Page 47 of Puck Prince

“What?” He looks at me for the first time, and I almost regret saying anything at all.

“The music.”

“Oh. Right. Yeah, I like him.”

“Hmm,” I hum.

“Does that surprise you?”

“I don’t know. I just figured you’d be a Post Malone kind of guy.”

He turns up the volume another notch. “Again, Coleman, you don’t know me.”

He isn’t wrong.

Quickly, I lay out the things I do know about Owen Sharpe.

He’s a popular hockey player. One with a reputation I don’t exactly love or trust.

He seems to take the adventurous route through life. The whimsical one. From erotic nights in to spontaneous date nights out. He’s flighty, just doing what feels right in the moment.

As romantic as that sounds on paper, it’s not exactly a dependable trait.

And dependable is something you want in a baby daddy. I know from experience.

We pull into the parking lot of a sports bar, a neon sign illuminating the cracking asphalt.Pour Boys Taproom.

“Are you sure this is the right place?” It’s not exactly the wine and dine I was sold.

“Trust me.” Owen unbuckles his seatbelt. “This is where we want to be.”

He opens the door for me and follows behind. I am hit with a rush of greasy pub food, stale beer, the dull roar of sports TV chatter, and people. Hundreds of people, all of them talking, laughing, having a good time.

“Sharpe!” one of the bartenders calls. In that instant, the attention of the entire establishment turns to us.

Owen grabs my hand and dips to whisper in my ear. “Here we go.”

It’s like being thrown in the deep end of the pool before I have the chance to plug my nose.

People swarm us from all sides, pulling him into man hugs, shaking his hand, slapping him on the back while they talk about the upcoming game.

Women approach, too, asking for autographs and photos.

What the hell did I sign up for?

After about ten minutes of dizzying hype, he takes my hand again. “If y’all will excuse us, me and my girl need a drink.”

I feel lightheaded. I don’t know what’s fucking with me more: the fact that he grabbed my hand again or the fact that he just publicly referred to me as “his girl.”

Instinctively, I hug my body close to his, but I still have to yell close to his ear for him to hear me. “Are you sure we shouldn’t go somewhere else?”

“Why would we go somewhere else?” He continues to smile and wave as we weave through his adoring fans.

“Oh, I don’t know. I thought maybe we should be somewhere more… private? Someplace where everyone doesn’t know you, where people aren’t taking pictures and ogling while we try to?—”

“Try to what?” He leans in close enough that his lips brush my cheek. “Date? It’s not a real date. We just want it to look like one. Which is exactly why—” Another smile and wave. “—we want to be in the most public place possible. I am the Sam Malone of this place.”

Great. And what does that make me? His stick-up-her-ass date that is grossed out by a sticky bartop and sloppy onlookers? Nota chance. I might prefer a glass of wine and a charcuterie board, but I can Cool Girl™ with the best of them. I am a hockey coach’s niece, after all.

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