Puck Princess (Houston Scythes Hockey #2)

18. Owen

18

OWEN

I wake up to Callie nuzzling into me. It’s nothing but skin-to-skin under seven hundred thread count sheets. I yawn and press my lips to her forehead.

The sun is bright through the windows, warming the room and making me wish I never had to get up.

But I bolt up.

“Shit!”

Callie jumps, rubbing her eyes. “What? What’s the matter?”

“The sun is up!” I leap out of bed and nearly fall over trying to pull my underwear on.

“It does tend to do that from time to time. Every day, actually,” she murmurs. Even half asleep she is sarcastic.

“Callie, we didn’t get a wakeup call. It’s 10 am!”

Finally, panic registers on her face. “Shit!” She scrambles to find her own clothes in the mess of disarray from our frantic undressing last night.

Fuck.

“What happened to the wakeup call? You asked the front desk to call my room and wake us up.”

“I guess they didn’t get the memo. But I gotta go.” I struggle to zip my pants up.

Callie comes over, still gloriously naked, and gives me a kiss. “You get to the arena, and I’ll catch a ride.”

“I’ll send for a car.” I kiss her again, wishing more than anything I could stay, and rush out of the room.

My room is two floors down with all of the other guys, but the floor is quiet. They’re all at the arena, so it looks like I’m the only one who missed the wake up call.

I change into practice clothes faster than I ever have, grab my gear, and head to the elevator. During the twenty floor descent, I tap my floor like it might help the elevator along and think about last night.

It was good. So good .

Grand gestures aren’t really in my wheelhouse. There’s never been a need for them before. I kind of worried I’d take it too far and scare her off. But the way she was crying my name last night, I think I struck the perfect balance.

I’m reliving the vision of Callie on top of me, soap bubbles slipping down her chest while she rode me in the tub, when the elevator doors open, and I sprint to the front desk.

The woman smiles. “Good morning. The rest of the team left a few hours ago. I didn’t know anyone was still?—”

“Car,” I blurt, cutting her off. “I need a car.”

“Absolutely.” She gets on the landline and, for the first time since my eyes open, I remember I have a cellphone. I pull it out and there are no less than fifty missed texts.

“Fuck.” Everyone from Lance to Coach has been blowing me up for the last— Shit, three hours. Practice started at seven.

“A car will be out front for you in three minutes.” She beams her service industry smile at me. “Anything else I can help you with, Mr. Sharpe?”

“What happened to the wakeup call I ordered for rooms 1703 and 2018?”

“They were canceled.” She answers with the same flaccid smile until she realizes I’m not smiling.

“I didn’t cancel shit. Who canceled them?”

“I’m sorry, sir. But there was a man earlier?—”

“Who? What did he look like?” Maybe this is Coach’s way of fucking with me. He knows I slept with his niece and he’s pissed. But with the tightrope the team is walking, he wouldn’t date.

Or maybe it was Santos…

“Middle-aged. He was wearing a suit.” She trails off as her eyes land on something in the distance behind me. The poor woman looks like she’s going to faint.

I turn around and… there’s a middle-aged man. In a suit.

He walks through the lobby, tossing a quick wave towards the woman behind the desk. A small smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth, and that’s all it takes for me to know who he is and who canceled my wake up call.

Rodger Santos.

On the ride to the arena, I catch up on all of my missed text messages.

They shift from curious to desperate fast and then continue every few minutes for hours. New ones keep rolling in.

Apparently, Coach decided my absence needed to be felt by the whole team. We fuck up together, we suffer together, or some kind of bullshit mantra like that. What it means for the team is that they’ve been running drills for the last three hours.

Lance: He won’t let us stop until you show up. GET HERE NOW YOU ASSHOLE. Everyone wants to kill you.

Weird, because I want to kill Spencer Santos.

Callie and I stayed up irresponsibly late last night. When I fell asleep, I knew I was going to suffer the next day, but I would’ve woken up on time. I would’ve dragged my exhausted, sexually sated ass to practice and been there with my team.

But Spencer hid behind his big bad daddy and fucked with my schedule.

Now, I need to show him who’s in charge.

I get to the arena and run straight to Coach. I don’t even hit the locker room first. He doesn’t look happy to see me, and I don’t blame him.

“I’m sorry, Coach. I?—”

He holds up a hand. “I don’t want to fucking hear it, Sharpe. Whatever your excuse is, I don’t care.”

“And that’s fair. But it’s not what you think.”

“What I think is that you’re sliding. What I think is that you’re losing grip on your temper and your self-control has cost us more than one game already. I won’t let the team suffer because of you again.” He gets right in my face, lowering his voice so no one else can hear. “What I think is you’re missing practice during an away game because you were up all night in the king suite with my niece.”

Okay, so this is a little bit about the fact that I’m fucking his niece.

Again, I can’t fully blame him.

“That’s not why—” I start to say, but he cuts me off again.

“I don’t care why, Sharpe.”

I clench my jaw. “I know that after all the bad press, our team needs a captain who can be a real leader. I’m going to do better.”

“You’re going to have to, Sharpe. Because no captain on my team is going to pull the shit you’ve been pulling.”

I blink. “Is that a threat?”

“A captain needs to set an example for his teammates. He needs to keep his head in the game and his heart on the prize. You’ve been too busy fighting the press and putting a man in the hospital to?—”

“Miles was harassing your niece and assaulted my sister!” I roar.

I know I’m not making anything better, but I won’t apologize for beating Miles into that alley. If I could go back, I’d do it all over again.

“This is what I’m talking about,” he barks back, matching my energy. “Your head is everywhere but the game. Get your priorities straight, Owen. Show me you deserve to lead this team.”

I chew on that for a second. Coach didn’t answer my question, but this is a threat, plain and simple. Everyone is going to be watching me, making sure I don’t fuck up. It also means Spencer is going to be looking for cracks in my armor. Which, if I have anything to say about it, he won’t find.

I am the best man to lead this team. They trust me, they know me, and we are where we are because of me.

No rookie is going to change that.

“We both know I deserve it,” I grit out. “And I can’t wait to remind you why.”

Coach arches a brow like he’s just as anxious to see the proof. “Good. Now, suit up, You’ve got a lot of catching up to do.”

As I make my way to the locker room, the guys disband, trying to pretend they weren’t listening in. They know better than to cross me right now.

When I get on the ice, I put everything I have into focusing on the game. I don’t want to talk. I don’t want to think.

I’m just here to play. I’ve only ever been here to play.

After a long run, we break for water.

I drop down onto the bench and rip my helmet from my head. I’m already sweating through my gear as I take a swig from my bottle.

Behind me, a voice carries. “Seriously, if you’re going to fuck your girlfriend, at least set an alarm so you can wake up in the morning.”

I start to turn when I hear Lance. “We’ve all been there, guys. He’s had a tough run.”

I don’t know how anyone even knew I was with Callie last night. But if I had to guess, Santos had something to do with that too.

I’m frozen there, torn between letting Lance defend me and making whoever was mouthing off choke on their words, when Santos skates over, spraying snow.

“Sounds like you’re having a hard time keeping up, Sharpe. Coach is doubting you as captain. Maybe you should have Callie talk to him for you. See if that nepotism can work both ways.”

I stand up, my water bottle dropping to the floor. “Do me a favor, Santos. Play the game and keep my girlfriend’s name out of your mouth, got it?”

He stares at me, his mouth twitching in the threat of a smirk. “You mean… Callie ?”

The way he says her name alone is enough to make me lose my cool.

“Don’t fucking push me, Santos.” I’m not sure if the arena got suddenly quiet or if the blood thrumming in my ears has blotted everything out.

He holds up his hands, gliding slowly backwards. “Alright. I won’t say her name. But I can’t promise she won’t say mine.”

I have him by the collar of his jersey before I can even think. His stupid face blanches, and I can’t wait to see what he looks like with a broken nose. But before I can say or do more than that, Coach rips us apart.

The way he turns on me, I know he didn’t just hear what Santos said about his niece. If he did, he’d probably have the bastard by the throat, too.

“We have a game in four hours.” He jabs me in the chest, farther from Santos. “Play. Hockey.”

A few hours later, that’s exactly what we do.

We’re facing off against San Francisco, and I’m not the only one playing like I have something to prove. The media has been poking at the Scythes for weeks, wondering how we’ll fare without Miles Solomon on the team. Tonight, we’re giving them an answer.

But as Santos and I take turns putting the puck in the back of the net, earning a buzzer and a good-sized roar even with an away crowd, nothing about this feels like a team sport. This may be a game between Houston and San Fran, but as far as I’m concerned, this is me versus Santos.

The little punk obviously thinks my crown is slipping after the way Coach chewed into me this morning, but it’ll take a lot more than that to dethrone me.

In the last couple minutes of the game, Santos takes possession of the puck. I can tell by the way he’s scanning the ice that he’s looking to score. He doesn’t want to pass. But the defense is on him and he’s blocked in with no choice but to pass to me.

It makes sense, with me being the center, but he hates it.

Which means I love it.

Santos grits down on his mouthguard and passes the puck to me. I use the opening and score, and the crowd loses their minds.

The guys rush me as the buzzer goes off.

“Nothing like handing a team their asses on their own stomping grounds!” Dax slugs me in the arm.

Lance slaps my helmet, a wide grin on his face.

When Santos gets close, I meet his eyes and aim my stick at the friends and family box. “That one was for Callie!”

He grimaces and skates up while a smug smirk tugs at the corners of my lips.

Because two can play this game, but only one of us is going to win.