Puck Prince (Houston Scythes Hockey #1)

39. Callie

39

CALLIE

I wake up with sweat running down my temples.

I’m not hot. That would be a scientific impossibility because Owen keeps his apartment at subarctic temperatures constantly. His beefy hockey body is like an industrial space heater. If the thermostat rises above sixty-eight, he starts to overheat.

This also isn’t the cold sweat of a nightmare. Not unless I find dreams of Owen putting that hockey body to use terrifying. (To be clear, I don’t.)

No, this is something else.

My stomach is in knots, my insides swirling around like a drain when Owen rolls onto his side to face me.

“Hey there, roomie.” He kisses my shoulder. “I could get used to this.”

I respond by leaping out of bed and making it to his bathroom just in time to throw up.

“Well, maybe I won’t get used to that.” He knocks a knuckle against the bathroom door. “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” I manage between retches.

“Sure, you sound like the picture of health in there.”

Morning sickness is actually part of a healthy pregnancy. Not that I can tell him that. But it’s actually been a while since I’ve had morning sickness. And this doesn’t feel like that. Something feels different, off.

Owen pushes the bathroom door open. From my peripheral, I see him leaning against the door frame in only his boxer briefs. If I wasn’t busy heaving the contents of my stomach into the toilet, I might be enjoying this real-life Calvin Klein underwear ad. As it is…

“Go away.” I grab the door and give it a pathetic push closed, but it bounces off Owen’s body, opening even farther than it was before.

“Are you sick?”

“Obviously,” I let out before puking again.

God. When did this become my life?

A few months ago, I was living out a romcom on Owen’s balcony—and on his couch and in his bed—and now we’re domesticated to the point of walking around in our underwear and watching each other puke. Next, we’ll be picking out burial plots.

“Do you think it’s something you ate? Maybe something didn’t settle well?”

Now that you mention it, carrying your offspring has been a tough pill to swallow.

“I have no idea.” I lean back against the wall with a sigh. I’m still sweating bullets, but at least my stomach seems to be empty.

“I can take you to Urgent Care and have them check you?—”

“No!” I yell and it makes Owen jump.

He’d get a worse jump scare if he took me to Urgent Care. That’s not the way I want him to find out he’s the father of this stomach bug.

“You work in healthcare. Don’t tell me you’re scared of the doctor.”

“I just don’t want to waste anyone’s time. It was probably something I ate, like you said.” I pull myself to my feet, ignoring the way my knees wobble. “I need to go to work.”

He winces. “I’m probably not supposed to say this?—”

“Then don’t.”

“—but you look a little rough.”

I spear him with a glare before looking in the mirror. I do look like hell—pale and blotchy with dark circles under my eyes.

“I’m just tired,” I say, pushing past him.

I am exhausted, but it’s not from lack of sleep. For it being our first night as official roomies, I slept incredibly. Owen’s bed is a massive upgrade from Kennedy’s couch—luxury line or not.

“Your uncle will give you the day off. We’re just doing drills and some kind of class about the importance of hydration or some shit, anyway.”

“I said I’m fine.”

He’s still padding around in almost nothing, all tan, toned skin and distracting bulges. “I know what you said, but I’m looking at you, Cal.”

“I’ll feel better after a shower.” I snatch my clothes out of an actual dresser drawer and head down the hall to his second bathroom—the luxurious perks of living with Owen never end.

“Callie, I don’t mind?—”

“What?” I shout a bit too loud, pulling the bathroom door shut. “I can’t hear you. I’m already in the shower.”

He’s shaking his head in obvious disapproval when I slam the door closed and lock it.

Honestly, I’m with Owen on this one. I’m getting close to the second trimester. I would’ve thought the morning sickness would be easing up by now, not getting worse. Part of me wants to call into work and then go to the doctor after Owen leaves. But there’s every chance he’ll stay back to take care of me if I call in, and I’m not about to have him sitting there when the nurse says, “It’s normal for pregnant women to throw up. Are you taking prenatals?”

I take a ripping hot shower, trying to let the hot water and steam breathe some color into me, but when I get out, I still look like I’m answering the casting call for the next Tim Burton movie.

After applying a little mascara and a lot of concealer, I decide it’ll have to do. I just have to make it through the day without getting sick again.

For the most part, my day is quiet. The guys run their drills in the morning, and then go out for lunch together, so I don’t see much of anyone. It gives me time to hide in the training room and get paperwork done. While I haven’t spewed since this morning, I still don’t have much of an appetite. I force myself to pick at a deconstructed turkey sandwich. Fine, bread. All I can stomach is bread.

I’m enjoying my deconstructed sandwich when the door opens. When I look up, I stop mid-chew.

“Well if it isn’t Owen’s domestic partner.” Miles is grinning as he saunters into the training room.

I force myself to swallow and work hard to keep my expression neutral.

I haven’t spent any time alone with Miles since the charity ball, which has been absolutely on purpose. When I saw him walking towards the training room the other day, I almost ran in the other direction. When Miriam asked where I was going, I mumbled something about a “smoke break.”

Maybe I’m being overly dramatic about him. He didn’t actually do anything. Not really.

But as he closes the space between us, close enough that I have to take a step back, I feel like I should go with my gut.

I’m getting the same hair-raising, tingly spine feeling I got when I saw Spencer at Pour Boys.

“I’m pretty sure ‘girlfriend’ is the commonly accepted term.”

Miles mindlessly rifles through the supplies I have spread across my desk. “Just how serious are the two of you anyway?”

“Didn’t you hear? The wedding is this Saturday.” I keep my tone light, but I take a step back, putting the massage table between us.

He laughs, tossing a roll of KT tape in the air and catching it. “Move-in-together serious, it seems.”

Even if the guys on the team are some of Owen’s best friends, he’s a private guy. I doubt he just barged into the locker room and announced he was shacking up with the physical therapist.

I don’t respond, but Miles doesn’t need my input for this conversation.

“Meet-the-family serious, maybe? Although—” He clicks his tongue like he’s disappointed. “Owen doesn’t have a lot of family, what with his mom being dead and his dad being an MIA sperm donor.”

I don’t need anyone to know exactly how little I know about my new roommate.

“Did you need something?” I ask.

Miles’s mouth is tipped with slight amusement.

Suddenly, I feel sick again.

His eyes slip away, and he paces the room slowly. His hands are in the pockets of his gym shorts, but I don’t feel any safer. I feel like I’m locked in a cage with a predator.

“No, I guess you’re right. He has some family. Siblings, I think? I just can’t quite remember?—”

“He has a sister,” I blurt out. As soon as I do, I realize I probably shouldn’t have. I just want to give him whatever he’s fishing for so he’ll get out.

Miles looks at me, the smirk back. “A sister. That sounds right. Have you met her?”

I don’t answer that.

“Do you need something, Miles? Because I have work to do.”

“I wonder if she’s here in Houston,” he muses.

“I couldn’t tell you.”

“You haven’t met the family, then? Don’t worry, I’m sure it’ll happen soon. You’re the kind of woman guys want to take home to mom. You know, if they have a mom to take you home to. If not, well, then—” He leans across the table, voice low. “—they could just take you home.”

He’s a creep.

No matter what anyone else tries to tell me about Miles and his good guy schtick, I know the truth. I’m never wrong about these kinds of things. Not anymore.

I’m debating which of my reflex hammers to bash him over the head with when the door bursts open.

Miles leans away as Lance strolls in. “Hey, Callie.”

Never have I ever been so happy to be interrupted. Lance is wearing his typical big grin, but it fades slightly when he sees me alone with Miles.

“Hey Lance,” I say as casually as possible.

Miles looks at the ground with a smile, but his jaw is tight. Whatever he had planned, it didn’t involve an audience. He mumbles a “thank you,” and slips out the door.

Oblivious, Lance stops in front of me. “So I have an idea!”

“Oh boy.” I sit down. Now that Miles is gone, I feel like I can finally breathe. “Should I be worried?”

“Always. You know how I said a while back we should all hang out?”

“I remember that, yes.”

“I know we’ve been to the ball and Pour Boys and all that, but you and Owen are getting pretty cozy, so I thought maybe we should do a double date. Or something.”

“A double date?” I arch an eyebrow.

“Or something,” he repeats.

“Have you asked Owen about it?”

Lance rocks back on his heels, combing his hand through his messy blonde hair more than once. “Not exactly. I was thinking I should run it by you first. You know what they say, happy live-in girlfriend, happy… well, I don’t know what rhymes with ‘girlfriend,’ but you get what I mean.”

I can’t help but smile.

“I could be wrong, but a double date would imply that you have someone you’re seeing.”

“I mean, I’m not seeing anyone per se, but…”

“But you want to see them,” I needle, nudging him in the ribs, “on a double date.”

“Oh, um… no.” He shakes his head, doing a terrible job of looking innocent. “But now that you mention it, maybe Kennedy could come along?”

I blink. “Kennedy? On a double date? With me and Owen and… you?”

“Yes. What? No. I mean— Not a double date. Just, like, a get together. A hang out. Something casual, with just the four of us. Maybe dinner and drinks.”

If he backpedaled any harder, he’d be on his ass in the hallway.

He might end up that way, regardless. Because if he asks Kennedy out on a date, she might drop-kick him.

I smile and nod. “I think I could talk to Owen about it?—”

“And Kennedy,” he adds.

“...and Kennedy. Right.”

The wide smile that splits his face makes it impossible for me to tell Lance that madness lies that way. “Cool! You’re the best. You rally the others, and I’ll take care of everything else. Thanks, Cal.”

With that, he walks out. I’m so headspun over whatever just happened that I can’t even think about Miles right now.

All of my brain power needs to be reserved for convincing Kennedy to go on this date and not break this poor man’s heart. Or femur.