Page 169 of Puck Prince

A growl tears out of my throat as I beat my shoulder against my useless door.

I hear several men outside trying to help me, but I need outnow. I grit my teeth, my mouth full of blood, and shove hard as they pull.

“I think we are going to need the jaws of life.” One guy leans through the window. “You two sit tight, and we’ll— Holy fucking shit,” he says suddenly. “You’re Owen Sharpe.”

I’m waiting for him to ask for an autograph, because this moment couldn’t get any fucking worse. Then I glance up at the Raptors hat he’s wearing and groan. “And you like watching shitty hockey.”

He tears the hat off, as if I actually care. “Hang on, bud. We’ll get you and your lady out of here.”

After what feels like eons, sirens blare to life around us. Suddenly, there’s an EMT in my window andfirefighters outside of Callie’s.

“Get her out first,” I tell them.

“We are going to take care of both of you,” he says calmly. “Can you move?”

“Don’t worry about me. Get her out now. She’s pregnant.”

They’re moving around the car, poking and prodding and asking questions—doing everything except get her out of the car.

“Listen, she’s pregnant and she’s bleeding and–”

“Sir, I know you want to help your partner, but the fastest way to get to her is going to be through your door. We need to get you out first, do you understand?”

I nod and try to move, but the pain is blinding. The EMT puts his hand on my chest. “Hang on. Let us help you.”

Metal grinds. The car shakes. My door is wrenched free from the wreckage, and I’m slowly dragged backwards onto the street. Glass litters the road and it smells like gasoline.

My legs seem to be okay, though I wouldn’t say I could stand.

“We need a stretcher!” Before I can refuse, I’m being lifted onto one.

“I’m going to need a second set of wheels,” one of the EMTs says into a walkie.

“No!” I sit up, wincing as I do. I can see them moving Callie out of the car. “I go with her. Let me go with her. I can sit. I’ll fucking drive if I have to.”

The EMTs exchange a look. “It would be faster,” one mumbles under his breath. The other nods in agreement.

They help me into the back of the ambulance and then slide Callie’s stretcher inside.

It’s so much worse to see her like this. She’s weak and covered in blood.

She slips in and out of consciousness, whimpering my name.

“It’s okay,” I tell her, squeezing her hand softly. “I’m here. And I’m not going anywhere.”

“They’re insane,” the EMT says, but not to me.

The ambulance slows down, and I fight the urge to bang a fist on the roof. Mostly because I think it would really fucking hurt. They tried to give me something for the pain in my shoulder, but I don’t want to be a doped-up mess if Callie wakes up.

“I know,” the driver snorts. “All because of a hockey player.”

And there’s my answer.

Paparazzi are surrounding the hospital.

“Just drive through them,” I growl. “They’ll move.”

“And if they don’t?” he asks.

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