Puck Prince (Houston Scythes Hockey #1)

43. Callie

43

CALLIE

There’s never been a single good reason to eat a salad. Until now.

I take a crunchy bite of the cranberry chicken salad I bought from Whole Foods on my way home, washing it down with small sips of lemon cucumber water. Yesterday, I warmed up an expired Hot Pocket in the filthy microwave at the back of the training room, but today, I’m the picture of health and wellness. I might even go for a walk afterward.

I circle my hand over my stomach. “We’re gonna grow you that neck, baby.”

I slip the sonogram out of my purse again and stare down at it.

I’m sure I’m getting carried away, but I can’t help it.

I’m having a baby, and now, I have proof.

This is real.

This is happening.

And I’m in love.

I know I am because I don’t even know what this little bean looks like—aside from having a head, a chubby belly, and no neck—but I’m already dreaming about paint colors for the nursery and baby names.

I like floral names for a girl. Or I could smash the patriarchy and call her Callie the Second. Kennedy would love that power move.

If it’s a boy, maybe Owen Jr.

My stomach churns, and I have to force down the next tasteless bite of salad.

I don’t even know Owen’s middle name. Or his dad’s name. Other than Summer, I don’t think he has anyone in his family he’s especially close to. His mom is gone, and his dad was never much of a dad.

I relate to that. My parents weren’t present even when we were all in the same room. We ate silent dinners, and I can’t ever remember hearing them say “I love you.” But at least I had Kennedy and Uncle Randy.

Owen was on his own.

And now, he’s going to have a family, and he still has no idea.

I need to tell him. For his sake, and our child’s.

I don’t want my baby growing up in a sad, quiet house. I want a nice home with a happy family—whatever the hell that looks like. I want to have game nights and cut their sandwiches into hearts like all the annoying Instagram moms I can’t stand.

This baby’s life may have started out in a whirlwind, but it doesn’t have to stay that way. I can do this, with or without Owen. But with him… with him would be nice.

I poke at my salad with my fork and allow my brain to slide back into the memory of when Nicky was sick. The fear in Owen’s eyes was palpable.

I should’ve known right that second that his whole bachelor-for-life thing was bullshit. Or, at the very least, it’s a front for not wanting to repeat his own childhood. (Again, I relate.)

He loves that baby, and he protects everyone in his life with everything he has. Even liars, like me.

When Owen Sharpe walked out on that balcony, I thought I knew everything I needed to know with one glance. But he’s so many things I never imagined. Maybe being a father could be one of those things.

I hear a key in the doorknob, and I nearly fall backward out of my chair.

It’s way too early for Owen to be home, and Kennedy would already be screaming my name and pounding on the door with both fists.

I think of the note taped to Owen’s door, and my heart races.

Is it Summer’s ex? Does he think she’s here?

Or worse… Spencer? He found me. He found me, and he knows I’m pregnant, and he’s here to ? —

My mind is tumbling over the what ifs when the door opens, and Owen walks in.

There’s a second of sweet relief before more blind panic.

I quickly shove the sonogram photo deep into the bottom of my purse and drop it on the floor at my feet.

I’m going to tell him, but not when he’s just walked through the door. I can’t assault someone with information like this.

I spin around on my stool. “You scared the hell out of me. I didn’t know you’d be home early.”

Owen is still in half of his hockey gear. His hair is tousled with sweat. It looks like he stepped off the ice and came straight here.

“What happened to you?”

But Owen doesn’t say anything. He isn’t smiling.

He’s standing in the doorway, huffing like a bull that broke out of the pen. The way his eyes are zeroed in on me, I feel like a matador.

“Owen?” I start.

But he cuts me off.

“Are you pregnant?”

The growled question hits me like, well, a bull. Horns and all.

It knocks the smile from my face and the air from my lungs.

“What do you mean?” It’s a stupid question. I heard him. There’s no other way to interpret what he said.

But there are several options in front of me, ranging from telling him the truth to throwing myself off the balcony. All seem valid from where I’m sitting.

“I saw pictures of you outside of a clinic. They’re all over the internet.”

I go to reach for my phone, but it’s in my purse… with the sonogram photos. I fold my hands in my lap, instead. “Who was taking pictures of me?”

I was so careful. I didn’t even tell Kennedy, and I tell Kennedy everything. If she finds out about me being pregnant on the internet, she’ll never speak to me again. Though that might be the least of my problems right now.

“The paparazzi! Who else?” Owen is fuming. “Are you pregnant?”

“I’m— Stop yelling at me.” Now, I’m mad. I have no right to it, but who is he to barge into his own house with all kinds of spot-on accusations just because the paparazzi can’t let people live in peace? What they’re reporting is absolutely true, but that’s not the point.

“Answer the question!” he yells.

“No.”

I was going to tell him. Eventually. But not like this. Not when he’s red-faced and screaming, and I’m scrambling.

It was supposed to be… Fuck, I don’t know. Different. It was supposed to be different.

His scowl deepens. “No, you won’t answer the question? Or no, you’re not—” His eyes catch on something at my feet. “What’s that?”

I look down, and my stomach drops when I see the sonogram picture poking out.

Shit.

I kick my bag under the stool. “Nothing. It’s none of your?—”

Owen snags the strap of my purse and swings it into his arms. He grips the corner of the sonogram, and it’s like the world around me is melting. I can feel it all coming undone, and I can’t even think straight.

“No!” I scream, grabbing for the photo.

I pull, he pulls. It’s a quick game of tug of war that he wins when he yanks hard, ripping the sonogram in half.

“Owen!” He might as well have ripped my heart in half. My shredded corner of the sonogram is trembling in my hand when Owen takes it from me and pieces the picture back together.

His jaw clenches and unclenches—the telltale sign that all is not right in his world.

Meanwhile, I can’t seem to close mine. I am so shocked and mortified, I can’t do anything but stand here in disbelief.

How did this happen?

His throat bobs, but his eyes don’t lift from the sonogram as he asks, “Whose is it?”

“What?” Is he talking about the picture? Or the baby? Or all of the above?

Either way, the answer is the same: mine.

“Whose baby are you pregnant with, Callie?” His voice shakes, and I’ve never seen Owen like this. All the times I’ve pushed his buttons and driven him crazy, I’ve still never seen him this angry.

Lying will only make it worse.

“It’s yours, Owen. Obviously.”

“Don’t do that. Don’t act like I should know what the fuck is going on here.” His chest rises and falls jaggedly. He looks back to the picture. “Are you sure?”

“We’re together, Owen. Of course, I’m sure.”

“Not for real. For all I know?—”

“Don’t.” It’s my turn to warn him. “You know I wouldn’t do that.”

Our relationship may be fake, but we’re living together. Exclusivity was baked into the arrangement, whether it was spoken or not. I’ve lied about a lot, but I wouldn’t disrespect him like that.

“I don’t know anything,” he says so quietly I almost don’t hear him. He chews his lip, his eyes darting from me to the sonogram. “How long have you known? Did you just find out?”

I want to lie.

How much easier would things be if that was the truth? If I was blissfully unaware until a few hours ago instead of lying to him every single day for weeks?

I swallow down the answer I want to give and force out the truth. “Since the beginning.”

“The beginning of the pregnancy or the beginning of us?”

“Since before I even knew you were Owen Sharpe.”

Answering the string of questions I know are coming feels like ripping stitches out.

“Jesus.” He hunches forward like I just punched in the stomach. I might as well have. “And you didn’t tell me?”

Owen looks at me, and what I wouldn’t give to roll back time. My kingdom for a time machine. Knowing what I know now—seeing this raw, disappointed look on his face—I would’ve told him the second I saw him outside the arena. I would’ve let him drag me away from the reporter and then spilled the whole messy truth.

“I know I should have. I was going to. But with everything going on, I just couldn’t find the right time. I was so focused on work and finding a place to live and?—”

“You.”

I blink. “What?”

“You were so focused on yourself, on what you wanted and what mattered to you , that you didn’t give a shit about me. If you did, you would’ve told me I’m going to have a kid?”

I hug myself as I start to cry. “I was in denial at first. And then… I didn’t know how to say it. I didn’t— I was afraid.”

“You don’t think I’ve been afraid?” he roars, throwing his arms up. “I’ve been busting my ass to protect Summer and Nicky and you. I’ve been trying to do my job and manage the media and shield you from papz and even the people we work with. Meanwhile, you let me parade you around as my girlfriend while you knew you were pregnant.”

“I know!” I drop my face into my hands, my words muffled. “It was stupid. And selfish. I wasn’t thinking. I— It hasn’t exactly been great for me, either. I’ve been dealing with this alone for three months. Not even Kennedy knows.”

I’m pouring my heart out—a heart that is breaking with every word. But Owen just points to the door.

“Get out.”

My chest hitches. “Owen…”

I didn’t plan to, but I’m moving towards him.

He backs away, holding out a warning hand. “Callie, you lied to me.”

“I know, and I’m?—”

“You put yourself in danger, and you kept something from me that is very much my business. This is going to affect the rest of my life, but you decided to keep it to yourself because telling me was awkward. If you feel alone in this, that’s on you.” He steps aside, opening the path to the door. “Now, get out.”

He doesn’t want me here, and every second I spend looking into his cold, flat eyes takes years off my life.

But I can’t leave. Not like this.

“You can’t put this all on me. You were there that night, Owen. You lied about the key to Kennedy’s house. You ripped the condom open with your teeth, for fuck’s sake. And when it was over, you shoved me out the door. Sorry if I misunderstood that to mean you wanted a lasting commitment.”

“It was a random hookup!” he growls. “Was I supposed to propose marriage?”

“Was I supposed to assume you’d be overjoyed to hear we were starting a family?” I swipe at the angry tears rolling down my cheeks. “Yes, I should’ve told you—I know that. But when would I have, hmm? When the paparazzi were jumping out of bushes? When my uncle was grilling us about our nonexistent relationship? Or maybe when you lied to everyone about us being a couple without asking me all so you could feel like the hero? Maybe I kept it from you because I knew you’d freak out. Clearly, I wasn’t wrong.”

None of this is what I actually want to be saying.

I’m sorry.

Forgive me.

Let’s start over.

But we’re too far gone. This is who we are. We fight and throw out barbs and hurt each other.

We also laugh and tease and make up. But that feels like another universe right now.

I hold my breath, waiting for a response.

After a second, Owen shoves the sonogram back into my purse, drops it in my arms, and turns for the balcony. “Go back to Kennedy’s. I don’t want you here.”

Tears are coming so hot and fast now that I can barely see. It’s a miracle I make it to the door and find the knob.

“Callie.”

I stop, but I don’t turn around to look at him. If I had to guess, he’s not looking at me either.

“If I’d known… I never would have told everyone I was dating you.”

With that, he slides the balcony door closed.

And everything inside of me shatters, falling to the floor.