Puck Princess (Houston Scythes Hockey #2)

1. Owen

1

OWEN

“The ice is hot tonight as these rival teams go head-to-head in what has been a real nail-biter of a game.” The announcer’s voice echoes through the arena, muffled by the roar of the crowd.

It’s a full house tonight. The cheers from Scythes fans are almost drowned out by the opposing fans making it no secret they want to see me splattered on the ice.

It’s exactly the kind of thing I love. The energy in here is what I dreamed of when I decided I wanted to play professional hockey. I should be having the time of my life, but my head is everywhere but the game.

The guys are on it, their passes fluid, teamwork impeccable as usual. It’s the synchronicity we’re known for. Unfortunately, I’m out of rhythm. I’m sloppy AF, oblivious to cues and missing passes I would’ve caught in peewee.

Even when I manage to catch a pass, the goal might as well be a trampoline. Anything that gets close bounces out. I can’t score to save my life. It’s been a recurring theme lately.

Dax dials in on me from across the ice, and I give him the go. The puck hits my stick, and I’m ready for the shot, but… Fuck , my footing is off. It’s a small slip, but enough to lose my clearing. I grit down on my mouthguard.

Goddammit.

The defense is huddled in tight and there’s no room for movement. I can’t make the shot.

“Sharpe!” Miles calls out. I look up at him and, with nowhere else to go, I pass.

He shoots.

He scores.

God fucking dammit.

The buzzer rings out, and I should be glad, but I’m pissed. One, the man being swarmed on the ice isn’t me. And two, fuck him.

The team circles on the sidelines while the guys all high five.

“Nice one.” Heath slaps him on the back.

“Yeah, good save, Solomon,” Lance adds. He looks over at me. It’s a vibe check and a low-key “What the fuck?”

I wish I knew.

Scratch that—I know exactly what’s wrong. I just wish I had the power to do a single damn thing about it.

“It was an easy enough shot.” Miles shrugs, his eyes slicing over to me as he grins cockily. “Even with this ankle injury and all.”

“You fucked up your ankle weeks ago,” Lachlan says. “Sounds like an excuse to see the PT again.”

“Yeah, except the best one we ever had is gone.” Kason douses himself in water, squirting it under the collar of his jersey. I can feel camera phones the arena over zooming in on him. That shit is going to be all over the internet in three minutes, and he knows it.

Lachlan shoves him so he’ll stop eye fucking the crowd. “Where is Callie, anyway?”

Everyone is acting like I’m not standing three feet away adjusting my skates. They probably think I can’t hear them over the opposing fans chanting “Sharpe lost his edge” in the stands behind us, as if they’re the first ones to ever think of that quip.

“I heard she got laid off ‘cause she’s preggo,” Heath chimes in. Per usual, he doesn’t know jack shit about anything.

“I think that’s illegal. It’s against the constitution or something.” Lachlan’s face screws up in thought before he shrugs it off. “That was hearsay, anyway.”

“All I know is she was the best,” Kason adds.

She really is.

It’s been a week since I’ve seen her, and I’m losing my mind. How the fuck am I supposed to keep my head in the game when it’s stuck on our last conversation? On the dozens of unanswered calls and texts I’ve sent. I want her side of the story, but all I know is what Miles told Coach about Callie coming onto him.

But it’s bullshit. I know it is.

With her history, Callie wouldn’t have even touched me if she’d known I played hockey. It’s a miracle I squeezed past her defenses. She never would’ve let Miles close.

“She was one hell of a PT,” Miles agrees, talking loudly enough I think he’s trying to give an on-ice interview to the press. Or make sure I hear every fucking word. “She worked wonders on my injuries. Probably would’ve done the same for other parts of me, as well, but…” He laughs and a couple of the guys are about to join in.

But everything ends when I grab him by the front of his jersey and slug him square in the face.

Surprised shouts ring out all over the arena as he hits the ice. But he bounces back up quickly and charges at me. I catch the shifting of my own image on the Jumbotron as I meet Miles in the middle, taking him to the ice. Everyone is watching us, and I don’t give a single fuck.

“I knew it was you!” I grit out as we roll, each of us fighting for the higher ground. “I knew you came onto her; I knew you made everything up. You’re a fucking liar and a snake!”

“Better than a fake!” Even through a bloody mouth, he grins.

“Admit it!” I growl. I’m on top of him with the clear advantage. “You took advantage of her! Say it!”

Whistles are blowing. The other team is egging us on. I can hear Coach Coleman screaming at me from the sidelines, but it’s all white noise. It’s nothing compared to the ringing of my pent-up rage.

“Say it!” I yell, shaking him hard enough his head bounces off the ice. “Tell the fucking truth.”

“Fine,” he coughs, staring up at me. “Alright, you win, Sharpe. It’s true. ”

My hands are shaking with how much I want to snap his thick neck. There’s enough adrenaline thrumming through my veins that I think I could. I press him to the ice. “What’s true?”

“Callie was… so good. ”

I punch him so fast that the last two words are muffled against my knuckles. His teeth cut into my skin.

He grabs me by the jersey, and we roll again. The refs make it through the huddle of players and grab us, but at this point, their whistles mean nothing. This shit runs too muddy and too deep.

It isn’t until Lance grabs me and Dax grabs Miles that we’re separated. We can’t afford for the two of us to be fucked up, and I know that. But I’m outside of myself right now.

“Back up.” Lance holds me by the shoulders, dragging me away from Miles. “He’s not worth it. It’s not worth it.”

But Callie is. She’s worth everything.

“He’s a lying piece of shit!” I spit out, spraying Lance in the face with blood.

“Let it go, brother. Let it go.”

He shuffles me off the ice, blood dripping from my chin, my ears still ringing. Miles is getting most of the attention. He winces as he stands up and takes a few limping steps before shaking it off. That earns him a few cheers.

Attention seeking pussy.

“Owen!” Coach Coleman’s voice is the only thing that keeps me from skating back out for round two.

“I know, I know. Bench.”

I pull my helmet off, but Coach stops right in front of me. “Not bench. Locker room. Get your shit and get the fuck out!”

Before I can argue—before I can tell Uncle Randy that Miles was saying about the niece he supposedly loves like a daughter—Coach spins around, jabbing a finger at the end of the bench. “Santos, take center.”

Spencer Santos leaps to his feet like this is his lucky day. Thanks to me, it is.

I swallow hard, my jaw tight.

I want to fight for my position and argue my case. But honestly? I’m pissed. At everything and everyone. And I was playing like shit anyway.

I shuffle down the tunnel to the dying sounds of drunk assholes thanking me for handing them the game.

I strip down in the empty locker room, making a point of throwing every piece of gear at the wall above Miles’s locker. The plaque with his name on it stays stubbornly shiny and perfect.

What in the actual fuck happened?

Six months ago we were fire. Our team was tight, and he was one of my best friends. Shit, I always took Miles for one of the better guys on the team. But when a wolf sheds the sheepskin, goddamn .

It makes me feel like I can’t trust anyone. Like I don’t know anyone. Right now, I don’t even feel like I know myself.

I shove all my shit into my locker and pause. I assumed Coach was kicking me out for one game, but what if that was it? The end of my time with the Scythes? I don’t know if I’m supposed to leave anything behind or clean out for good. Then I look at the locker next to mine. There’s a new tag.

Santos.

As if I needed another sign that I’m replaceable, here’s a literal one.

I grit my teeth. I’m not giving up that easily. I’m not giving up my team for some noob straight out of college with a pretty face and ‘roider biceps.

I hear the buzzer in the arena along with the muffled announcement of “Scythes in the lead.”

Then again, I might not have a choice.

I change into sweats without even wiping the blood off my face and make my way out the back exit to my car. Well, my rental. My car was obviously pronounced DOA, but I haven’t exactly had time to go car shopping.

As the roar of the game gets farther and farther away, I’m grateful for the quiet as I slide into the driver’s seat. As I start the engine, my phone rings. The car’s Bluetooth picks up the call and before I can figure out how to dismiss it, I’ve somehow accepted, and Summer’s voice blares through the speakers.

“Why the hell did you do that!?”

I lean my head back and wince. As the adrenaline wanes, everything hurts.

“I take it you were watching the game.”

“Of course I was watching! Even if I wasn’t, it’s already all over TikTok and the news and?—”

“I get it.” I close my eyes.

“So why did you do it?”

I let out a persecuted sigh. “Because he’s not who I thought he was.” The words are as sad as they are angry.

“How so?” Summer asks carefully. “Did something happen?”

“He lied to me. To the coach. To everyone. And it got Callie fired.”

“Hold up… when did Callie get fired? Why didn’t you tell me?”

Because being miserable takes up a lot of energy. I didn’t have it in me to explain it to my sister.

I dodge her second question. “It was last week. Miles lied about her coming onto him, and I guess she didn’t deny it because?—”

“She was trying to protect someone.” Summer’s words are hollow.

“Maybe?” I wipe my hand down my face, which also fucking hurts. “I don’t know. But I know I fucked up. Again.”

“This wasn’t about you, O,” she almost whispers. I can barely hear her. Then she clears her throat. “You already know what I’m going to say, but can you make it easier this time and actually listen?”

I don’t answer, but she carries on. Because she’s my sister and that’s what she does.

“Stop trying to fix everyone else’s lives. Please. And before you say it, I know you don’t want to do that. Hell, I’m starting to think you just don’t know how to do it. But you’ve got to take a step back, big brother.”

“I can’t step back when so much of the problem is my fault. You wouldn’t be where you are if I hadn’t come looking for you. And if I wasn’t a hockey player. And?—”

“And you’re right. I wouldn’t be where I am—in a nice apartment with everything I need to raise your nephew. You helped me and Nicky. You even helped Callie, no matter how much it doesn’t feel like it.”

“And Mom?” Tears sting my eyes.

“You did what you could.”

I swallow. That’s not a good enough answer.

“Take a breath, Owen. Sit on the sidelines for five minutes. You’ve been going nonstop for too long. It’s okay to give yourself a break.”

We end the call, and I drive home in silence.

When I get there, I take the elevator because I’m drained. Even pushing the button takes more energy than I have at this point. I’m not just physically beat, I’m mentally depleted. Emotionally ragged.

Maybe Summer had a point about taking a breather.

Summer doesn’t want any more of my help.

If Callie did, she probably would’ve answered my calls.

At some point, I’m killing myself for people who aren’t interested. I’m not even sure how much I have left to give.

I drop my stuff by the door and head for the shower. I catch my reflection in the mirror and wince.

Jesus, I’m a mess.

My eyes—swollen and bloodshot—are empty. I don’t know what I’m doing anymore. Hockey used to mean everything to me, but I just got my ass tossed from a game, and I don’t even care.

I pull my jersey off as the room fills with steam. Just as I’m about to drop trou, I hear a blood curdling scream from next door.

It’s Callie.

Suddenly, nothing else matters.