Page 106 of Puck Princess

“—has to say about it. We are going out, Callie.”

Lance mouths the wordouch,and I bite back a laugh.

“Fine. We’ll go out. But nothing crazy. I am exhausted.”

“Good. Come over after work and get ready with me. And tell the meat head listening in on the call to fuck off. Love you, bye!”

She hangs up and I arch a brow at Lance.

“Yeah, I heard her,” he grimaces.

“You want to talk about two people who obviously have something going on with each other?” I point from him to my phone and back again.

“Kennedy still hasn’t told you?”

I jump on that. Actually, I’m so excited about any little crack in this case that I almost jump on Lance. “Told me what? What is there to tell?”

He uncurls my hand from around his trapezius with a wince and sits up. “We have… a history. And you know what they say about history?”

“It repeats itself?” I grin.

“No. You should learn from it and move on.”

“Well, I’d love to learn from it, but first, I have to know whatitis. Why don’t we do a little review? Tell me everything.”

Lance doesn’t bite. “Like I’ve said before, you’re going to have to find out from her.”

“But she won’t tell me!”

“Because what happened with us should have never happened!” He gets off the table.

“But somethingdidhappen?”

I’m prepared to follow Lance to the locker room—to his house. I’ll stand by his bedside and pepper him for information all night long if that’s what it takes.

Suddenly the double doors open. A couple of the higher ups walk in, along with Rodger Santos. I stop mid-sentence.

Lance and I might as well be ghosts the way they survey the room, looking right through us.

Spencer’s dad walks over to the work out equipment, clearly not impressed. He goes on some rant about CrossFit being the future and how the room should be more open and less cluttered.

That’s when his eyes land on me. “Your PT worksinthe training room?”

He’s not talking to me, per se, but he’s talking about me, so I chime in.

“This makes it easier for me to work with the athletes. I’ve found they’re more likely to ask for my help if I’m standing nearby and not shuttered away in a?—”

“Wouldn’t the PT be better positioned in a private office?” he interrupts.

Pretentious, condescending father like pretentious, condescending son, I suppose.

“I like space,” I grit out. “And this is what has been generously offered.”

He studies me before going on. “It’s cluttered. It also doesn’t give players the privacy they deserve while being… maneuvered.”

“Part of PT is training. Having the space and equipment available is?—”

“Spencer was right—you are a mouthy one.” His words land like a slap. I take a step back, stunned by how similar he is to his son.

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