Puck Princess (Houston Scythes Hockey #2)

3. Owen

3

OWEN

“Owen, I’m fine,” Callie says for the third time, but I’m ignoring her.

I ignore her straight into my arms and continue ignoring her while I carry her to the living room, far away from any toppleable furniture.

“Seriously, Owen, you’re overreacting. You don’t have to carry me.”

“You’re pregnant and a dresser just fell on you. I think you’re under reacting.”

“I don’t think that’s a word.”

“But it is a thing, and you’re doing it. Now, be quiet while I make sure nothing is broken.”

I set Callie on the couch, and she lets out an angry sigh like I’m torturing her instead of three minutes out from literally saving her life.

“I’m the physical therapist.”

Here we go.

“If anyone would know if I was seriously injured, it would be— ouch !”

I look up at her, her bruised leg in my hands, and arch a single eyebrow.

“Okay, so it’s tender . But it’s not broken.”

Even though that’s obvious, I continue working my hands along her leg, massaging gently as I go. It’s quiet for a moment.

It’s also warm in here. I tell myself it’s because winter in Houston is the same as every other season in Houston—humid. Thick, wet humidity you could drown in.

I glance up at her.

Her eyes are on me.

She bites her lip.

Kinda like the tension in this room.

“Does that hurt?” I ask, my voice gruffer than I intend for it to be.

“No.” On the other end of the spectrum, her voice is sweet, almost sultry.

I wonder if that’s what she intended…

“It actually feels kind of good.” She bites back a groan when my thumb finds a knot in her calf. “I know I’m not very far along, but I already feel sore. And tired.”

“You have every reason to be worn out.”

She lifts a hand like she’s going to reach for me before she thinks better of it, letting it fall to her lap. “Does your mouth hurt? It looks like you got your ass handed to you on the ice today.”

“It doesn’t feel great, but I’m used to it. Hockey is… rough.”

Having a teammate you want to bury in a shallow grave is rougher.

Her brow furrows. “Why are you here, anyway? It was only second period when I— I mean, you were at the—” Her face flushes an adorable pink. “You had a game tonight.”

The revelation that she was keeping tabs on me is neutralized by the second, much worse revelation that I have to tell her what happened.

“I left early.”

She frowns. “You left ? You can’t just leave in the middle of a game.”

“You can when you get ejected.”

“For what?”

For what, indeed. I’d sure like to know.

I stop massaging her leg and take a seat on the couch, facing her. “Tell me what really happened with Miles.”

Callie pulls her legs to her chest so she’s not touching me. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, you walked out of your uncle’s office crying after he asked you to resign, and I want to know what happened.”

“You talked to Miles. I’m sure he told you.” She won’t look at me, and I want to grab her chin and force her eyes to mine. I want to dive deep into those stormy blues until I find the truth.

“Miles fed me a bunch of bullshit. I don’t believe any of it.”

Her jaw tenses. “He needed help because of an injury, and I might have let things get out of line with?—”

“Bullshit,” I repeat. “I call absolute bullshit. You look sick every time you’re alone with him. There’s no way in hell you’d make a move on him.”

“And how do you know that?” she spits out. Her obvious anger only proves my point.

“Because I know better than anyone what you look like when you’re flirting with someone!” The room fills with hot hair. Our breathing is uneven, a cocktail of anger and frustration and… something else.

“You can’t lie to me, Callie Coleman.” My voice is low and gravelly. I pierce her gaze with mine and slowly watch her stubborn glare crumble.

“I didn’t want you to get hurt.” She sags like it takes physical effort to drum up the admission.

“Hurt how?”

“I didn’t want to tell the truth about Miles because I knew… I knew you’d want to kill him. And I didn’t want you to put your career on the line for me, Owen. I’ve already compromised it enough as it is.”

My chest is dangerously tight. It takes everything in me to stay seated, to grit my next words out in anything below a roar. “Did Miles hurt you?”

Her jaw tightens again. Her expression shutters, her mental walls higher than the Empire State Building.

I lean in closer, our thighs touching. “Was it the other way around, Callie? Did he come on to you ?”

She swallows hard and turns away from me, but I can’t let this go.

“Look.” I pull out my phone and pull up the already-viral story. “Whatever you were trying to stop, it’s too late.”

Callie’s jaw drops as she watches the recorded footage of the fight at the game.

“I already fucked up my career for the next few games, at least. Maybe longer. So tell me the truth, Callie.”

Instead of talking, though—instead of admitting to what I’m pretty sure I already know—Callie’s chin quivers. “I’m sorry, Owen. I’m so sorry.”

She breaks down. And it breaks me. I wrap my arms around her and pull her against me. It feels like clicking a missing piece into place.

“It’s not your fault.”

“This is exactly what I didn’t want to happen,” she sobs. “I-It’s why I didn’t say anything. It's why I l-lied.”

“Look at me.” I cup her face in my hands. Tears run down her cheeks, and I wipe them away with my thumbs. “Look at me, Cal. Whatever price I have to pay for what I did tonight… you’re worth it. You’re worth all of it.”

Her eyes trail up to mine, tear-filled and heartbreakingly blue. And I can’t stop myself.

I kiss her.

It’s not harsh or hungry or rushed.

It’s the tiniest scratch on the surface of the deep, deep well of unexplainable things I feel for this woman. And yet, even with our mouths closed and our bodies still, the touch of her lips to mine is the realest thing I’ve ever felt.

After a short eternity, I pull back. Our eyes search each other.

I swallow hard as she continues to lean into me.

Does she want more? Should I take more? The last thing I want is to do something we'll regret. Something that will only hurt her more.

I’m in the middle of a spiral, trying to convince myself that her head against my chest is enough, when Callie suddenly tips her chin up and presses her mouth to mine again.

It’s a delicate line we’re walking, and I’m not sure if it’s the right one. But once her lips part, it’s impossible to find the brakes.

I pull her into my lap so she’s straddling me. She smells like sugar and heat, and God, I’ve missed her. I tilt her face so I can take the kiss deeper, but I’ll never have enough. I could suffocate in this moment and my last thought would be that I need more.

A moan vibrates through her chest as my fingertips find their way under the straps of her tank top. I push them from her shoulders and she arches her back. It’s the only invite I need. I peel the shirt down away from her breasts, exposing them.

I kiss a trail from her neck down to her chest. She gasps as I circle her nipples with my tongue. Her hands tangle in my hair and she starts to grind in my lap. I’m painfully hard, and I know she can feel me against her.

We’re both imagining a few less layers—the way I could be inside of her so easily.

We moan together, and she lifts my face to kiss her again.

But suddenly, I stop.

How I’m capable of doing it, I can’t tell you. But I stop.

“What’s wrong?” she asks, suddenly panicked. “What did I do?”

“Nothing,” I breathe, shaking my head. “It’s just…” I trail off, trying to gather my thoughts. Well, the thoughts that aren’t what the fuck are you doing? Why did you stop? Kiss her again and forget everything else.

Callie slides off of me and pulls her shirt back on, and I feel the loss of her skin like a physical blow.

But it does help to clear my head, and I snatch at the first thought I find. “Why would he go after you?”

“Who?”

“Miles.”

Her mouth tips into a frown. “You… You don’t believe me?”

“I didn’t say that.” I rub my hand over my mouth and lean back. “I just don’t understand why. Was it some kind of revenge because he hates me for some reason? Or is there another motive? I mean, if you come clean about it to the coach and can prove it, you could destroy him.”

“Owen.”

“He’s so set on proving he’s this good guy—the boring, engaged hockey player who stays out of the press?—”

“Owen.”

“So why would he do something to you that could fuck all of that up?”

“Owen!” Callie touches my face, a fraction of the tension from before flickering to life again. Then she drops her hand. “It doesn’t matter. And I’m going to take care of it.”

“You sound like Summer.” I snort out a laugh. “But here’s the thing: you two don’t take care of anything. You run, but that doesn’t solve the problem. They come after you.”

“What do you mean by that?” But she isn’t angry, she’s concerned. “Did he— Did someone come after Summer again?”

“No, not recently, but—” I stop. “Why?”

She shakes her head, looking away, and I’m overcome by the same feeling I had that day at the arena.

Something is happening here, and I don’t understand what.

But I’m going to.

“What do you know?”

“Nothing. I just?—”

“You’re lying,” I growl. “I know you, and you know something. Same question, Callie. And look at me when you answer. Did something happen with Summer that I don’t know about?”

She chews her lip. Yes.

“Callie.” I look at her, silently pleading with her. “She’s my sister.”

“It’s not what you don’t know. It’s who.”

My heart comes to a screeching halt in my chest. My words come out almost inaudible. “You know who is after her?”

She nods.

“You know who Nicky’s father is?”

Callie breathes jaggedly, tears in her eyes. She’s scared. She knows I am going to be reactive. She knows I’ve been trying to figure this out for over a year. And she knows she has to tell me.

I clench my jaw. “Tell me.”

“I am about to connect a lot of dots, Owen. It’s going to form a picture you don’t want to see. But it’s the full picture. And it will explain why everything that is happening is happening.”

“Who is it?” I grit out.

“You have to promise not to completely lose your mind.”

“Who is it?”

“And you can’t do anything stupid.”

“ Who is it ?” I roar. We both know I won’t promise a damn thing.

She hesitates, her mouth twisting as she tries not to cry.

And immediately, I know. Some part of me has known for the last week, but I was in denial.

Still, I have to hear it. She has to say it for me to believe it. And once she does?—

“Nicky’s father,” Callie breathes, “is Miles Solomon.”

I shove to my feet. “I have to go.”

“Owen?” she reaches out for me, but I’m already gone. I march to the door, not looking back.

“Owen.” I hear her call my name again, but I keep walking.