Puck Princess (Houston Scythes Hockey #2)

33. Owen

33

OWEN

“Good morning, Houston! The sun is shining, the birds are singing ? —”

“Shut the fuck up.” I punch the radio to the next station. The morning DJ is a bit too cheery for me today. Everything from the traffic, to the radio, to the sun itself is offensive.

No, I’m not hung over—however much I might feel like I am. I haven’t had a drop of alcohol. I also haven’t had an hour of sleep.

Between Summer puking and crying off whatever was in her drink from last night to Nicky crying for hours on end, Callie and I are both fucking exhausted. Both women beat me to the showers, so I grabbed my gear and left. Late, by the way. I know full well Spencer is going to make something of it. But he can suck his own dick for all I care. I am not in the mood to take anyone’s shit today.

I stop for coffee. At this point I am already late and if I’m being honest, I ran out of my apartment too fast to even wait for a K-cup to brew. I pull into the drive-thru and swear under my breath.

“Fucking perfect.”

It’s about twenty cars long. But I’m already late so at this point, it doesn’t really matter. I throw my car in park and pull my phone out, dropping the coach a quick text to let him know. I don’t really care what anyone thinks.

Then I get on social media.

I know I am going to regret it. I know it’s only going to ice the shitcake that is this day but since it’s about my sister, I want to see for myself just how bad the hornet’s nest is shaken up.

Scythes Center Owen Sharpe Rescues Woman From Date Disaster.

Another Street Fight for Owen Sharpe; Scythes Not Pleased.

Owen Sharpe Mr. Steal Your Girl? Leaves With Mystery Woman.

“Awesome,” I mutter, glaring out the window at nothing in particular.

My phone buzzes. It’s Callie.

“Are you seeing this?” her voice fills the car speakers.

“You mean my name once again making all the headlines?”

“Do they not know that Summer is your sister?”

“Her face is hidden by her hair in most of the pictures.”

“But you were clearly helping her. That guy was a creep. You should be a hero.”

“It’s the press, Callie. It doesn’t matter what’s going on; it matters what it looks like. That’s always the better story.”

She blows out an angry breath. “It’s bullshit. We should call someone.”

Who? I want to ask. It’s not like a newsboy will stand on the corner. Extra! Extra! Owen Sharpe actually a decent guy. No one would buy that paper.

“It’ll blow over. It always does.” I inch my car half a slot forward. Jesus, I am going to be in for it when I finally get to the arena.

“I feel like that’s all life does anymore—blow over.”

I can’t disagree. But I don’t want this to be our lives. We’re supposed to be happy. We’re having a baby.

For my own sanity, I choose not to think about how one night with a crying baby has almost killed us both. In five months, there will be no end.

“Last night was rough. We’re exhausted. It’s going to be okay,” I try to reassure her.

“I might take a nap in my office today.”

“I might join you.” I rub at my sore eyes. “I’ll see you at work?”

“I’ll see you at work.” As she hangs up, I hear her yawn.

I drink a double shot on my way to the arena and then hustle to the locker room. It’s empty when I get there, but as I’m changing into my gear, the doors open.

“As you can see, we pride ourselves in giving our boys their own space,” Coach Coleman says. “A lot of pride in here all the way around.”

I look up from the bench I’m sitting on and see four men walk around the corner—Coach Coleman, two higher ups, and Rodger Santos.

Speaking of things I wish would blow over. When is Rodger Santos going to get bored with the idea of owning a hockey team and go open another lame ass club?

They all stop when they see me lacing up. Clearly, this was supposed to be an empty locker room tour.

Santos arches a brow. “Lagging a little there, Sharpe?”

“He called me to let me know.” Coach Coleman has my back, at least.

“Did your mom write you a note?”

I knot my lace hard, my jaw tightening at Santos’ “humor . ” Like father, like son, I guess. But I don’t really care how fat this man’s wallet is. I’m not in the mood today.

Before I can say anything—probably because he knows I want to say something—Coach Coleman turns the conversation the other direction. “What are your thoughts in here?”

Santos lets out an overly exhaustive sigh. “Same thing as I’ve said about the rest of the arena. It needs updates. If we want this to be a winning team, we gotta sell it. Can’t do that with stadium seats that need paint, speakers that echo like the goddamn Grand Canyon, and a locker room that smells like a frat house.”

It’s a locker room. What the fuck does he want it to smell like?

The GM scratches his beard. “Sounds expensive.”

“That’s a problem for me. It means sitting down with you boys and talking about the future.”

I’ve personally heard enough. I get up and attempt to slip out the back door, but Santos stops me. “Tardiness won’t be tolerated, either.”

I freeze before slowly turning back around. “You might want to start with our new winger. He’s always late.”

“Spencer is becoming the face of the team,” he shoots back. Always with a smile, of course.

“And I’m the captain of that team.”

Santos is not a man who is easily intimidated. Fortunately, I’m not either. I hold his gaze.

“For now. But time served won’t save anyone. No one gets grandfathered in. Everyone has to earn their keep.”

It’s a threat. An actual threat.

Coach shakes his head subtly over Santos’ shoulder, but my adrenaline is pumping.

“I’m great at earning my keep. I have to be. I don’t have a nice daddy to buy teams for me.”

“Sharpe,” Coach warns.

Rodger waves Coach off, taking another step closer to me. “I recommend you don’t bite the hand offering, against my better judgment, to feed you.”

“And I recommend you don’t underestimate me or my team by assuming we can be charmed into following bad leadership all so you can add another prized property to your Monopoly stash.”

His smirk fades. His eyes sharpen, and he looks so much like his son. “Why were you late today, Sharpe?”

“Family emergency.”

Coach Coleman’s phone buzzes. He curses under his breath and then excuses himself to take the call.

The moment he’s gone, Rodger pounces. “You’re talking about the PT, yes? Callie Coleman?”

The motherfucker has found a crack in my poker face, and he knows it. “Leave Callie out of this. She doesn’t concern you.”

“When I buy the team, everyone who works under me will be reevaluated.”

“When you reevaluate her, you’ll see she’s the best PT this team has ever had.”

“Is she? Or is she just the best you’ve ever had?”

“What are you implying?” I ask, meeting his tone.

“I’m not implying anything. I’m stating facts. Callie has a reputation with the boys. She also has a tendency to blow things out of proportion—cause drama.”

Steam might as well be coming out of my ears.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I call out.

He slips back into his comfortable smile with a shrug. “Why don’t you ask her?”

Rodger and the other higher ups leave, and I rip my skates off. At this point, I see no reason to join practice. I’ll be better off hitting the gym, instead. I need to be alone and burn off some steam. It’s probably best I don’t do it by knocking Santos out with a hockey puck to the face.

After I’m back in my gym clothes, I march out of the locker room. Just before I hit the training room, Coach Coleman steps in front of me. He jabs a finger into my chest.

“You. My office. Now.”

Fucking hell.

“Listen, Coach—” I start in as soon as he slams the door behind me.

“No, you listen, Sharpe. I know this might not seem like a big deal to you, but his offer could put us on the map. I don’t need your hot head and your loose lips fucking that up for the rest of the team!”

“It’s all about money, Coach! And no amount of money is going to make us the best on the ice. The game matters more than the screen time. What good is new paint and fancy jerseys if we lose our heart? Heart is the only reason I wanted to play hockey in the first place.”

He looks at me, hard. But at the same time, something in his expression is soft, telling me he’s the same coach I’ve followed for years. “I can’t think about heart when the actions of my players have compromised this team’s integrity.”

So that’s that. He’s blaming me for this.

“Anything else?” I growl.

“No.” His one word sentence holds no tone. No feeling. And for a second, I think he might be just as defeated as I am.

As I make my way to the training room, I see Callie working with Lance. She’s smiling, doing her thing as she does. And I pause, Rodger Santos’s words echoing in my head.

Why don’t you ask her?