Page 18 of Puck Prince

“Callie… Coleman?” My gaze darts to the girl, who looks utterly terrified, rooted to the spot and quivering.

Walter Cronkite here couldn’t be more pleased that I’m just now making the connection. “That’s right!” he crows. “Niece of Coach Coleman and new P.T. for the Houston Scythes!”

Bastard is so pumped up, he’d start flying around the room making fart noises if I stuck a pin in his head.

But truth be told, I’ve already forgotten about him.

I’m slightly preoccupied with the petite problem in a pencil skirt in front of me.

“Why didn’t you tell?—”

“Why didn’tyoutellme?” she interrupts.

“Is that a serious question? Is it not obvious?” Wincing, I lower my voice. The last thing I need is more eyeballs. Not right now. Not with the way people are always talking. Coach will have my ass.

Make that, herunclewill have my ass.

I fucked my coach’s niece.

Jesus fucking Christ.

I’m gonna be skating suicides until it is no longer a euphemism.

“God,” Callie spits, “I knew a lot of hockey players were arrogant sons of bitches—but you, Owen Sharpe, take the cake.”

I give the camera a boyish grin, the fakest I’ve ever done. “Season’s gonna be great. Appreciate all you fans at home. You’re what makes this team special.” With that, I turn to her, dropping the grin and replacing it with a scowl, and snare her by the upper arm. “And you are what’s making this day a fucking nightmare. Let’s go.”

“Get lost, Hockey Boy,” she hisses under her breath as I drag her stubborn ass toward the stadium, leaving Lester Dolt back there to eat my dust.

“Not a chance,Callie.” I emphasize her name. A name that, if I had known it, I would have never gotten tangled up with her. Or tangled around her. Or inside of her. I would have slammed my balcony door shut, turned the TV volume up, and hibernated ‘til the season started.

Coach’s niece AND the new PT? Who the fuck does she think she is? Better question?—

“Who in the hell hired you?”

We enter the building, heading down one of the private halls. She makes her way to the elevator, punching the button. Then she turns to me, raising two sharp eyebrows, a smug, defiant smirk on her pink lips.

I’ve been thinking about those lips in an O shape, gasping for air as she pulls my hair and I eat the ever-loving shit out of her pussy.

I shake the thought from my head. The last thing I need right now is a boner. Athletic pants are thin, breathable, and keep no secrets. There are always eyes watching.

“My uncle hired me.” She jabs the elevator button again.

“That won’t make it come any faster.”

“And you’re the expert on that?”

I snort. “On making things come fast? I’ve got some experience here and there.”

She rolls her eyes, but her cheeks are bright scarlet. The doors open and she leaps gratefully inside.

Starts to, at least. But she’s not getting away from me that easily. Before she can duck inside, I grab her arm, smiling at the group of people already inside, waiting to descend to the parking lot below the arena.

“We’ll catch the next one.” I give them a trademark Owen Sharpe wink. An older woman I vaguely recognize as a secretary in the front office shrugs as the doors close.

Once the elevator is gone, though, the charm disappears, and I go right back to being pissed.

It’s still nothing on Callie. She is flat-out fucking furious.

---