Puck Prince (Houston Scythes Hockey #1)

44. Callie

44

CALLIE

“How could you not tell me that you’re pregnant?”

Kennedy and I are sitting in her living room. I’ve been bawling since I walked through the door, which was a sign to Kennedy that something was wrong. She led my salty, snotty body to the couch, and the whole messy truth just blubbered out of me.

Yet again, not how I imagined announcing I was pregnant.

“I don’t know. I wasn’t thinking. I just thought I could ignore it?—”

“And what?” she snaps. “It would disappear? This isn’t a close-up magic trick, babe. It’s a baby.”

“I know,” I continue to sob.

Kennedy lets out a frustrated sigh before wrapping her arms around me. “I’m still mad at you, but you’re really pathetic right now. It’s going to be alright.”

“How did this happen?” I reach for a Kleenex before Kennedy’s shirt becomes my tissue.

“Did you bang him after he found you pantless on the balcony?”

“Yeah.”

“Did you use protection?”

“Yes, but… I think it broke.”

“And there you have it. Mystery solved. One hot night, a lifetime of regrets.”

I blow my nose and shake my head. “But I don’t regret it, Kenny. I feel stupid— so stupid for getting into this mess. But as soon as I heard the heartbeat, I knew I wanted this.”

Kennedy presses her palm to her chest. “It has a heartbeat.”

“And a round belly and a tiny nose.” My chin quivers as I reach for my purse. “I have a picture.”

But when I pull it out, I only have half of the sonogram. The other half must have fallen out in Owen’s apartment.

“It ripped, but—” I hand it to her. “—here’s a hand and the little feet.”

“Well, shit,” Kennedy starts to cry and reaches for a tissue. “Those are little feet. Beautiful, blobby little feet.” She looks at it with heart emojis in her eyes. “You made those feet, Cal.”

“It sucked, too. Those feet made me so sick.” I let out a soggy laugh and flop back on the couch. “I know I’m supposed to be freaking out, but I’m not. Not about this, anyway. I want to keep it. I want to be a mom.”

She hands me the picture back. “What about Owen? Does he want to be a dad?”

“I don’t know what he wants.”

I thought I did… maybe. Over the last couple weeks, I thought I was getting hints of what he wanted. I thought it might be me.

Now, I have no idea.

“I mean, you didn’t get pregnant alone, obviously. This is his burden to bear, too.”

I don’t love her calling my child a burden, but I get what she’s saying.

“Exactly!”

“But…” She winces apologetically. “You did keep it from him, and that’s, unfortunately, a big fucking deal.”

Again, I don’t love it, but I get what she’s saying.

I yank another tissue out of the box and blow my nose. “I know.”

Kennedy tosses the Kleenex box off the couch. “No more crying. It’s unnecessary. Because Owen is going to come around. He’s a good guy.”

“I don’t know, Kenny. I’ve never seen him like that.”

“The man just found out he’s going to be a dad. He needs to process. With men, it’s like dial-up internet. Things have to reboot and rattle around. Their brains have to make that turkey-in-a-blender noise before the connection is made. But he loves you. It’s obvious.”

I snap my attention to her and stare because I don’t know how else to respond.

Obvious to whom? Not to me.

Kennedy still doesn’t know Owen and I aren’t actually dating. I could tell her, but I need at least one person in my life not to hate my guts right now, so I’m going to keep it to myself.

Not that it matters. After the way we left things, Owen and I aren’t even fake dating anymore. He definitely doesn’t love me. Whatever unnamable, undefinable thing we had, it’s all over now.

I’m about to start crying again when Kennedy jumps up. “Come on.”

“Where are we going?”

“Out. You’re going to get all stressy and depressy in this apartment. You need to put on something without an elastic waistband, and then I’ll take you to this cute place downtown that offers brunch all day long.”

She hauls my unwilling body off the couch by my arms, almost dislocating both shoulders. “Is brunch your answer to everything?”

“Maybe not everything, but a multitude of things. Now, go dress for the mental state you want and meet me back here in ten.”

As much as I’m not in the mood, she’s right. I think I need this.

Fact: brunch does cover a multitude of sins. Or, at the very least, it lets you drown them in hollandaise sauce.

Kennedy and I are at a table on the back patio eating Cali Benedicts and sipping on orange juice—hers spiked with champagne, obviously—and I might feel slightly less like a pile of human garbage. So, that’s an improvement.

“Flower names? Really?”

I stick my tongue out at her. “They’re feminine and lovely. Better than Callie. Callie is a dog’s name.”

“It was one dog’s name.” She lets out a long-suffering groan because she’s heard this story too many times.

Doesn’t stop me from telling it again.

“One annoying, yappy Yorkie, who I shared a first and middle name with. Every time she escaped out her doggy door, the whole neighborhood yelled ‘Callie May’ for hours. It was traumatic.”

“It was tragic. Traumatic is being named after an assassinated president.” She sips her mimosa. “At least make it a sassy flower. Like Dahlia.”

“Or Azalea.”

“Or Hyacinth! That’s a cool girl floral name. But what about if it’s a boy? Are there masculine floral names? Would Owen ever go for something like that?” she asks casually, taking a bite. “He’ll probably want to name him after a famous hockey player or a ship captain. Men love boats.”

If Owen wants to name him anything at all.

Might be hard for Owen to have an opinion on the matter if he never speaks to me again.

I try to remain neutral, but I must be frowning because Kennedy looks up at me and stops mid-chew. “Sorry.”

I’m trying not to cry in public, so I swiftly change the subject. “What do you want to do after this?”

Now that we’re out of the apartment, I don’t want to go back.

“Shopping? There’s a consignment place around the corner that sells baby and maternity clothes.”

“Ugh.” I push my plate away and press both hands to my stomach. “I forgot about maternity clothes. But the way things are going, I’m going to need some soon. My jeans barely fit.”

A shadow falls over our table. “So the rumors are true!”

I have goosebumps before I even look up to see Miles. Alisha is standing next to him, tucked under his arm like a baby bird.

She smiles and gives a small wave. “Isn’t this funny? We seem to run into y’all everywhere we go!”

“‘Funny’ isn’t the word I’d choose,” Kennedy mumbles before sipping her drink. Thankfully, I don’t think they heard her, but I kick her ankle under the table.

“When I saw the picture, I thought it was a bad photoshop job,” Miles goes on. “But the look on your face makes it obvious. You’re glowing.”

I offer a fake smile. “Can’t hide from you.”

No matter how much I wish I could.

Alisha pulls up a chair from the table behind us and drops down into it like she’s twelve months pregnant instead of twelve weeks. “Miles, will you get me a glass of water, please? And a fruit bowl, maybe?”

“Of course.” He smiles, kissing her, but his eyes sweep over me before he walks to the bar.

“I love him,” Alisha sighs. “But sometimes I need some space, you know?”

If I was her, I’d need hundreds of miles worth of space. Lightyears, maybe.

“Ever since I told him I was pregnant, he’s been waiting on me hand and foot. Massages and foot rubs and—it’s lovely, don’t get me wrong. But it can be a lot sometimes.”

Yes, being pampered must be such a burden.

Based on the arch in Kennedy’s brows, she’s thinking the same thing I am.

“I swear to God there are no good men left in the world. They’re all taken, and I’m going to die old, stunningly beautiful, and alone.” Kennedy sighs dramatically.

Okay, maybe we aren’t thinking the same thing.

Kennedy hasn’t found anyone because she self-sabotages with dating apps. If either of us is going to die alone, it’s going to be me—the single mother with a cargo ship of emotional baggage.

“And being wined and dined at a cocktail lounge on top of the city doesn’t count?”

Kennedy looks confused. “Who? What?”

“Lance?” I blink.

“Oh. Oh. Yeah, no. Thank you, next.” She wrinkles her nose and mimes swiping left, but I’m not ready to drop this. She practically threw me into Owen’s arms on more than one occasion, but now she’s dodging her own hot hockey god like he’s got the plague.

“I don’t see what your problem with Lance is, Ken. He’s really sweet.”

Kennedy’s smile fades completely. “We aren’t talking about the same guy.”

Her words are sharp, almost cold. All it does is leave me with more questions.

“He’s got a really sweet face,” Alisha agrees. “I mean, Miles could be Henry Cavill’s twin, so I have no complaints, but I’ve always had a thing for a baby face. Lance is like Niall Horan.”

“Oh my God!” I slap a hand over my mouth. “He does look like Niall Horan!”

Kennedy is not amused. “He’s not sweet or nice. Lance Craven is—” She pauses as her eyes widen and points at what I thought was Alisha’s oversized purse. “Is that a Gucci diaper bag?”

Alisha hugs the bag to her chest. “Isn’t it incredible? I know it’s weirdly early to be carrying it, but Miles bought it for me, and I was so excited I had to give it a test run.”

Kennedy elbows me in the side. “Callie, you need one! Put it on your registry.”

First, I don’t have a registry.

Second, even if I did, I wouldn’t put two-thousand dollar diaper bags on it.

I manage a smile, but honestly, I’m trying not to get sick again. Something about seeing even a sleazeball like Miles be a doting, attentive dad-to-be makes me nauseous.

Kennedy inspects the pockets and the insulated pouch for diapers. “Yep, you need this, Cal. Just bat your eyes at Owen, and I’m sure he’ll?—”

“I need to go to the restroom.” I jump up from the table. Kennedy looks concerned, but she gets distracted by the foldable changing pad that fits neatly inside the bag.

I navigate through the maze of tables and other diners in a daze. The restrooms are halfway down the hall, but there’s an emergency exit straight ahead.

I’m tempted to just keep walking.

I could leave, puke in a ficus around back, and then be on my merry way. By the time Kennedy stopped ogling the Gucci bag and realized I was missing, I’d already be back home.

Not that I have much of a “home” to go back to.

I’m fantasizing about my great escape when I look towards the back door and freeze.

I have to blink twice.

Because just as I’m about to push the bathroom door open, I see a shadowy figure waiting at the end of the hall, blocking the exit.

Spencer.

My heart and a scream both lodge in my throat, fighting for position, but nothing comes out.

I turn towards the front doors—if I can’t fight, then I’m gonna fly the fuck out of here—but there’s a swarm of paparazzi descending on the patio like vultures.

He did this.

Spencer tracked me here; he called the press.

He wants to be seen with me in public to make sure there’s plausible deniability if I ever decide to talk about what he did.

It couldn’t have been that bad, Callie. You went to brunch with the man.

He’s trying to back me into another corner… and it’s working.

I turn back to the exit, and Spencer is smiling. I once thought he was handsome, but there’s something reptilian about him now. It sends a shiver down my spine.

He takes a single step towards me, and I shove the bathroom door open, hurl myself inside, and lock it behind me.

As soon as I lean back against the door, my knees give out as the flashbacks overtake me like a tidal wave I never saw coming.