Page 23 of Puck Prince

“You, Callie Coleman, had to face the harsh realization that Owen Sharpe is a damn snack, and you couldn’t resist taking a bite or two.” She giggles again.

“It wasn’t like that. None of this is like that, Ken.” Although, thinking back, it kind of was like that. “I was supposed to have a girls’ night with you, but instead, I ended up trapped on your balcony with your demon cat and no pants, at the mercy of the biggest dickhead in all of Hockeydom?—”

“Listen, boo, no one is judging you. If men are cookies, Owen is like the Milanos. Double chocolate and buttery goodness. I say, ‘Good for you.’”

“No.Notgood for me. Kennedy, I don’t need any more bad press. Not after what happened last season with—” I decide against saying his name. I haven’t said it out loud since the incident, just to be careful. Just to avoid summoning him like the devil spawn he is. “Things are finally starting to quiet down. I actually landed a job. If word gets out that I was involved with another hockey player, HR would need to come up with a whole new manual to write up all the ways I’ve fucked this up.”

My chest tightens at the very thought of the repercussions. The media would explode. And that’s not including what my uncle would do. I’d forfeit my job and be ostracized from the only family I’ve ever had, all because of one heated, rom-com-gone-wild night.

Nope, nope, nope.

Fuck. My. Life.

“Callie, listen.” Kennedy switches to a more serious tone. “It’ll blow over. Much like you blew Owe?—”

“Don’t say it. And for your information, I didn’t blow him.”

Kennedy laughs. “Bad joke. But for real. There’s always a shaken-up wasp nest around hockey players. Hell, watch a game sometime. They do it to themselves! My dad is used to it, Owen is used to it, the press thrives on it. They snag every story they can, pump it through the media, and then wait all of five seconds for the next airheaded player to do something stupid. Then, BAM. Today’s big story is yesterday's news.”

I think about that. Hockey is riddled with drama. From who beat up who on the ice to who slept with who in the afterhours. It’s like theDesperate Housewivesof the sports world.

That’s why I stay on the professional side of all of this. The medical side. The health and wellness side where I keep athletes limber and strong and supple… and warm, and muscular, and…

“Repeat after me, Callie: Owen Sharpe is a manwhore.”

“Owen Sharpe is a— Wait! What does that make me?”

“The luckiest goddamn woman I know.” She laughs again. “Sorry, Cal. But for real. It happened. It’s in the past. You can move on with your life. Go to work. Focus on PT, and… try not to fuck anyone you’re massaging.”

“Bye, Kennedy.” I drop the call and let out a persecuted sigh. She’s right about one thing: I have to go to work.

I smooth down my skirt and blouse before heading out of the stall to the sink. I look flushed, but at least my makeup has stayed in place. Thank God for waterproof mascara.

After washing my hands and reapplying more fearless-colored lipstick—I can still fool everyone else even if I’m nothing but a walking, talking fear factory—I make my way out of the bathroom and back to the elevator.

Thankfully, Owen is nowhere in sight, and no one seems to be watching me. That’s the way I need to keep it. I need to remain on the DL.

Clock in, do my job. Clock out, go home.

I mentally add “find my own home far from anyone I work with” to the top of that list. If I’m going to properly avoid Owen, I’mgoing to need my own apartment. Preferably on the other side of the city, as far away from Hockey Boy as possible. I can’t afford any more run-ins, and I’ll never sleep knowing he is next door.

Just one thin wall away.

I put my hand over my stomach, willing the wave of nausea to go away.

I also will away the urge to look him up. I never follow the drama stitched to my clients. I don’t care about their personal lives or even their stats, not unless it pertains directly to their injury history.

But I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t itching to know Owen’s backstory. Is he married? Or is he in fact just a manwhore like Kennedy said, entertaining single mothers moments after rescuing half-nude women from balconies?

I punch in the button for the top floor, where my uncle’s office is situated. As the doors close and the elevator lifts higher and higher from the ground, I mentally leave everything on the bottom floor. My worries, my mistakes, my past.

And of course, Owen.

That’s where he needs to stay.

9

CALLIE

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