Page 23 of Puck Princess

The pace only picks up when we both need the release. We hit that edge together, moaning as I bury myself inside of her.

Coming undone and crashing together.

8

OWEN

The morning sun sneaks in through the blinds, casting warm crescents on the bed. I rub my eyes, propping myself up on one elbow.

Yesterday was so fucking crazy that I have to blink twice when I see Callie lying next to me. It could all have been some dream. For her sake, I kind of wish it was. Just to spare her from the dark underbelly of the world.

But then I trace the soft spread of her hair across my pillow. I curve a finger along the slope of her jawline and the plumpness of her bottom lip, and I can’t bring myself to change a single thing.

This is real, and I’m so fucking glad.

I sit up with a muffled groan. I told Callie last night that everything didn’t hurt, but that was the cocky talk of me from twelve hours ago. The me of today is one giant bruise. I need a week-long ice bath.

I reach for my phone on the nightstand. I forgot it existed the second we left the bar last night. As soon as I look at my notifications, I wish I could forget again.

I should’ve guessed it would be an explosion. There are drunken, misspelled texts from Dax and Lance, messages from Coach Coleman, and even a missed call from my agent, Rick.

I choose to call Rick back first. Everyone else is too close to the problem, but Rick will put an emotionally-distanced business spin on the situation. And if he’s calling me first thing in the morning, shit can’t be good.

“Morning, sunshine. I’m sending you a link right now.” My phone buzzes against my ear. “Have you checked the news yet this morning?”

Fuck.

Nothing gets you going in the morning like a healthy dose of dread. I tap on the link.

The article starts with a picture of the front of Pour Boys, the glaring lights of an ambulance flashing out front. The description below reads: “Bloodied Scythes player, Miles Solomon, found unconscious in a back alley after a winning game.”

Double fuck.

I slip out of the bedroom and into the kitchen so I don’t wake Callie. I also need to snort some ground down Tylenol.

“You want to explain to me why you’re being asked to comment on this story?” Rick asks.

“I’m sure all the guys are being questioned.”

“Ehh, I wouldn’t count on that,” he says. “Probably because the other guys didn’t beat the shit out of Miles in front of a live audience only a few hours before he was found unconscious in an alley. Coincidence?”

“Probably.”

He groans. “As far as publicity stunts go, this one is a doozy. I’ll be cleaning that mess up for weeks.”

“It wasn’t a stunt,” I say, shoving a pod in the coffee maker. “Solomon had it coming.”

“It’s shit like that that makes it hard to believe you aren’t involved,” he mumbles. “Why did he have it coming?”

“No comment.”

“Attaboy. You just keep repeating that while I figure out how to smooth this over. And in the meantime, please don’t hit anymore teammates. I’m good at my job, but I’m not a miracle worker. I need you to keep the fists of fury to a minimum. Can you do that?”

“No comment.”

He hangs up with a muffled curse.

I grab my coffee and pad back to my room. Callie is just waking up.

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