Puck Princess (Houston Scythes Hockey #2)

40. Callie

40

CALLIE

Watching Owen on the ice is poetry. I know it sounds cheesy, but when he’s zeroed in like this, there’s nothing else like it. I can see the way hockey is part of him, the way his instincts are attuned to each shift in a play, to each of his teammates.

He weaves in and out of the opposing team with ease, like cursive on ice. The center for the opposite team has the puck, and I’m on the literal edge of my seat, hands clasped over my mouth as he tears down the ice and takes an open shot.

But Heath drops into a full butterfly—thank God for all the work we’ve done on his tight hip flexors—and blocks the puck. The next thing I know, it’s sailing down the ice in the other direction and Owen has it.

I join in the rabble of fans screaming for Owen, and all I can think is that he is mine.

Which must be why I went insane and decided to stand up to Rodger Santos. He was being a dick to my man, so I looked him in his bottomless black eyeballs and threatened to tell everyone that his son raped me.

The same dread I felt in that moment swirls inside of me again, but I shove it aside and focus on Owen.

The sixth sense he has to predict exactly where he needs to be and how to execute a shot is mesmerizing. I’m watching Owen move with a grace I’ve never seen before when, suddenly, I’m doubled over in my seat.

I grip my stomach and cry out, but it’s lost to the sounds of the crowd. My stomach is tight and getting tighter. I’m grunting through the pain, ready to scream for help until…

Slowly, the pain ebbs away. The tightness releases enough that I can sit up, but I’m breathless.

What the fuck was that?

Did I pull a muscle while sitting down? With pregnancy, anything is possible, but that seems a little extreme even for me.

Whatever happened, something feels off. Something isn’t right.

Slowly, I get up and make my way past the screaming fans and out of the arena. I think about going to the bathroom, but there’s a long line of women holding overpriced White Claws, so I head to the PT room instead. Besides, I want privacy.

I’m twenty-one weeks along and showing more every day, so I don’t want to stand in the middle of a public restroom and lift my shirt over my head. I also don’t want anyone freaking out if whatever the hell that feeling was comes back, and I hit the damp, pee-covered deck of a public restroom.

I’m just pulling open the door to the PT room when the pain surges again. It’s a cramp all the way across my stomach, tightening like a vise and shooting down my thighs.

I don’t know what it is or why it would happen, but I do know one thing: something is definitely wrong.

“Fuck,” I breathe out through gritted teeth. Suddenly, I’m worried coming all the way back here to the empty half of the arena by myself was a mistake. What if this is serious and no one finds me in time? What if something is wrong with the baby?

Just like the first time, as soon as I start to panic, the pain subsides enough that I can stand up.

I take a few steps. I think I might be okay. Maybe. Aside from the cold sweat breaking out across my forehead, I’m perfectly fine. This is normal… I bet.

I pull my hoodie off—well, Owen’s Scythes hoodie. The high waist of my leggings and the tight material of my tank top clings to my bump, but the cool air helps. I move gingerly to the water fountain to fill my bottle.

I take slow, frequent sips, letting my body regulate.

Just as I am about to let out a sigh of relief, thinking maybe whatever it was has subsided, it happens again.

Am I contracting? No, no, no, no, no.

The cramping is so intense that my entire abdomen is hard. I’ve read the books. I know what a contraction is, but I’m still in the second trimester. I haven’t even felt the baby move yet. I can’t be having contractions. Not yet. I can’t.

I need to find someone. I need to get out of here. I need?—

Another wave hits me, and I drop my water bottle on the floor. Just as I cry out, the door to the PT room flies open.

“Callie.”

No.

It’s Spencer. No amount of pain can block my brain from recognizing that voice.

“We need to talk.”

Of course he’s oblivious to my pain.

He isn’t here to help me.

I force myself to stand and turn to him, but as I do, I realize my mistake.

I’m not wearing Owen’s hoodie.

Spencer’s face is creased in what looks like confusion until his eyes flick down.

That’s when his expression changes. And my heart falls through a trapdoor in my chest.

It’s a look I know. Anger. Disgust. There’s a darkness in his eyes, a tightness in his jaw, and it scares me as much now as it did the first time I saw it.

“What in the actual fuck?” he spits out, his eyes locked on my stomach. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

“Spencer, I need help.” I say the words as evenly as possible, but my mouth is thick. I think I might be sick.

He doesn’t hear me. He doesn’t care . “The rumors are true.”

“Spencer,” I beg.

He closes the space between us, and I back against the wall, crying as another wave of pain digs its claws around my stomach.

Spencer reaches for me and yanks my tank top up. “How long?”

“I don’t underst–”

“How long have you been pregnant?!” His voice thunders over me, and I press myself harder against the wall.

“Twenty-one weeks,” I splutter, tears spilling down my cheeks. “I’m five months.”

I don’t want to give him that. I don’t want to give him anything. But right now, I am in so much pain and so afraid that I comply. I’ve seen him like this before and it ended in a nightmare that I’ve never been able to shake. Maybe if I just do what he wants, he’ll call for help.

But he doesn’t.

His eyes are shifting around, his lips forming silent words. It takes me a second to catch on, but then I realize he’s counting. When he stops, his eyes lock on me. “It’s mine.”

I blink up at him. “What? No! No, it?—”

“It’s mine,” he grits out.

I shake my head. “It’s not, Spencer. I swear. It’s?—”

“Don’t fucking lie to me! Five months ago, you were with me. Or don’t you remember?”

The question scrapes over my skin, flaying me open. Of course, I remember. I’ll never forget, no matter how hard I try.

“The baby is Owen’s.” My eyes are squeezed shut because I don’t want to look at him anymore. I want to will all of this away. I want to be back in the stands. I want to be with Owen.

“Bitch, don’t lie to me. For all I know, you just fucked him as a cover up.” He backs me against the wall, his hot breath on my face. “You knew you were carrying my baby, and you fucked Sharpe so you could pretend it belonged to someone else.”

I close my eyes, but I’m back in that small office. I’m back in the closet, Spencer’s hands laying claim to me as I fight.

“I know you want this.” Spencer’s voice coiled around me like a snake, threatening to suffocate me if I made any sudden moves.

I shook my head. “I don’t want this.”

“I never wanted you,” I say again. Last time, I didn’t fight. But this time will be different. I open my eyes. “This isn’t your baby.”

“Say it all you want, but it doesn’t change the truth. It doesn’t change what happened between us.”

“Stop denying me. Stop denying how much you want this. Why are you making this so hard?” He pressed his palm to my neck, curling it around my throat with the threat of choking me if I made one wrong move. Said one wrong word. “You want this. Stop lying.”

“What happened between us was—” I can’t find the right way to describe the soul-sucking horror of that day. So, I pivot. “Owen is the one I want. Owen is different. I love him.”

“And that’s why you fucked him? Because he was different? ”

“I didn’t fuck him.” I look right into his dark eyes. “We made love. That’s where this baby came from— love . And you can’t take that away.”

“I don’t want this!” I cried again. But it didn’t matter. A moment later, he was taking me. Everything I was and everything I had —everything that belonged to me—Spencer was taking it for himself.

“Stop lying!” he shouts. His face is red. Spit sprays out of his mouth. “Tell me that baby is mine. Say it! Tell me there was something between us. Admit that there still is.” His fingers bite into my hip, and I try to twist away from him, but he only holds me tighter. “Whose baby is it, Callie? Tell me the truth.”

“You belong to me, Callie. Say it! Say my fucking name while I make you mine.”

“Say it!” Spencer screams. The past and present weave together like a noose around my neck.

The pain is back like an electric shock. Between the contracting and Spencer pressing me against the wall, I think I might pass out. I’m trying to escape in any way I can, but I can’t. He’s there when I close my eyes, and he’s here when I open them.

“Say my fucking name!”

“Owen,” I whisper.

Spencer slams his fist against the wall right above my head.

“Owen,” I say again, louder.

“I swear to god, bitch—” Spencer puts his hand on my throat, the past recreating itself.

If this is my last breath, I’ll use it to say the only thing I know to be true—the only thing I trust. I lift my chin and look at him as I say it. “Owen.”

Spencer’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t have a chance to act on his rage. Another voice cuts through the moment.

“Santos!”

Spencer hears his name echo through the PT room and jerks away from me, turning around just in time to see Owen pounding towards us.