Puck Prince (Houston Scythes Hockey #1)

48. Owen

48

OWEN

The last thing I saw was Callie’s smile.

Mischievous and drop dead fucking gorgeous, it’s the kind of smile that stops your heart and makes everything else fade, including a car barreling at you as it blows through a red light.

She was still smiling as the car slammed into her door. It happened so suddenly that there wasn’t time to be afraid.

Now, my ears ring like there’s a five-alarm fire inside my head. My mouth tastes like copper and my shoulder aches like someone smashed it with a sledge hammer, but all I feel is fear.

“Callie.”

Her blonde hair is spread across my shoulder and chest. Her door is caved in, pushing her into my seat.

I nudge her—right now, it’s as far as my range of motion extends. Glass shards clink to the floor and shake out of her hair, but she doesn’t move.

“Fuck…” I sound like a rusty engine, gravely and struggling to start. The steering wheel is bent and crammed into my ribs, and I can’t breathe.

I wedge a hand under her shoulder to get my seatbelt off. Her’s is still on, but since her chair has been ripped from the frame of the car, it seems a little pointless now.

“Callie, are you—” I can’t even get it out. Words hurt too much. Breathing hurts more. Movement is flat out excruciating.

Still, I lift my arm, even as my shoulder screams in pain, and brush her hair from her face. Then I see the stream of blood.

“Callie!” I don’t want to move her, but I need to see her face. I need to see if she’s breathing.

If she’s alive.

The thought hits me harder than the car. My world tips off its axis at the thought.

I angle forward, and I can see that her eyes are shut and her mouth is parted open. The gush of blood is running from her nose, which is clearly broken. I don’t know what else is broken. Or if she and the baby are okay.

“Help!” I scream. With the windows blown, I know people can hear. They materialize around the car, trying to get the doors open, calling for help, stopping traffic.

I’m grateful for them, but all I can focus on is Callie.

I press my fingers to her throat, holding my own breath until I feel the flutter of her pulse.

I let out a half-laugh, half-cry. “Okay. You’re okay. You’re going to be okay.”

If she’s okay, I’m okay. Which means she has to be okay.

“Help is coming. We called an ambulance.” A woman puts her hand on my back through the shattered window. I don’t turn around to put a face to the voice. I refuse to take my eyes off Callie even for a second.

“Callie,” I breathe again, her face cupped in my hands. She takes in a sudden, harsh breath, and her eyes flutter.

“What…” The word cuts off in a gasp as her face twists in pain.

“It’s okay. I got you, baby. Don’t move. It’s going to be okay.”

“It hurts,” she sobs.

This hurts. Seeing her like this is breaking me. It’s going to kill me.

“I know, I know. Just hang on, okay?”

“The baby,” she whispers before going limp against me again.

A growl tears out of my throat as I beat my shoulder against my useless door.

I hear several men outside trying to help me, but I need out now . I grit my teeth, my mouth full of blood, and shove hard as they pull.

“I think we are going to need the jaws of life.” One guy leans through the window. “You two sit tight, and we’ll— Holy fucking shit,” he says suddenly. “You’re Owen Sharpe.”

I’m waiting for him to ask for an autograph, because this moment couldn’t get any fucking worse. Then I glance up at the Raptors hat he’s wearing and groan. “And you like watching shitty hockey.”

He tears the hat off, as if I actually care. “Hang on, bud. We’ll get you and your lady out of here.”

After what feels like eons, sirens blare to life around us. Suddenly, there’s an EMT in my window and firefighters outside of Callie’s.

“Get her out first,” I tell them.

“We are going to take care of both of you,” he says calmly. “Can you move?”

“Don’t worry about me. Get her out now. She’s pregnant.”

They’re moving around the car, poking and prodding and asking questions—doing everything except get her out of the car.

“Listen, she’s pregnant and she’s bleeding and–”

“Sir, I know you want to help your partner, but the fastest way to get to her is going to be through your door. We need to get you out first, do you understand?”

I nod and try to move, but the pain is blinding. The EMT puts his hand on my chest. “Hang on. Let us help you.”

Metal grinds. The car shakes. My door is wrenched free from the wreckage, and I’m slowly dragged backwards onto the street. Glass litters the road and it smells like gasoline.

My legs seem to be okay, though I wouldn’t say I could stand.

“We need a stretcher!” Before I can refuse, I’m being lifted onto one.

“I’m going to need a second set of wheels,” one of the EMTs says into a walkie.

“No!” I sit up, wincing as I do. I can see them moving Callie out of the car. “I go with her. Let me go with her. I can sit. I’ll fucking drive if I have to.”

The EMTs exchange a look. “It would be faster,” one mumbles under his breath. The other nods in agreement.

They help me into the back of the ambulance and then slide Callie’s stretcher inside.

It’s so much worse to see her like this. She’s weak and covered in blood.

She slips in and out of consciousness, whimpering my name.

“It’s okay,” I tell her, squeezing her hand softly. “I’m here. And I’m not going anywhere.”

“They’re insane,” the EMT says, but not to me.

The ambulance slows down, and I fight the urge to bang a fist on the roof. Mostly because I think it would really fucking hurt. They tried to give me something for the pain in my shoulder, but I don’t want to be a doped-up mess if Callie wakes up.

“I know,” the driver snorts. “All because of a hockey player.”

And there’s my answer.

Paparazzi are surrounding the hospital.

“Just drive through them,” I growl. “They’ll move.”

“And if they don’t?” he asks.

“Good thing we’re already at a hospital.”

“I’m in the business of saving lives; not ending them.” The driver’s words are dry, but I can match that.

“Then save the life of the victims.” I look at Callie, her hands crossed over her stomach even while she’s unconscious. “Not the people who put us here in the first place.”

We make our way—annoyingly slowly—through the melee, and finally the back doors are opened. They slide Callie’s stretcher out, and I start to try to stand, but someone holds me back.

“Hang tight, man. You need a stretcher, too.”

“I’m fine. I want to be with her.”

He gives me a sympathetic smile. It’s the same guy who appeared in my window. “They can’t help her if they’re worried about you. You’re helping us help her.”

If there was any argument that would get me to sit my ass down and do as I’m told, it’s that one.

I don’t like it, but I also don’t want to be in the way.

A second stretcher comes, and they wheel me out.

The press is relentless, shouting questions over the makeshift barricade security put into place. I just close my eyes and wait for the whoosh of the ER doors closing on them.

After a lengthy exam, some x-rays, and more happy juice—thank God for morphine—I’m stamped with a torn shoulder ligament and a split lip.

“Might wanna get those teeth checked out at your dentist,” the doctor says. “Your girlfriend broke her nose on your mouth.”

“Jesus.” Of course part of her injury is my fault. I mean, really, the whole fucking thing is my fault. “Can I see her?”

“She’s still in and out. We have to admit her.”

“She’s pregnant.” I’m sure they already know. Everyone else does. But I say it, anyway.

“She’s headed to radiology for an ultrasound now.”

This time, I don’t ask. I swing my legs over the side of my hospital bed and push to standing. “Where is she?”

The doctor knows a lost cause when she sees one and signs off on it.

Two elevators and a wheelchair ride later, a nurse parks me next to Callie’s bed.

Her eyes are closed, and I tell myself she’s sleeping, because the alternative is too damn depressing. I cover her hand with mine. The room is dark as the radiologist works.

When the probe presses her stomach, the machine whirrs and buzzes, like when you press a seashell to your ear. It’s like there’s an ocean inside of her.

“Is it okay?” I ask. “The baby?”

There’s a whooshing sound—faint at first, and then solid. The radiologist smiles. “There’s the heartbeat.”

I blink. “Whose heartbeat?”

“Your baby’s.”

I look at the screen and it hits me all at once.

It’s like the sonogram I held in my apartment, but in motion. A little hand pulled to a mouth. A small kick.

It’s a baby.

My baby.

Our baby.

My eyes well. “It’s okay.”

“Yes, it is.”

I cover my face with my hand, unable to stop the tidal wave of relief.

They’re okay. We’re all okay. And nothing matters anymore.

Because as the whooshing of the baby’s heartbeat fills the room, it holds me up. It gives me hope. Callie doesn’t just have an ocean inside of her; she has the whole world. And I’m never going to let anything happen to it.