Puck Princess (Houston Scythes Hockey #2)

23. Callie

23

CALLIE

“I don’t understand why I can’t go.” Kennedy is full on pouting behind me as I sift through my closet looking for something—anything—I can wear to a nightclub. Preferably something that makes me look less like a pregnant person at a nightclub.

“Because if you go, you’ll kill Spencer. And I think that might put a damper on his dad’s new club opening.”

“It’ll be dark in there. If he just happens to trip and hit his head on the corner of a high top or maybe his drink is loaded with more than just tequila, no one has any reason to suspect it was me. Anyway, why do you get to go? You want to kill him, too.”

I decide on a black cocktail dress that is more flowy than fitted, though I’m sure it will still be tight around the middle. Hopefully Kennedy is right and it’ll be dark.

“Well, I have self-control. Also, someone needs to make sure Owen doesn’t kill Spencer, and I can’t babysit both of you.” I hold up the dress. “What about this?”

“Try it on. Let’s find out.” As she helps me squeeze into the dress, she carries on lamenting about how lame it is that I get to go out while she has to stay home. The only reason I don’t respond is because I’m panting from the effort of zipping the damn thing up.

Once the deed is finally done, I put my hand on the small protrusion of my stomach. It’s barely noticeable. Then I look higher and my eyes widen.

Kennedy notices the same thing and bites back a smile. “Well, hello nurse. Your tits look phenomenal. Damn.”

My bras haven’t been fitting super well recently, either. Now, we know why.

I pick through the closet for my low black heels. Minus the peep show up top, I look more like I’m going to dinner at a country club than a nightclub, but that’s okay by me.

Kennedy throws herself back on the bed dramatically, arms starfished out to either side. “I hope you and your tits have a nice day. I’ll just be here, wasting away.”

I’d feel bad if I wasn’t so terrified of what Kennedy plus Spencer plus alcohol would look like. She brings out the worst in him, and I hope to never see his worst again. No matter how bummed she is, this is for the best.

“You ready for this?” Owen asks, helping me out of the car.

I can hear the distant hum of voices coming from the front of the building. On our way to the private lot out back, we passed by the front doors, and there was a line down the block of people waiting to get in. I have the urge to run through the crowd shouting, run for your lives!

“Ready or not.” I stretch my face into a painfully fake grin.

His hand presses to the small of my back. “Regardless, you look incredible.”

I adjust the top, which does nothing to cover my ample bosom. “I’m popping out of it.”

“And the problem is?”

I playfully swat him, and he kisses me before leading me inside. There’s a bouncer at the door, and Owen grins. “Johnny! You work here too?”

“I do now,” he says with little to no emotion. “Santos is scum, but he pays well.”

What Johnny lacks in personality, he makes up for in discernment.

Owen slips him a tip as we step inside.

The Jaguar is a two-story club with sleek black flooring and matching bar tops. Strips of neon red and purple are diffused under the tables and along the walkways. It gives everyone we pass a ghostly, haunted expression. A sign on the wall says, Find what you love and let it kill you.

Charming.

And very Santos-esque.

“It’s pretty?” I offer, looking up at Owen, who is very not amused.

“It’s over the top,” he says flatly.

“Owen! Callie! Over here!” Dax calls out to us from a separate room along the wall. There’s security blocking it off, but they step aside for us. Inside are velvet and leather booths and a private bar.

“About time you showed up,” Heath says, clearly already a drink or two deep.

Lachlan laughs. “We were making bets on whether or not you would.”

“It’s mandatory, isn’t it?” Owen takes the first drink the bartender hands him. “I’m here to support the Scythes.”

“Right. But with Spencer— He said—” Lachlan is backpedaling hard.

Lance steers the conversation for him. “You look great, Cal.” His eyes slip past my shoulder to the door. “Where’s Kennedy?”

“She stayed home.” Owen hands me a cranberry and lime soda, and I take a grateful sip. I may not be able to drink, but I won’t be dehydrated.

“Oh.” Lance deflates a little. “How come?”

“She just had other plans,” I lie.

Plans to not go to prison for murdering your blackmailing, rapist of a teammate.

“Coach probably doesn’t want her ball busting Santos again,” Dax laughs.

I was praying I shut down that feud outside before word spread, but apparently not.

“Can we not talk about Santos for like two fucking seconds?” Owen nurses his old fashioned, his jaw tense.

“We wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for Santos.” Lachlan, poor dope that he is, looks genuinely confused about why he can’t talk about Spencer.

Before Owen can grind through his molars, Spencer strolls in, grinning ear to ear. I wouldn’t be surprised if he overheard that little compliment. Even if he did, it’ll feed his ego for all of three minutes before he’s out searching for the next high.

He pats people on the back as he passes them, shaking hands like he’s a senator instead of a spoiled rich kid living on his daddy’s money. Then again, those two things might have more in common than I thought.

“I’m so glad everyone could make it. They’re finally about to let the lay people in. I say we do a shot to celebrate.” The bartender is already on it, sliding a tray of shots towards Spencer.

“I won’t turn down free booze.” Dax pounds the last of his drink to free up a hand.

Spencer holds out a shot glass to Owen. “You in, Sharpe?”

It’s the kind of game he plays when he knows he has the upper hand. I know the flash of amusement in his eyes all too well.

Discreetly—with a smile even—I place my hand on Owen’s lower back, nudging him forward.

He takes the shot without any attempts to strangle Spencer. “Yeah. Why the hell not?”

“I knew you had it in you to be a team player.”

Before I can note Owen’s reaction, Spencer holds a shot out to me. I’m not expecting it and struggle to hide my surprise. “Oh. No, I’m good.”

“It’s just a toast.” His gaze is silent, suffocating. It wraps around me like a physical hold until my heart is pounding.

Suddenly, Owen reaches out and takes the second shot in his free hand. “You heard the lady. But I’ll never let good vodka go to waste.”

Spencer studies me for another second before he snags a shot for himself and lifts it into the air. “To Jaguar and the future of the Scythes!”

Owen snorts, and Spencer whips around. “What was that, Sharpe?”

There’s a silent beat of tension between them before Owen answers. “Enough talking, let’s drink.”

“Cheers to that!” Lance tosses his shot and everyone else follows suit. As soon as the toast is over, Lance and I wordlessly steer Owen back out into the main room and far from Spencer.

For a while, it’s actually kind of fun. Everyone is in good spirits, the DJ is great, and the energy is high. The place might even be—I hate more than anything to admit it—kind of cool.

I go back to the private bar for a water refill. Sucking in your baby bump all night works up a thirst, apparently. While I’m waiting, bopping my head to the music, Lance appears next to me. “Why didn’t Kennedy come? Really?”

I slam my hand down on the bartop and turn to him. “I’m not saying a word until you explain the history between the two of you. Because it’s obvious there is history. Any time y’all are in the same room, the air is thick with your history. Spill it, Craven.”

But Lance just accepts his drink from the bartender and shakes his head. “No can do, Callie. If you want that story, she is going to have to tell you. For one, I’d love to know what her version is. Then, and only then, will I give you my version. The true version.”

I laugh painfully. “Lance, that is such a tease! You’re killing me here!”

Spencer comes up on the other side of me, his arm brushing along mine as he leans in. I pull back and look around for Owen, but I don’t see him. “You have history with Kennedy too, Craven?”

Lance’s expression turns lethal. “What do you mean too ?”

Spencer takes a sip of his drink, drawing the moment out. Another little power play. “I mean what it sounds like I mean.”

“She’s not like that,” Lance says.

“Not like what?” Spencer looks at him with a barely concealed smirk.

I want to knock it off his smug face.

“She doesn’t play the field.”

“Maybe not the field,” Spencer raises a finger to order another drink. “But the ice… well, that’s her stomping ground. Seems to run in the Coleman family, doesn’t it, Callie?”

I don’t even know how to respond to that. The balls he has right now are unreal. I’m half expecting Lance to hit him. But before anyone can do or say anything, Owen shows up and pulls me against him.

I let out a breath of relief. “Oh, hey.”

His lips find my ear, his voice a low, desperate plea. “Dance with me.”

I nod, maybe a little too aggressively. Owen pulls me towards the floor, but not before I can give Lance’s arm a quick squeeze.

Once we’re in the middle of the floor, he pulls me close, and our bodies obey the music. We kiss passionately. It's a swirl of me needing to feel protected by him and him needing to make it obvious who I belong to.

And I am fine with that.

Our hips grind. Our hands wander.

Owen turns me around, and I lean my head back against his shoulder, exposing my neck. He kisses it, his lips warm and his breath hot.

“Wanna get out of here?”

“I don’t think we can leave yet…” I breathe jaggedly as he runs his hand over my breast and down my hip.

I moan into him. I know the music is loud enough that no one hears it. But even if they did… it doesn’t matter. I am his.

Maybe we can slip out the back while no one is looking.

“But I want you.”

Fuck me. Or maybe we just do it right here.

Before I can make that terrible plan a reality, the music suddenly stops. Everyone in the room turns towards the DJ booth where Rodger and Spencer are standing, looming over the crowd like royalty.

“Don’t worry, don’t worry,” Rodger says into a microphone that is turned up higher than it needs to be. “I won’t keep you from having a good time. I just wanted to thank everyone for coming to The Jaguar’s opening night. I’m especially happy to have the Houston Scythes here with us.”

Oh god. Here we go.

“As many of you know, my son Spencer is now a valuable player on the Scythes. And I thought what better way to tee off his season?—”

“Wrong sport, dumbass,” Owen snorts out a quiet laugh.

“—than to open the official party spot for the Scythes?”

“What the fuck does he care about where we party?” Lance growls.

Dax appears next to us, eyes glassy. “He’ll care a lot once he owns the team.”

Owen nearly chokes on his tongue asking for clarification.

“Rodger is looking into buying the team. That’s the word on the hockey streets, anyway.” Dax shrugs like he doesn’t care one way or another. He probably doesn’t.

Must be nice.

I’m numb. The room is spinning. Everything feels hazy and out of focus.

If Spencer’s dad buys the team…

I’d lose my job. Owen could lose his job. Spencer could blackmail Uncle Randy with that video of Kennedy.

Oh god.

It would be like my last job, except not only would I never get another job in sports medicine—or any medicine for that matter—but every person I know would suffer, too.

But if I come clean to Owen or Uncle Randy before Santos buys the team, Spencer will leak the video of him and Kennedy everywhere.

I feel like I’m going to be sick.

“Callie? Are you okay?” Owen puts his arm around me, his voice finding a way through my panic.

“I want to go home.” There’s no suggestion of anything more in my voice. I need out of this room. Now .

“You look sick.”

I just nod.

“Let’s get you some water and some air,” he says.

I fist my hand in the back of his shirt, letting him guide me through the crowd. “I want to go home, Owen. Take me home.”