Page 30 of Puck Prince

Callie narrows her eyes. “They’re tight. I’m doing my job.”

I suddenly realize my pants are tight, too. One inch higher and I’m gonna need another kind of “job.” I lean back again, and she makes her way down to the other ankle to start on my left leg.

“All I’m saying,” I grit through my teeth because now she’s mad, and holy hell, does she have hand strength, “is that we need to avoid each other.”

I realize how ridiculous that sounds as she’s literally massaging me. “As much as possible,” I add.

“Oh, don’t worry, Owen Sharpe. Never—” She digs in. “—have I ever—” Harder. Harder. “—wanted to steer clear of someone so badly in my life.”

I sit up, ripping my legs from her grasp before she can reduce them to flesh-colored jelly. “Good. Then we are on the same page.”

“Same sentence, even.”

“No more hanging out on the same balcony.”

“Or the locker room.”

“Definitely not the locker room,” I agree. “That’s my territory, not yours.”

“The team is my territory, too, Sharpe. But yes. I’d prefer to stay out of that cesspool as much as possible.”

“I come to you when I need to get rubbed out.”

Her eyes widen.

“—my muscles,” I hurry to correct. “Jesus. Get your mind out of the gutter.”

She sets her jaw tight, eyes flashing, hair falling in front of her face in a way that’s unbearably fucking cute. “And I come to you when… well, I have no reason to come to you.”

I can’t help from muttering, “No, but you have comeforme.”

The way she swings around, I expect to be decked. I instinctively duck. “Kidding. Jesus. You know, we could at least try getting along?”

Callie sticks a warning finger in my face. “I am your PT, but I am not your friend. Keep it in your pants. And stretch more, so I see you less.”

“Done and done.” I stand and start to march out of the training area. Or try to. As I feared, I can barely walk. I swallow the pain and turn back around. “I wish we’d never met.”

She looks up at me from across the room. “I’m sorry; do I know you?”

I wait a beat before saluting her. “Perfect.”

As I make my way back to the locker room, I smile. At least we are in agreement on one thing: it never happened. We don’t know each other. Coach Coleman stays happy—at least as far as I am concerned. I can focus on the game and getting my name cleared.

Everything is as it should be.

Callie who?

11

OWEN

It’s official: I have PTSD.

Every time the elevator opens at my apartment complex, I am paranoid AF that Callie is going to be inside. Like, fuck. Why can’t she get her own place? Why does she have to live with her cousin? PTs make enough, especially ones that work in the sports industry.

But no. She had to move in with Kennedy, making my life harder and giving me a goodman panic attack every time the elevator dings.

I make it to my floor without seeing her and let out a sigh of relief that will only last until I have to get in the elevator again. I shove the key in the lock, but my eyes narrow. It’s already unlocked. Did I forget…?

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