Puck Princess (Houston Scythes Hockey #2)

2. Callie

2

CALLIE

Pregnant women should not shimmy over balcony railings three stories in the air, which is why, to bring things full circle, I’m breaking into Owen’s apartment with the spare key he “hides” in the plant down the hall. I told him a million times that it was a terrible hiding spot, but tonight, I’m grateful it’s right where I left it.

It’s the only thing that has gone my way in the last couple weeks.

To recap: dumped, assaulted, fired.

Every part of my life is in tatters, so I’m here to grab the last few things I left in Owen’s apartment before I tuck tail and go hide in my apartment across town.

I thought it would be enough to wait until I know he’s at a game so I could do this without having to see him, but as soon as I walk in, I smell him.

The woodsy, spiced scene of him hits my chest like a ton of bricks. I have to hold my breath like the air is poison while I dash to the kitchen island where there’s a box labeled “Callie’s,” just like Owen told Kennedy he’d leave for her to grab. I tuck it under my arm and swap it with the bundle of Owen’s things I still have—like a hoodie and two hockey jerseys.

Well… one jersey. I can’t seem to part with the other one, no matter how much it hurts to look at.

Everything about being here hurts. Ever since Owen walked out on me at the hospital, there's been this gaping hole in the center of me. And that was before everything happened with Summer and me and Miles at the arena.

Owen found me crying and broken. He held me, which was as wonderful as it was excruciating, which only made it more excruciating. And then, just when I thought I couldn’t sink lower, I saw him.

Spencer.

At first, I thought he was stalking me again.

But he was wearing Scythes gear. Not the stuff any fan off the streets can buy at one of the merch stands peppered around the arena, but player gear, the stuff issued only to guys on the team.

When I tuned into the game tonight, long enough to know Owen wouldn’t be home, I saw Spencer sitting on the bench with the rest of the guys.

My stomach churns at the memory, and before I hurl and leave a nasty parting gift in the middle of Owen’s entryway, I grab my box and leave. I need to finish packing at Kennedy’s before the game is over and this all becomes much more complicated.

I lock the door and drop the key back in the planter like it’s The One Ring before hurrying back into Kennedy’s.

I expect Delilah to dart between my legs like the real-life obstacle that devil cat is. What I don’t expect is for Kennedy to be standing in the kitchen when I open the door.

“Jesus, you scared me. Where did you come from?”

Kennedy gives me an odd look. “I… live here?”

She must’ve come home while I was next door.

“Right.” I head down the hall to grab my things out of the bathroom.

She follows, padding barefoot across the carpet. “You feeling okay?”

Not for weeks now, thanks for asking.

“Yeah, why?” I brush my hair from my face while reaching in the shower for my soaps.

“You forgot I live here. And you came in carrying a break-up box. Owen labeled it with your name and everything. I appreciate that organization, but it’s still brutal.”

“I’m fine. I’ll be even more fine when I get all of my stuff out of here before Owen gets back from his game. I just really don’t want to see him.”

Kennedy crosses her arms and leans against the door frame. “You do know you’ll have to talk to him eventually, right?”

“I do not know that. I’ve avoided him just fine for the last week.” No matter how many times he’s called me.

Now if I can just avoid Spencer this well, we’ll be in good shape.

Kennedy gives me a hard look. “You’re in denial.”

I walk past her, heading back to the living room to grab a bag. “I’m facing reality. He left me . I don’t see why I can’t just move on.”

“Because he’s still calling you every day,” she points out, making an annoyingly good point. “Separately, I don’t understand why you had to quit your job.”

I bite my lip. I may have told a few half-truths in the interest of not starting a war between Kennedy and Uncle Randy. Enough relationships have blown up in the last couple weeks without theirs being another casualty. But now, as she studies me with her sister-like telepathy, I know she’s catching on.

“You did quit, right?”

I look at the ground. My nails. The time. Anywhere other than her hypnotic eyes.

“Callie!”

I break. “Okay, fine! I didn’t quit. I got fired.”

“Fired!? How? My dad cannot fire you. I don’t care what happened, he can’t— I’m going to call him right now.”

“No. It’s my fault. It was just… too much. Avoiding Owen, Miles being a dick—all of it.”

“Miles. What did Miles do?”

I hesitate. “He’s just a dick. Like I said. Everything was complicated and when it all came to a head, I went off and I got fired.” She’s still holding her phone like a weapon, so I slowly pluck it from her hand. “Don’t hurt your dad.”

“But what if he deserves it?” Kennedy sighs and envelops me in a hug. The way she crushes my ribs, I feel like she’s comforting herself more than me. “Are you going to be okay, Cal?”

I can’t tell her everything. Not right now. But I do know that, somehow, someway, it’s going to be okay. I’ll make it okay. For the munchkin.

“I’ll be golden, Kenny. Don’t worry about me.”

When she pulls back, we both sniff and wipe away the tears. “I’m going out with the girls. Do you want to come too?”

“I’m not really in the mood to be a sober fifth wheel. I think I’m just going to pack.”

She studies me, clearly not convinced by my stiff upper lip. But she nods. “Alright. But let me know if you get lonely in your new place. I can come over whenever. We can have girl time and watch trashy TV.”

We hug again before she slips into heels I won’t be able to wear for at least six more months and totters out of the apartment.

Once I’m alone, I get to work. I already cleaned out most of my day-to-day stuff, but I have a few clothing items left in the beefy, solid wood armoire Kennedy let me use as a closet. She bought it on Facebook Marketplace before she realized it was eight-feet tall and one million pounds. She paid as much getting people to move it into her apartment as she did for the cabinet itself.

I open the doors and scan everything. Hanging next to her skimpy dresses and crop top are my work scrubs—won’t be needing those—and jeans that no longer fit. And then, tucked away in the back, is another memory that doesn’t fit quite right.

I pull out the dress and my heart wrenches inside of me like the turning of a knife.

The night of the charity ball flashes through my mind. The way Owen held me close on the dance floor. The way I wanted to kiss him. I’d spent so long on edge because of Spencer and my past, but Owen made me feel safe. For the first time, I felt like I had nothing to worry about.

I never imagined I’d have that kind of security.

And now that I have, even if it was just for a fleeting moment, I don’t know how to want anything else.

I blink back tears and return the dress to the armoire. Maybe it’s yet another thing I should leave behind.

I’m about to close the doors on the armoire and end this bad trip down memory lane when I see several pairs of my shoes on the top shelf. I stand on my tiptoes and swipe three pairs down, but the stilettos are being stubborn.

I grab the lower shelf and leverage myself another half an inch closer. “Come on, damn it. It’s… time… to… go—OH SHIT!”

I let out a shriek as the entire wardrobe falls forward.

I brace my hands on it like I might have, in the last three seconds, gained the strength to hold up a three-hundred pound oak dresser. But it just keeps coming.

I drop to the floor and the armoire hits the footboard of Kennedy’s bed with a sickening crunch. Between me and the bedframe, the armoire is stopped at a forty-five degree angle. But with my shaky arms and the creaking noises coming from the bedframe, one or both of us aren’t going to last much longer.

And when that happens, I’m a goner.

My shriek escalates to a scream. A bloody, murderous scream.

Tears stream down my cheeks.

I’ve survived a lot of things in life, including a car accident that should have been fatal. It’s going to be rather pathetic if my obituary reads, “Callie Coleman was crushed under an armoire full of skanky dresses in an attempt to reach a clearance aisle Steve Madden shoe.”

My arms are losing the battle under the weight. I’m about to scream again when I hear pounding at the door and a muffled voice.

“In the bedroom! Help!”

I yell, and I wait.

The door rattles one more time and then… nothing. They gave up.

This is it. This is how it ends.

Just as the curtains are closing on me, I hear a thud from the balcony and then someone is banging against the sliding door.

A moment later, I hear the prying, grating sound of metal bending. And then?—

“Callie!” Owen’s voice floods into the room and it’s the single greatest sound I’ve ever heard.

“In here!” I let out.

All I can see are his legs from the knees down, but I’d recognize those shins anywhere. “Jesus! What the hell are you doing under there?”

“Oh, ya know, just hanging arou— Help me !” I guess it’s good to know that even in dire times, I can muster sarcasm.

Owen drops to the floor and wedges his large body next to me under the armoire. For a second, I’m sure he thinks I’m doomed and is turning this into a you jump, I jump situation. Then he presses his palms to the wood and pushes. With a little grunting, some teeth gritting, and two very flexed arms, he wills the damn thing off of me.

I scurry out and then pretend to help as he lifts himself into a squat and then presses the armoire back into place against the wall, as if it never fell at all.

I drop to the end of the bed, my heart racing.

Owen turns to me, slightly out of breath. “Are you okay?”

I try to nod and say what you’re supposed to say when your ex asks you that question. I’m fine. Great, actually. Never better.

Instead, a sob tears out of my chest. “I’m just… having a really bad day.”

“Callie.” He says my name so gently, so softly, that I can’t help but cry.

Owen pulls me into his chest, and I let him.

“I got you,” he whispers, his mouth pressed to the top of my head.

I’m going to soak his shirt—with tears, if he’s lucky; with snot, if he’s not. But then I realize, he’s not wearing a shirt.

And he smells… terrible.

I pull back and, for the first time, look at his face. His lip is bloody and there’s a new bruise on his jaw.

“What the hell happened to you?”

One of Owen’s shoulder’s twitches in a half-assed shrug. “Oh, ya know… just a really bad day.”