oh.” Not an option I considered, but still improbable. Maybe even just as dangerous.

I blink.

Then I open it.

“The man is a wizard. He knew your dress size just by looking at you.” Kennedy says as she stands behind me in the mirror. As soon as I told her about the dress in the package, she dragged me to the bathroom to try it on.

It’s snug in all the right places—boobs, hips, ass—and also snug in a few wrong places—I’m looking at you “Li’l Dunkin.”

I roll my eyes at her in the mirror. She avoids mine.

“You told him, didn’t you?” I ask.

She bites the corner of her mouth to keep from smiling. “Maybe…”

“You totally did.”

She ignores me. “For real, Cal. It fits like a dream. I wonder how much it cost.”

“I don’t think that matters.” I run my hands through my hair and grimace.

“You should curl it,” she suggests, watching me. “I’ll grab my flat iron. Also, I have some earrings that would be totally gorg’ with this.” She jumps up with a squeal. “It’s like prom!”

Prom. Right. At least this time, Uncle Randy won’t be threatening the guy with a hockey skate blade. Although, on second thought?—

“What are you going to wear?” I yell back to her. Since her dad is the coach, Kennedy always goes to these events. I don’t know how much she cares about charity, but it’s an excuse for her to get dolled up and flirt with hockey players. She’d never turn that down.

“I bought this last week.” She pops back in with a blue dress on a hanger, a flat iron, and the earrings she mentioned.

I squint down at the tiny, princess-cut diamonds. “You’re right: they are gorgeous. You don’t want to wear them?”

“Oh, hell no. Solitaire diamond earrings say ‘serious relationship’ and ‘off the market.’ And unlike you, I am very much on the market. So it’s gold hoops for me.”

I don’t really understand the language of jewelry, but I’m too tired to do anything other than go with it. “As you wish, Your Highness.”

“Y’know, I could get used to that. Now, sit it and shut it. I’m about to work wonders on your hair, and I need perfect silence while I work my magic.”

We finish getting ready just in time for the knock at the door. “Does Owen know you’re bringing me along with you?” Kennedy asks as we slip into our heels.

“I mean, you’re the coach’s daughter. I think it’s implied.”

“Alright, good enough for me. You get the door; I gotta grab my purse.”

I open the door, and both Owen and I take a step back like repelling magnets.

I made out with him when he was fresh off a plane and in a pair of sweatpants, so I’m only realizing at this exact moment that formal wear is a very dangerous game. Owen seems to agree. He looks like someone punched him in the stomach as his eyes drag over me not once but twice.

“Damn, Callie, you look great!” I take another step back because Owen’s mouth didn’t move. It takes me a second to tear my eyes away from him to notice Lance standing just to his right. Apparently, he’s tagging along, too.

“Thanks.”

Owen shoots him an irritated look, but Lance just shrugs. “What? Am I wrong?”

“No, but you’re supposed to be the silent third wheel,” he mutters out of the corner of his mouth.

“You and I always go to these things together. If anyone is the third wheel, it’s Callie.” Lance tosses me an apologetic smile. “Though I’ll take the back seat because y’all look bangin’ together.”

“Shut your face, man.”

At the same time, Kennedy appears behind me, smiling cryptically the way she does. Uncle Randy calls it her “fox in the henhouse” grin, and he isn’t wrong. “Ain’t no tricycle here, boys. I’m?—”

But her face drops when she sees Lance.

If I didn’t know any better, I’d say they have history.

And not the good kind.

But Lance’s mouth just quirks in an amused smile. “Guess not. Looks like a double date.”

“Drop dead, Craven.” She gives him a sneer that could kill and pushes her way out the door. “Let’s go. I already need a drink.”

I look at the guys, not really sure what happened. Then I hustle past them and catch up to Kennedy. “What was that about?” I whisper to her as she clacks toward the elevator.

“Don’t worry about it. Lance Craven isn’t worth your breath or mine.”

The moment we walk outside, we are bombarded by flashing cameras. I don’t know why, but I wasn’t expecting so much press. Kennedy marches through it like a one-woman army, pretending to be annoyed while simultaneously aiming her best angles at the photographers.

I slink back and immediately feel Owen’s arm around me. “Just ignore them,” he advises as we make our way to the blacked-out Escalade.

I try, but it’s kind of hard with everyone calling our names and lights going off like fireworks in our faces. But Owen seems calm, so I follow his lead.

Once we are inside the car, I think I might be able to relax, but people are literally pounding on the windows.

“Is this normal?” I ask, wondering if the people pressing themselves against the car can see me as well as I can see up their nostrils.

“Totally,” Kennedy answers while scrolling through her phone. “It’s obnoxious. You get used to it, though.”

I nod, though I don't really see how anyone just gets used to it. I feel Owen hug me against him and it’s only then that I realize he still has his arm around me.

The way he’s holding me, I don’t think he intends to let go anytime soon.

Can’t say I mind as much as I should.

The ball is being held at a convention center downtown. Everything is very suit-and-tie with white tablecloths, champagne bottles in silver ice buckets, and fairy lights and tulle draping from the ceiling. There is also a charcuterie-board-style grazing table and an open bar. A live band plays jazz music in the corner while couples dance.

“This is swanky,” Kennedy comments as we make our way inside. “The team upped their game this year.”

It’s enchanting. But I’m obviously not going to say that out loud. With Owen’s arm firmly wrapped around me since the second we stepped out of our apartment, I’ve had to remind myself several times already that this isn’t real.

I mean, the charity event is real, obviously.

But the relationship isn’t.

“I need a drink,” Kennedy announces for the second time, eying the bar.

“Would you like me to get one for you?” Lance offers. “Whiskey sour, to match your face, maybe?”

“I’m sorry—why are you still here?”

“Ken!” I give her a look, but Lance just brushes it off, sauntering over to join the rest of the team.

“Do you want anything?” Owen asks me.

“I’m alright right now. But thank you.”

We make our rounds, saying hello to all the players. Several of them have dates; others have their sights locked on Kennedy, considering she’s a free agent. It’s wild to me how ballsy they are considering Uncle Randy is nearby. It’s one thing for one of his players to go out with his niece, but they’d have to be flat-out idiotic to hit on his daughter.

And yet, wonders never cease.

“You hungry?” Owen asks. I’m about to tell him that I will eat almost anything he puts in front of me when we are interrupted by a male voice. I’d say it’s a good thing considering the many inappropriate jokes that would’ve probably followed, but it’s a voice I know.

A voice that makes the hair on the back of my neck stand on end and my skin crawl.

A voice that makes me lose my appetite.

“Sharpe. You thought you could just walk right by without saying hello?” It’s Miles and his fiancé. I think fast and plaster on a smile, a smile that says, This is no different than greeting anyone else on the team. He’s just another guy. She’s just another woman. No reason to be tense.

“My bad.” Owen grins and they do a man-shake hug. “Lookin’ good, bro. Who told you about Tom ford?”

“What can I say? My taste has evolved.”

“Not that you had anything to do with that.” Owen winks and nods towards Miles’ fiancée. With her fire truck red hair, perfect lips, and black evening dress that might as well have been painted on, she is Scarlett Johansson: Black Widow Edition ?.

“You ain’t wrong, man. If I’m a better man than I used to be, this one here is to blame.” Miles clutches her hand and turns to me, expression even. “This is Alisha.”

“I just see to it that you don’t buy your suits at a place that refers to itself as a ‘warehouse,’ that’s all.” She lets out a phony laugh.

Miles laughs.

Owen laughs.

Fine…

I laugh, too.

“Oh my God, they actually have Dom Perignon!” Alisha gushes a moment later.

She’s already tugging Miles towards the bar. “I guess that’s my cue.”

“You kids have fun,” Owen says.

“I’m sure we’ll run into each other again.” As he passes us, Miles’s eyes rake across me.

It’s enough to make me feel sick. Enough to bring back memories of the incident at the away game.

“Well, shall we?” Owen asks.

It takes me a moment to look at him. When I do, he is holding a hand out, his eyes intent and locked on mine.

“Shall we what?”

“Dance. Obviously.”

His lips curl in the corners, and I take his hand, forgetting all about Miles Solomon.

For now.