Page 102 of Puck Princess

“Her face is hidden by her hair in most of the pictures.”

“But you were clearly helping her. That guy was a creep. You should be a hero.”

“It’s the press, Callie. It doesn’t matter what’s going on; it matters what itlookslike. That’s always the better story.”

She blows out an angry breath. “It’s bullshit. We should call someone.”

Who?I want to ask. It’s not like a newsboy will stand on the corner.Extra! Extra! Owen Sharpe actually a decent guy.No one would buy that paper.

“It’ll blow over. It always does.” I inch my car half a slot forward.Jesus, I am going to be in for it when I finally get to the arena.

“I feel like that’s all life does anymore—blow over.”

I can’t disagree. But I don’t want this to be our lives. We’re supposed to be happy. We’re having a baby.

For my own sanity, I choose not to think about how one night with a crying baby has almost killed us both. In five months, there will be no end.

“Last night was rough. We’re exhausted. It’s going to be okay,” I try to reassure her.

“I might take a nap in my office today.”

“I might join you.” I rub at my sore eyes. “I’ll see you at work?”

“I’ll see you at work.” As she hangs up, I hear her yawn.

I drink a double shot on my way to the arena and then hustle to the locker room. It’s empty when I get there, but as I’m changing into my gear, the doors open.

“As you can see, we pride ourselves in giving our boys their own space,” Coach Coleman says. “A lot of pride in here all the way around.”

I look up from the bench I’m sitting on and see four men walk around the corner—Coach Coleman, two higher ups, and Rodger Santos.

Speaking of things I wish would blow over. When is Rodger Santos going to get bored with the idea of owning a hockey team and go open another lame ass club?

They all stop when they see me lacing up. Clearly, this was supposed to be an empty locker room tour.

Santos arches a brow. “Lagging a little there, Sharpe?”

“He called me to let me know.” Coach Coleman has my back, at least.

“Did your mom write you a note?”

I knot my lace hard, my jaw tightening at Santos’ “humor.”Like father, like son, I guess. But I don’t really care how fat this man’s wallet is. I’m not in the mood today.

Before I can say anything—probably because he knowsI want to say something—Coach Coleman turns the conversation the other direction. “What are your thoughts in here?”

Santos lets out an overly exhaustive sigh. “Same thing as I’ve said about the rest of the arena. It needs updates. If we want this to be a winning team, we gotta sell it. Can’t do that with stadium seats that need paint, speakers that echo like the goddamn Grand Canyon, and a locker room that smells like a frat house.”

It’s a locker room. What the fuck does he want it to smell like?

The GM scratches his beard. “Sounds expensive.”

“That’s a problem for me. It means sitting down with you boys and talking about the future.”

I’ve personally heard enough. I get up and attempt to slip out the back door, but Santos stops me. “Tardiness won’t be tolerated, either.”

I freeze before slowly turning back around. “You might want to start with our new winger. He’s always late.”

“Spencer is becoming the face of the team,” he shoots back. Always with a smile, of course.

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