Puck Prince (Houston Scythes Hockey #1)

31. Owen

31

OWEN

“Sharpe!” Coach Coleman’s voice sears across the ice so hot I’m surprised it doesn’t melt.

I nod. I already know what he’s going to say.

“Is your helmet on too tight? Get it together!”

I know, man .

We are up against the New Orleans Anglers for a home game, and I am out of it. I’ve been out of it all week, really. Ever since the charity ball.

The photos leaked, and I was up half the night worrying about Summer and Nicky.

And Callie.

Between my shitshow of a not-so-private private life and all the recent almosts with my fake girlfriend, I’m skating with two left feet. I shove my mouthguard back in and hunker down. I’m not about to lose to a team named after a fish with a Christmas light on its face all because of my girlfriend. Who isn’t my girlfriend.

Fuck .

I knew taking Callie to the charity ball was a bad idea. I felt it beforehand, but as soon as I saw her dress (stunning) and her hair (gorgeous) and the way her ass looked while she was wearing her stilettos (fuck me twice), thoughts of her have circled my mind on repeat, turning my brain into jelly and my game to, well, shit.

“Owen! Pass!” Dax shouts at me. But just before I whip him the puck, the center for the other team snatches it.

The announcer bellows through the speakers. “Interception by Nathanson and…”

He scores. Fuck my life.

“I don’t know where Sharpe’s head is today, but it’s not on the ice,” the announcer adds just to toss a cherry on top of this shit sundae. I don’t even have to look at Coach Coleman to feel him incinerating me from the sidelines.

“Owen…” Lance slides up beside me.

“Dude, I was open!” Dax shouts as he skates past.

We skate back into formation, and I do my best to shove all the noise out.

But I haven’t slept. I’ve hardly eaten. I’ve avoided Callie, which in turn means I’ve avoided the training room where I usually work out and stretch. I didn’t even get taped up before the game today. That’s a first. It’s my good luck ritual—not to mention how it helps keep my joints in line.

I don’t know why I’m so bent out of shape. The photos and rumors about Summer and Nicky have more or less fizzled out, but I guess that’s not even what’s really eating me.

All the close encounters with Callie lately have me frustrated, in more ways than one. Because that night when I picked her up for the charity ball, she took my breath away. It’s not just that she’s hot. Which, obviously, she is. It was the way it felt putting my arm around her when the paparazzi slammed us with an explosion of camera flashes. It was the way she leaned into me on the drive over. It was the way she was both charming and professional when talking to my teammates.

The world seemed to fade away when we were on the dance floor, like we were alone in the universe and it was nothing but us, the music, and a sky full of stars.

And speaking of stars……

Someone hits me so hard I see a galaxy’s worth of them. I go sailing, but not before my ankle catches on my own stick. My knee jerks to the side, popping loud enough to echo off the ice.

The game comes to a halt.

I can’t move. I can’t breathe. I lie on the ice in the fetal position trying to get my bearings. It feels like there’s an anvil on my chest, and I’m trying to suck in air through a coffee straw.

“You good, Sharpe?” Miles asks as the team circles me.

I can’t form words. But it’s not the ringing in my ears or the wind knocked from my lungs that has me in crippling pain.

It’s my knee.

Oh, God…

“Hang on, bud. I got you.” I hear Lance’s voice through the blood thrumming in my ears. Then I see him. He kneels down in front of me, pries my helmet from my head, and tosses it aside before pulling my mouthguard out. Maybe he should have left it—the pain is so bad that I need something to bite down on. “Medics are coming.”

“Owen Sharpe is down, ladies and gentlemen, and from the looks of it, it’s bad.”

A moment later, my teammates are moving out of the way as several medics and trainers surround me.

They go through the motions as I grit out, “I’m fine. It’s just my knee.”

“Can you sit up?” one of them asks.

I try, but it’s rough. I prop myself up on my elbows while they examine it.

“Can you bend it?”

I can, but fuck, it hurts.

“That face says it all,” one of them adds. Somehow, that fuels me. A surge of defiance floods my veins, amping up my adrenaline, and I move to stand up. They advise against it, but I ignore them, pulling myself to my feet.

The crowd claps, and the announcer speaks up.

“Well, folks, we might still have our center. He seems to be alr?—”

I collapse.

Goddammit.

I slam my fists down on the ice. Then I hear her voice. “Move. Everyone, move! Boys, get out of my way. You, too, Lance.”

Callie appears beside me.

“Hold still,” she commands.

“Nice to see you, too.” I grimace. “You just skip on out here in your Nikes? How very Callie of you.”

“You just trying to walk off an ACL injury so you can finish a game you’re already losing? How very Owen of you. Now, relax and let me look at it.”

I’m not in the mood for her salt, but at the same time, it’s a nice distraction from the pain. Or at least, it redirects the pain to my heart. This woman seems to have my composure in the palm of her hands these days.

“We gotta get you to my office,” she decides. “Now.”

There’s no sense in fighting her, so I let the medics help me off the ice. They take me to the training room and lay me down on a massage table. It isn’t until then that I realize how labored my breathing is. Sweat drenches my entire collar.

“Of all the games you come to, you had to catch this one?” I tease, my throat dry.

“Yeah, well, I’m glad I did.” She is already working to get my gear off so she can better examine me. “You’re going to have to take your pants off.”

“On a first date? Never.”

She shoots me a look to kill, and I smile.

“Yeah, yeah.” I tug at my waistband. Shimmying out of pants while you are on a table and your knee is screaming is easier said than done, though. Callie has to help me.

I think about anything except the obvious as she slides my pants down one leg and then the other.

Once I’m in my boxer briefs, she gets to work. Her hands are cold against my hot skin, which makes it impossible not to think about where and how she’s touching me.

“If you wanted to feel me up, all you had to do was ask,” I joke.

Callie rolls her eyes without looking at me. “I think you might actually be okay. Maybe a sprain at most. I was worried you tore your ACL, but I don’t see the signs of it. Does this hurt?” She massages a spot below my knee cap.

“Not really.”

“This?” She moves above the knee.

“Negative.”

“This?” She reaches behind my knee, and I jump. “That hurt?”

“No, it tickles.”

She rolls her eyes a second time. “I think you’re going to be okay. But we will keep an eye on it.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She continues to massage my leg. “What happened out there?”

“I got bulldozed. You saw it.”

“No, I mean, why were you so off today? You usually see hits like that coming. I’d go as far as to say you’re intuitive about it. So what happened?”

“ You happened.” My words are honest enough to shock myself and her, apparently. Her hands freeze on my skin.

It’s crickets for a second as she pauses, and then picks it back up again. She massages deeper, working her way around my knee, down my calf, and then back up to my thigh. No longer do her hands feel cold and clinical. They’re warm and… sensual.

The thing about spandex boxer briefs? They show everything. And right now, every mixed up, confusing thing I’ve felt in the last couple days is straining against the material, preparing to burst.

“You need to take it easy.” Callie’s words are suddenly velvety. “Before something bad happens.”

“What kind of something? And how bad?” I’m practically foaming at the mouth. It’s been a minute since I’ve gotten off, and I feel like this woman has the power to end me without even actually doing the deed.

“Pulling a muscle. You wouldn’t want to be bedridden in the middle of a season, would you?”

“Depends on what’s being ridden in my bed…”

Her hand slides higher on my thigh. “You talk a lot of shit for someone who is literally at my mercy.”

My God, is she actually doing this right now? I might be a little out of sorts lately, but I’m coherent enough to know she’s not talking about physical therapy anymore.

“Don’t shoot the shot if you’re not going to follow through.” I grit my teeth to keep myself from begging. “I don’t want your mercy. I want—” My words die when her hand brushes my crotch.

She clicks her tongue. “My word, somebody is tense…”

Yep. She’s actually doing this. Right now. Right here.

I wonder if the door is locked. But then again, everyone is at the game, which is only half-over. We could still be in the center of the rink, and I’m not sure I’d stop her.

“Is this helping?”

“You know damn well what it’s doing, Callie.”

Callie’s hand strokes up and down my cock from the base to the tip, over and over. The movements are slow, painfully so.

“Callie…” She knows what she’s doing. A little faster and it’ll all be over. I’ll be over.

“Somebody want more?” She bites her lip, and I grip the edges of the table. I only manage a frantic nod.

“Say it.”

“I want… more.”

I want everything.

“Again.”

My eyes lock on hers. There’s color high in her cheeks. She’s asking what I want, but I see it written all over her face.

I hook my hand around the nape of her neck and pull her down to me. Her mouth collides with mine. I part her lips with my tongue and the kiss goes deeper. I have been wanting, needing this kiss for so long.

And I’ll be damned if anyone or anything is going to get in the way of it now.

She moans into my mouth, and I feel a surge in my groin. Leave it to Callie Coleman to be able to edge me just with the noises she makes.

She brings her hand to the elastic waistband of my briefs and shoves it inside, making skin-on-skin contact with my rock-hard, aching dick.

I suck on her tongue, nibbling at her lip, coaxing her to finish the job. Her hand wraps around me, stroking rhythmically, all the while her thumb circles around that inner sweet spot on the tip, driving me completely insane.

This time, I’m the one moaning. I tangle my hands in her hair, gripping tightly as my entire body tenses in anticipation before I finally, thankfully, release.

I fall back on the table in a puddle. Metaphorically and literally.

Callie stands up. Her lips are swollen, and she glances back towards the door as she smooths down her messy hair.

Someone could have walked in. We took a huge risk.

And I could not care less.

This is the best I’ve felt since… since the night I dragged her onto my balcony. My muscles are lax. My knee doesn’t even hurt.

I sit up and swing my legs over the side of the table. She gasps when I hop down.

“Careful!”

“I think I’m alright.” I groan through a stretch. It’s a good groan, though.

Callie watches while I tuck myself away and pull on my pants. I’m tempted to lock the door and return the favor, but I’ve put her job at enough risk for one night.

“Where are you going?” she asks as I grab my gear.

The distant sounds of the crowd groaning echo down the hall to us.

“The ice. We got a game to win and, from the sound of it, they can’t do it without me.”

“You can’t get back on the ice. You’re injured.”

“Don’t underestimate yourself, Cal. You healed me.” I chuck her chin. “I feel good.”

She swats my hand away from her face. “Of course you feel good. We just— I just— That doesn’t mean you’re not injured, Owen.” Her bossy PT voice is kinda cute.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I feel like a new man.”

Before she can say anything else, I pull her into me and cover her disapproving mouth with mine. I kiss her until she softens against me and she’s too distracted to argue.

She’s staring after me in a daze as I leave the training room and head back to the rink.

The crowd cheers as I rejoin the team. While I’m still sore, I’m ready to go.

“Damn, O, you look fine. What kind of magic did Callie work in there?” Heath asks. Everyone’s eyes are on me.

“She’s just really good at her job.” I replace my mouthguard so they won’t see me grin.

As soon as I skate onto the ice, I know things are different. The haze I’ve been muddling through for days is gone. My thoughts are clear, and I put everything I have into taking control of the game.

It’s night and day from before. Even with the sound of Callie’s moans echoing in the back of my brain, I’m perfectly in sync with the team. It’s like all the disjointed pieces of my life finally clicked together.

We tie up the game and, with less than a minute to go, I’ve never felt calmer.

Heath gets control of the puck and passes it to Lance. Without even trying, I find the opening. Lance passes it to me, and as if it was choreographed, I sink the winning shot.