Page 16 of Puck Prince

I sigh. And this right here is why Kennedy is always riding the perpetual wheel of singleness. Not that I can talk. The last man I slept with has a joint banking account and a baby.

But with my new job starting tomorrow, sex is the last thing on my mind. Even mind-blowing, wine-induced, post-balcony rescue sex.

Head down. That’s my mantra. I plan to stick to it.

I press the button for the elevator and take another look in the mirror hanging on the hallway wall outside of Kennedy’s apartment. I went with red lipstick today. I don’t wear it often, but according to TikTok, it makes women look fearless.

I could use that, because right now, I’m a wee bit terrified. Whether or not my uncle is the coach—he is, and I’m sure that fact will come up no less than a dozen times today—I feel like I have something to prove. Women aren’t easily accepted in the world of sports, so I have to be on my game.

I apply a little more and smack my lips together.Fearless.I got this.

Just then, I hear a rustle from one of the doors down the hall.

Owen’s door.

“Fuck,” I whisper, hitting the elevator down button three more times. “Come on, come on, come on.”

I’m not sure it’s him. It could be his wife.

Which would be so much worse.

“Come the fuck on!”

The doors open, and I sprint in—as much as one can sprint in a pencil skirt—then jackhammer the button again until they slideclosed. My heart is in my throat, and I don't let out a sigh of relief until I start to descend.

I shake it off. “Alright. Game time. Head down. Fearless.”

The commute from Ken’s apartment to the arena is quick, despite Houston traffic being an eight-lane clusterfuck at all times. I pull my car into the designated spot, checking my hair and lipstick one more time in the visor mirror. “Fearless,” I remind myself.

Then I see the reporter standing outside and my stomach swoops. A flash of anxiety washes over me.

Is he here to talk to me? Did someone slide my name under some back room table somewhere?

I tend to stay off of social media so I don’t fall ass-backwards into the gossip, but even I know pipes are leaking. People are starting to talk about Spencer Santos and the allegations against him. Everyone is trying to put two and two together with, hopefully, no idea that I have the answer key.

“You’re being paranoid,” I tell myself sternly. “You’re not a celebrity. You’re nobody. Why would he be here to talk to you?”

I get out of the car and march fearlessly towards the doors. As I pass the reporter—who is busy fixing his own hair and harassing the cameraman about bad angles—I don’t even look at him. I am almost to the building, almost inside, and I finally let myself start to smile.

Too soon, as it turns out.

“Miss! Excuse me—” The reporter runs another hand through his over-oiled hair before shoving a microphone in my face. “What’s your role with the team, Miss?—”

If he’s waiting for me to offer up my name, he better pull up a chair. He’s gonna live and die in this very spot.

I sidestep him. “Sorry, I’m running late. I have to go.”

“Are you the new physical therapist?” That catches my attention, and the greedy look on the reporter’s face tells me he knows it. “Callie Coleman, I believe?”

Witness protection was the way to go. I should’ve shaved my head and slapped on a fake mustache the second everything with Spencer blew up. Full incognito is the only way to dodge the dicey mistakes of the past.

“Um…” The lights are on, the camera is rolling. The good people of Reddit would have this mystery sussed in three clicks. There’s no point in lying. “Yes.”

“Have you met the team? What was your impression of Owen Sharpe?”

I was too busy packing up my apartment into boxes I fished out of the recycling bin behind Barnes and Noble to meet anyone. I did glance through the injury reports last night before bed, though. Owen Sharpe has ongoing issues with his right knee, but I doubt that’s the kind of intel this guy is after.

I sidestep him again. The doors are so,soclose. “Sorry, I really have to?—”

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