Page 21 of Puck Prince

Then her phone buzzes.

I jump back.

“I should go,” she says at the same time as I say, “You should go.”

We hold eye contact for one more long, agonizing second. Then she opens the door to the empty locker room and walks out.

Once she’s gone, and I feel like I can breathe again, I sigh.

“It never happened,” I say to myself and the vacant room.

But the hard-on in my pants says differently.

8

CALLIE

A woman’s sword is her confidence.My dad told me that once. An ironic little nugget of advice, considering marrying a confident woman is exactly how he ended up alone.

But I am not my mother, and I am going my own way.

Currently, that way is to the nearest toilet.

The second I’m out of the locker room and out of sight of Owen, I sprint for the nearest bathroom. I barely make it to the stall before puking.

Thanks to the current events, from seeing Owen again (at work, becausefuck my life) to my shitty personal and financial circumstances (because again,fuck my life), I am regurgitating everything—this morning’s decaf vanilla latte, the bagel I could hardly stomach to begin with, my composure, my pride, my regrets, all spewing into the marble bowl for me to stare at.

(Note to self: Everything bagel seasoning is a bitch coming back up. I’m going to be sneezing garlic-flavored poppy seeds for a week.)

I grab a wad of toilet paper and wipe my mouth before taking a deep breath and flushing the metaphorical shitshow away. Then I pull my phone out.

Nothing pairs with an actual purge like an emotional one.

“Shouldn’t you be working?” Kennedy’s voice comes in staggered. I know by her panting and the time of day that she’s atoning for her dietary sins on the treadmill.

“Yeah. I got sidetracked.” Silently, I will my gurgling stomach to chill TF out.

“By what? Sexy hockey players? God, how I envy you. I can’t imagine being surrounded by athletes all day, touching and prodding and bending them at your will and getting paid to do it. Like, fuck me sideways—you struck gold, Cal.”

She’s once again ignoring the sweat and athlete’s foot and ingrown hairs, but I don’t have time to burst this bubble.

“I had to vomit.” My stomach rumbles again. I wonder how far away I am from round two.

“Not my standard reaction to hockey players, but you always were a little odd. What’s going on?”

If questions were loaded, that one has enough gunpowder to rocket me to the moon. What isn’t going on? My stomach tightens in anticipation of another spew, so I get right to the point.

“Did you know you share walls with Owen Sharpe?” I demand weakly.

“Last time I checked, yes.”

“That would have been really nice to know, Ken. I work in the hockey industry.”

“Exactly. I shouldn’t have to tell you where players live. Especially not players who look likethat.He’s all over the media, you know. For good—and naughty—reasons.”

“That’s exactly what I mean, Ken! I’m hardly escaping the media myself. The last thing I need is binocular-wielding press goons snooping around because the only thing separating me and Owen is a thin wall.”

A very, very thin wall.

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