Page 164 of Puck Prince

When I unlock my phone, the reality is so much worse.

My heart stops as I read her messages.

I don’t even attempt to type anything back. I just press the call button, already grabbing for my keys and heading for the door.

“Where are you?” I growl the second the line connects.

There’s a sniffle that breaks my heart. “In the bathroom at Rendezbrew. The door is locked.”

“Don’t move, Callie. Keep the door locked and don’t fucking move.” I slam Summer’s door shut and take off running down the hall. “I’m coming for you.”

I need help.

He’s here.

The texts are burnt into my brain as I rip down the road. I know the shop she’s talking about, and I ask Alexa to call.

It rings three times through my car speakers before the host picks up. She starts in with her greeting, trying to sell me ontheir everything bagel bites before I’ve even said a word, but I cut her off.

“I need you to clear the restaurant right now. I can pay.”

“Is this because of all the paparazzi here? The hockey players are making a mess of things. My manager is pissed.”

“Who’s there?”

I know about her ex, but did he bring a friend? Is Callie outnumbered and cornered? My hands are so tight around the steering wheel, it’s a miracle it doesn’t crumple.

“Miles from the Scythes is here with his fiancée, which would be enough, but there’s some other guy. I recognize him from some articles, but I don’t keep up with hockey; I just read the blogs.” There’s a pause. “Wait… are you a reporter? Because I’ll give a quote.”

Everyone is a fucking vulture.

“Clear the place out, and I’ll pay you for the trouble when I get there. The beautiful blonde in the bathroom—leave her alone.”

I hang up and punch the gas. I just need to get to Callie.

I see the amoeba of paparazzi around the front of the restaurant from two blocks down. I weave through the crush of cars and slam my car into the park right outside the main entrance, nearly taking a few of the leeches out as I do. I don’t bother with shades or a hat. They’re going to take pictures, and I don’t give a shit.

As I shove my way through the crowd, people start to recognize me. They grab and shout and try to block my way forward.

Not wise.

I throw elbows like I’m on the ice, blowing through the reporters, catching only the tail end of the questions they don’t stop asking even when my arm is in their esophagus.

“Owen! Who’s the father?” one demands. Everyone lifts their phones towards me to catch the quote I’m never going to give.

Of which baby?

That response would really get the media’s attention. They could be talking about Summer or Callie—maybe even Alisha.

I keep my mouth shut and make my way into the restaurant.

“We did what you asked,” the hostess says from the stand. “There was a guy in the back who didn’t want to leave, but–”

“Where is he now?” I demand.

The only thing even close to how much I want to get to Callie is how much I want to ruin her ex-boyfriend.

“My manager scared him off.”

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