Puck Princess (Houston Scythes Hockey #2)

43. Callie

43

CALLIE

Spencer has been suspended.

I’m not going to lie. At first, when I saw JusticeforSantosVictims.com, I was nervous. Spencer has retaliated a lot more harshly for a whole hell of a lot less. There was no telling what he’d do or how he might react.

But even more than that, I was paranoid about what his dad would do. If Spencer is a monster, Rodger is the devil himself.

Then I stopped and considered the things I most wanted to protect. The list, as I saw it, was: my baby, Owen, Kennedy, and all of our jobs and reputations.

And the harsh truth was, most of those things were already dead in the water.

Owen has attacked two of his teammates this season, and I’ve been caught in compromising positions with both of them. Our jobs are hanging on by threads as it is and that’s not going to change by keeping our mouths shut.

Kennedy doesn’t give a flying fuck what Spencer threatens to do. Not even a certain uncensored video can be held over her head. If it leaked now, it would hurt him more than her. So with that threat no longer boiling over on the burner, there’s only one thing on my list that matters.

My baby.

After I left Kennedy’s that night, I went back to my apartment and crawled into bed with Owen. He kissed my hair and pressed a protective hand to my stomach, and, in that moment, I knew nothing would ever harm our baby. Even if we had a fight, even if we were both hurt and our lives were dumped upside down, we couldn’t be truly shaken. Not anymore.

Whatever was coming around the corner, I was ready for it.

And around that corner was Spencer Santos officially being suspended. Not just from the team, but from the Scythes arena as a whole. For the first time in months, I felt like I could breathe. Uncle Randy apologized profusely to both Owen and me and gave me paid leave so I could relax and recover from what turned out to be nothing more than Braxton Hicks, but no one else knows that.

Part of me didn’t want to take it. Uncle Randy didn’t know who Spencer was to me because I didn’t tell him. I’m the one who lied. But after the explosion that has been my life the last few weeks—months, really, if I’m being brutally honest with myself—I needed the downtime. Bad.

So I take a week.

I finally have the time to finish decorating the apartment, a funny mix of hockey memorabilia and modern boho decor, drinking game wall hangings and wine racks. Our new mid- century sofa and chaise lounge are draped with Owen’s sport-themed microfleece throws. It’s chaotically perfect and undoubtedly us, and I love it.

I also finish the nursery. I go for a sunshine and rainbow theme with rainbow striped sheets and a big sun rug with tassel sun rays. The only thing that doesn’t look like it came from Pottery Barn is the mobile, which is a carousel of hockey pucks and sticks. Again, perfectly us.

By the time Friday rolls around, I feel good. After a yoga routine and a fruit and vegetable smoothie that Owen makes me every morning before leaving for the gym, I sit down in the glider in the baby’s room and open my laptop.

It’s time.

All week long, I’ve been puttering around the house, rehearsing what I want to say. How I want to say it.

Every night, Owen has held my hand and told me that he’ll be right there next to me whenever I’m ready to tell my story. Whether it’s tomorrow or ten years from now.

“When you’re ready, I’ll be by your side. We can take him down together.”

Well, I’m ready.

As I sit in the warm, clean space I’ve prepared for my child, I know I’m ready. I owe it to this little person inside of me to be strong. To not hide in the shadows when people wrong me. I owe it to Owen to be truthful. He has stood by my side while I twisted and warped the truth, trying to run from the darkness in my past. But it’s finally time to bring all of the darkness into the light, to burn away the shame and start fresh.

More than anything, I owe it to myself.

So, I write my story. I tell it as it happened. I write about the ways his good looks and kind words charmed me. I write about how hard it can be as a woman in the sports industry, and how the stigmas that exist there kept me from speaking up when Spencer took things too far. I write about the red flags and the abuse. And I write about that day in my office that changed everything for me, that stole who I was for too long.

As I write the words, it feels like pulling stitches out of a wound that never healed quite right. But with each paragraph, I sew in truth. I can physically feel the healing taking the place of the rot and decay.

God, does it feel good.

As I come to the end, there is a place for a name. I can choose to remain anonymous like so many other women have. I understand it. I think when something sour is sitting in your mouth for too long, you just want to spit it out, no matter how ugly it looks. You just want to rinse yourself of it and be done. No shame. No regret. No fear.

I’ve held onto all of those things for long enough. I let Spencer take a large piece of me. But as I type my name into the box, I take a piece of myself back.

As soon as the door opens, I throw myself at Owen.

Like the athlete he is, he drops his bag and catches me, his hands cupping my ass as I wrap my legs around his waist.

“One day, I’m going to be too big for you to catch me.” I glance down at my obvious baby bump sitting between us.

Owen snorts, curling me higher against his chest like I’m a barbell. “You’d have to be Octomom before I couldn’t catch you. I bench double of you as a warm up.”

Like he’s trying to prove himself, he carries me into the apartment, cradling my ass and pressing kisses to my neck. “How was your day?”

“Good.” I tilt my head, giving him better access. “Great, actually. I… I finally did it.”

“Did what? Did you finish the nursery? I want to see.” His words are muffled against my jaw, and I’m too busy enjoying the way he’s tasting me to correct him.

Owen carries me down the hall and into the nursery. He pushes the door open and flicks on the light with his elbow, still holding me. He whistles. “And to think, this was a museum of hockey history just a couple weeks ago.”

“I kept some of the hockey things.” I point out the signed jersey behind glass on the wall and the hockey mobile.

“It’s the perfect blend of the two of us. Just like our baby will be.” Owen lowers me to the sun rug, kissing his way up my body. His hair is still damp from his post-practice shower, and he smells like his body wash. It’s making it hard to focus on what I wanted to tell him, but I thread my fingers through his hair and force his eyes to mine.

“I did finish the nursery, but that’s not what I was talking about. I finally did it .”

Owen frowns for a second, but the longer he looks at me, tracing the small, nervous smile pulling on the edges of my mouth, I see understanding dawn.

“ It? You submitted your story?” He sits back on his heels and lifts me to a seated position. He cradles my hands on top of his thighs. “How did that go?”

“It was hard,” I admit. “I didn’t just want to smear him. I wanted people to see his charming side. I wanted them to feel what it was like to be seduced by him… and taken advantage of. It was hard to go back to that place.”

Owen’s jaw flexes. He runs a calloused thumb over my knuckles. “How do you feel now?”

“Better. Lighter,” I admit. “As soon as I finished, I felt… free. For the first time since everything happened, Spencer Santos has no power over me. I took my story back, and now I’m going to use it to make sure he can’t do this to anyone else. I feel… incredible.”

“You are incredible.” Owen cups my face with one hand, tilting my chin so he can kiss my other cheek. “You are the most incredible woman I know, and I’m so proud of you for coming forward.”

I trace his face with my eyes.

God, I love him.

He didn’t have to forgive me for keeping Spencer’s identity a secret the way he did. I wouldn’t have blamed him if he’d been angry. If he’d decided not to trust me ever again. But Owen has a softer heart than he lets on. He forgave me when he didn’t have to, and he trusts me with his heart. Taking care of it is the honor of my life.

I lean forward and kiss him. Instantly, his hand tightens on my jawline. He tips my head back, taking the kiss deeper. His tongue parts my lips, and we both moan.

“Closet?” he mumbles against my mouth. I can feel his smirk.

“Bedroom.”

“But the closet was so fun last time. It was dirty.”

“And now the closet is full of newborn toys and diapers,” I remind him. “Whereas, our bed is clean and soft, ready for a twenty-two week pregnant woman to be fucked senseless on it.”

He growls against my throat as he lifts me into his arms. “Okay, you make that sound pretty dirty, too. Tell me you love me.”

I suck on his earlobe and whisper, “I love you.”

“Filthy,” he groans. He places me on the end of our bed and hooks his hands in the waistband of my pants, peeling them down. “Tell me you’re mine.”

I lift my hips, helping him undress me. “I’m yours.”

His eyes are all black now, trailing up my bare legs. “Absolutely indecent.”

“Owen.” I lift myself up on one elbow and reach for him. I cup the bulge in his pants, loving the way he swallows as I stroke him. “Please fuck me.”

He grins and strokes a finger over my bottom lip, sending my heart into a flurry. “Even good manners are naughty with that mouth.”

Owen shucks his pants down and works his hands up my thighs. He spreads my legs, making room for himself, but the second his mouth touches my skin, there’s nothing raunchy about any of this.

He makes love to me. With his hands on my breasts and his lips between my legs and pressed against mine. With the careful way he explores my body, worshiping every bit of me until I have no choice but to love it all too.

The light warms the room and we have nothing to hide from. It’s just his skin, my skin, everything in the open. We explore each other like a backroad on a Sunday afternoon, no rush, nowhere to be, no attention paid to the existence of anything else in the world.

He slides a hand between my legs, slipping two fingers into me. With slow, purposeful strokes, he brings me to the edge, and I do the same for him. I love the feel of him in my hand, strong and smooth, reactive to even the slightest touch. I also love the way I can change his breathing. He inhales deeply, his stomach tensing with each stroke.

He’s on the verge of falling apart when he slides me to the edge of the bed and slips himself inside of me, and we connect. It’s not just our bodies, but something deeper than that. Our desires, our dreams, our fears and insecurities—even our demons—seem to lace fingers as we push and pull like a slow and easy tide.

When I come, silent tears of love and gratitude are streaming down my cheeks. Owen kisses them away, falling to his side and pulling me against him.

“I got you,” he whispers gruffly as he plants a kiss on my forehead. “No matter what, I always got you.”

And I know it’s true.