Puck Prince (Houston Scythes Hockey #1)

40. Callie

40

CALLIE

“Absolutely not.” Kennedy shakes her head, and I don’t know why I expected anything different. “Pick literally anyone else on the team, and I am all for a double date. But Lance? Not a chance in hell.”

It’s Sunday morning, and I invited Kennedy out for coffee.

Really, it’s almost noon. Kennedy doesn’t do mornings.

And really, she’s drinking a Bloody Mary. Kennedy doesn’t do coffee when there’s alcohol on the brunch menu.

I’m sipping peppermint tea, but I’m going to need something a lot stronger to get through this sales pitch.

“Come on, Kenny,” I plead. “The guys think it’s a great idea. It sounds kind of fun!”

“Owen is sweet. And hot. But that boy has hit his head on the ice too many times if he thinks me and Sir Lancelot are a good idea.” She picks the salad of veggies out of her glass and sets them aside before taking a sip. Watching her guzzle down spiked spicy V8 makes my stomach roll.

I take another sip of tea and pray I don’t get sick.

“And as far as Lance is concerned, of course he thinks it’s a great idea. This hell fest was his idea, no doubt.”

“What is it with you and Lance anyway? He’s really nice.”

She wags a finger at me. “No. No, no. He smiles a lot. It’s a trick.”

“Smiling is a trick?” I arch a brow.

“He wants you to think he’s friendly and approachable and a generous lover, but you can’t buy into it, Cal. That smile disguises what I’m sure is a two pump chump who doesn’t know how to use his stick unless he’s on the ice.”

“You do realize this is a double date, not an orgy? Just show up and make polite conversation. No… pumping necessary.”

The older couple at the table next to us look scandalized, and I’m with them. This conversation feels violating.

My phone buzzes, yet another text from Lance lighting up the screen.

Does Kennedy have any allergies?

Poor, misguided man.

“Kennedy,” I groan. “Please. I have to give them an answer. Will you go with us or not?”

She lets out a persecuted sigh. “Fine.”

“Thank you.”

Holy water , I text Lance before I fire off a second text to Owen. We’re on.

Kennedy tosses a celery stick onto the table. “But I’m going to hate every second of it.”

“That’s the spirit,” I drone. “You should lead with that on the date.”

“See, this place looks fun. Admit it.” I nudge Kennedy as we walk into Room With a View. It’s a rooftop cocktail bar with a view overlooking downtown Houston.

String lights hang from the trees and a live band is playing in the corner. When Lance said he’d “take care of everything,” I kind of expected him to reserve us a time slot at a laser tag arcade. But this is swanky.

“I hate it,” Kennedy says flatly.

Her arm is looped through mine as we walk ahead of the guys. I know for a fact she’s swaying her hips more than usual because she bumps me off balance with every step. All the better to show off the red backless dress and stiletto heels she chose for what she’s affectionately calling, “the Saw movie of dates.”

I went with a flowy blue number I bought for the wedding of a friend of a cousin. It’s lacking the va-va-voom of Kennedy’s outfit, but considering my options were this dress or a pair of Owen’s old sweatpants, everyone should just be happy I showed up.

“No, you don’t. There’s alcohol and an appetizer menu with a cheese board.”

Hope sparkles in her eyes. “There is?”

“Yes. And you’d know that if you stopped trying to prove how miserable this night is going to be and enjoyed yourself, instead.”

She huffs, but doesn’t argue. Still, when we get to our table, she sits next to me, leaving a wide, awkward chasm between us and our dates.

“That’s alright,” Owen smiles at me across the table. “This way, I can see you. You look stunning in that dress, by the way.”

Whether it’s all for show or not, the compliment melts me.

I don’t feel stunning. I feel matronly. And kind of sick. I’m praying it’s just nerves, because upchucking on this painful double date really would turn it into a Saw movie. And speaking of awkward…

“I’m surprised you picked this place, Lance.” Kennedy snags the cocktail menu. “It’s not cheap.”

I knock her knee with mine under the table, but Lance just smiles, unfolding his cloth napkin and laying it across his lap.

“I enjoy a decent cocktail and a lovely view. If you stopped talking about yourself once in a while, maybe you’d know that.”

Oh god. Here we go.

I so wish I could have a drink right now. A martini, a Cosmo. Heck, I’d settle for a stale beer if it meant softening the edges of this double-date-turned-hang-out-turned-double-date.

“I mean, I guess the sunset over the skyline does look beautiful.” Kennedy glances out the windows before handing me the cocktail menu. I pass it to Lance along with the world’s most apologetic look.

“That isn’t the view I was talking about,” he says softly.

As soon as the waitress arrives, Kennedy waves her down. “I want the best cocktail you have.”

“We have a gin and tonic with muddled berries, fresh juniper berries and house gin. Garnished with mint and?—”

“I’ll take that, but top shelf gin, please.”

“What are you doing?” I whisper.

She never orders anything top-shelf. I know she’s only doing it to rack up the tab, but Lance doesn’t react.

Kennedy just smiles. “Enjoying myself.”

Both men order an old fashioned, and I use the shuffling of the drink menus to quietly order a ginger ale.

But Kennedy hears me. “Really? You’re going to come to a cocktail lounge and not get a drink? What happened to enjoying ourselves?”

“Are you having a good time?” Lance asks, latching onto the hint of praise.

Owen reaches across the table. “Order whatever you want, Cal. I’ll make sure you get home safe.”

“It’s alright.” I smile. “I’m not in a drinking mood.”

Kennedy looks horrified. “You move in together, and suddenly you’re all domesticated.”

Owen studies me, and I know he’s worried. My stomach really is off, though.

The night goes on, and what I lacked in the drinks portion of the evening, I make up for with the appetizer menu. The focaccia with goat cheese and apricot jam is officially the fifth—and my personal favorite—wheel of this date.

Though, my actual date looks unreal in his tailored pants and Oxford shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. God, this man’s forearms are no joke. I get a glimpse of the muscles shifting beneath his skin every time he reaches across the table to grab my hand.

Which is often.

The brush of his thumb over my knuckles is distracting enough for me to think Kennedy’s salty jabs at Lance might be taking a shift from insulting to something in the vicinity of teasing, which feels like an improvement.

As the waitress clears away our charcuterie board, Lance eats the Bordeaux cherry out of the bottom of his glass. “Callie, I gotta know: what’s it like living with this guy?” He elbows Owen.

I purse my lips, deciding how to answer that. “Honestly? Terrible.”

Kennedy chokes on her gin and tonic—her second of the night—and Lance snorts. “So not much different than he is on the ice. Got it.”

Owen shakes his head, his mouth popped open in betrayal.

I can’t help but giggle. “No, he’s not that bad. Just a little… particular about things.”

Owen gasps. “I am not. Like what?”

“The way you load the dishwasher.”

“I’m not particular, I just like it to fit together in a way that is efficient but also every dish gets clean from every angle.”

“It’s Tupperware, not Tetris, babe.”

“Says the girl who loads it like a raccoon stashing things she found in a dumpster.”

I glare at him. He glares at me. Under the table, though, he covers my knee with his hand.

Meanwhile, Kennedy and Lance can’t stop laughing.

“God, you sound like a married couple,” Lance says.

Kennedy agrees. “It’s kind of gross. Get a room.”

“We have a room,” I point out. “We share it.”

“We share a closet, too.” Owen winks at me, and my cheeks burn.

I kick him under the table, but he just laughs.

“Well, look who it is.” I’m still distracted by how high on my thigh Owen’s hand is, so it takes me a second to notice the couple standing next to our table. “You boys are wining and dining your ladies and didn’t think to invite me? I’m hurt.”

Suddenly, all the warmth in the room is gone. My skin crawls as I turn to see Miles and his fiancée smiling down at us.

“It was kind of a last minute thing.” Owen’s fingers drum across my inner thigh like Morse code.

I’m right here.

I lean into his side.

“I see how it is,” Miles says with fake hurt in his voice. Then he winks at me.

My stomach turns.

“You two come here often?” Lance asks.

“Alisha likes places like this, and I figured I should take her out as much as possible before the baby gets here.”

All of us nearly choke.

“Baby?” Lance is the first one capable of forming words.

Miles acts like it’s not a surprise. Like we all knew. “Yeah. Alisha is pregnant.”

“Oh. Wow.” Owen seems unsure how to react. “I mean, congrats, brother.” He stands to give him a hand shake. Then he asks the waitress if we can add another two chairs to our table.

And just like that, the night takes a turn.

Alisha sits quietly as Miles orders a beer for himself and a water for her. She’s dressed beautifully, but she keeps her hands in her lap and a small, unwavering smile taped on her face.

I feel bad for her.

“Alisha, when are you due?” I ask.

She makes a show of trying to do the math before she shrugs. “I’m about 12 weeks along.”

So am I , I want to say.

I don’t have an exact number, but I do know exactly when I conceived, so the window is pretty small.

“We actually went to see the doctor last week,” Miles beams. “I got to see pictures of the little gremlin.”

“It’s a baby.” Alisha pats his leg, but Miles barely looks at her.

“It didn’t look like a baby. Not yet, anyway,” Miles goes on. “But I can’t wait to do the whole Dad thing. When she first told me I was like, fuck my life, you know? But then I thought about it, and I like the idea of a mini me running around. Maybe he’ll even play hockey!”

Alisha pats her stomach. “I kind of think it’s a girl.”

“No fucking way.” Miles shakes his head, and her smile fades. “My T levels are too high to make girls!”

“And my condoms are too impenetrable to make anything.” Lance raises his glass, and Kennedy and Owen both toast to that.

I would raise my ginger ale, but even all of my lying has to end somewhere.

“Pregnant at a cocktail lounge.” Alisha shakes her head and smiles at me. “What was I thinking?”

“That’s okay, you can order a ginger ale like Callie.” Kennedy rolls her eyes. “It’s all she drinks these days, apparently.”

“Really?” Alisha asks. “Me too. I can’t seem to stomach anything else.”

And with that, I can no longer stomach this conversation.

“Excuse me.” I scoot my chair back and make my way to the bathroom. I hear another chair scrape across the floor and assume it’s Kennedy. She stands firmly by the rule that no woman can public restroom alone. But just as I step into the narrow hallway off the main dining area, Owen calls out.

“Callie, wait up.” He pants as he comes to a stop. “You were booking it out of there.”

“I’m sorry, I just don’t feel very good.”

“You okay?” He presses his hand to my forehead, and I want to sink against it and let him hold me up.

Because no, I’m not okay. What I am is pregnant. With your baby, actually. And I’m hiding it because this is a temporary fling with permanent consequences. Also, my ex is stalking me, your creepy teammate keeps hitting on me, and I can’t stop throwing up. I’m far from okay.

“I’m fine.”

Owen nods, but the way he strokes the back of his hand along my cheek tells me he isn't convinced. “We can leave if you want. I know Miles being here might be weird for you.”

“We’re on a double date with two people who hate each other. It was weird the moment we got here.”

“Fair enough,” he admits. “But still, we can leave whenever you want. All you have to do is squeeze my hand, and I’ll make an excuse for why we need to dine and dip.”

“Like what?” I ask.

“Like you look like a Grecian goddess in that dress, and I need to get you home so I can rip it off of you with my teeth.”

I laugh, but the waitress reaches the table at the same time we do. My salad looks delicious, but my stomach bottoms out when I see the Branzino on Lance’s plate. Nothing kills the mood, or my appetite, for that matter, more than a dead sea bass staring up at you from the table.

I squeeze Owen’s hand, hard.

“Can I get you anything else?” the waitress asks.

Owen raises a polite finger. “Actually, I need these two plates boxed up, please. Also, the check.”

Note to self: kiss this man later.