Page 26 of Puck Prince

“Maybe in your dreams,” one of the others jokes, earning a laugh from the whole room before they start to disperse.

“Callie, this is Dax, Kason, Heath, and Lachlan.” My uncle points as he introduces the ones who stuck around. It’s a dizzying array of tall, broad, good-looking men, even if some of them are one or two teeth shy of a full set. I do my best to remember which name goes with which face.

“It’s nice to meet all of you.” I offer a kind but professional smile. “That being said, hopefully, I don’t see any of you again too soon.”

“I don’t know.” Dax sighs mournfully and rubs his chest. “I feel an injury coming on right now. Think you might need to take a look at it.”

“Is that so?”

“Yeah. It’s my heart. I think it might have stopped.”

The guys all explode in laughter.

“I think it’s your head that’s stopped.” Heath shoves Dax and another mini-scuffle breaks out, laughter rising above the mayhem.

“I think it’s time to hit the ice,” my uncle drawls. “If you’ve got energy enough to be wiseasses, you’ve got energy enough to run sprints until I remember where I put my whistle.” He turns to me. “Miriam and I are gonna escort these idiots downstairs. We’ll let you get to work.”

“Thank you.” I smile. Or, at least, do my best impression of what I think a normal human being would consider a smile.

Truth be told, my brain is still racing at what Miles said. I make a mental note to look him up, and I turn to walk out—but just as I do, the door to one of the private locker rooms opens, and the shirtless man who walks out slams directly into me, almost knocking me on my ass. Everyone stops just as they are about to walk out the door to the arena.

“My bad, I—” he starts to say, and I don’t even have to look up at the name above the door to recognize the voice.

Owen Sharpe rips his hand from my forearm as though he grabbed a hot burner. His look of alarm fades to a poisonous grimace.

“Sorry, I was just leaving.” I yank my eyes from his abs and step to the side, but he mirrors me. For a moment, we are shuffling, trying to get past each other, around each other, away from each other. And in the process, my hand grazes over his crotch.

“Will you just?—”

“You’re in my way.”

“You’re inmylocker room!”

“Your locker room? What, do you own the place?”

Owen answers by pointing up at his name plate hanging above his locker stall.

“You hear that, fellas. Owen owns the place,” one of the guys cackles. “All hail!”

I look around. Between shirtless Owen and the not-so-distant memories of what happened in this locker room earlier, I forgot we aren’t alone.

Owen seems to notice the crowd, too, because he glances around, cheeks hot. But it’s not embarrassment coursing through his veins, it’s annoyance.

Feeling is mutual, bud.

A smirk crawls across the lips of several players. Even Miriam arches an eyebrow.

That’s it. We’re busted. The tension between Owen and me is obvious. We’re screwed. And by screwed, I mean they can see on our faces that we have, in fact, screwed.

As my mind spirals, I feel Owen grip my upper arms before physically lifting and moving me to the side so he can pass.

“Why is no one on the ice?” he barks. “Y'all are gonna tank if you don’t practice. Now, let's go!”

I don’t wait around to see what happens next. I bolt for the exit, breathing the fresh air as I put distance between me and that damn room. I don’t look back until I am in my office, closing the door behind me.

If there was a deadbolt, I’d be karate-kicking it into place. I’m half tempted to roll my desk in front of the door and cower in here like a doomsday prepper. Hey, there’s an idea—maybe I can just line the shelves with Pop Tarts and never see or speak to anyone ever again.

My uncle must think I am such a ditz. And Miriam probably doesn’t take me seriously. I’m going to be drinking punch alone at the Christmas party, that’s for sure.

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