Page 122 of Puck Princess

“No one can lead the Scythes like Owen does.” I look back at the sound of Callie’s voice. She is standing next to Coach, who looks unfazed by the hissy fit happening next to him.

Rodger looms over her, and I itch to turn around and drag him away from her. “Trust me, Coleman. None of you are safe if you don’t play by the rules.”

“I think that goes both ways,” Callie spits. “Because I’m not going to stay quiet any longer.”

What does that mean?

Rodger Santos is livid. His lip curls, nostrils flare. But Coach steps between him and his niece. Whatever it means, I know Callie is safe.

So I head onto the ice.

The game is rough from the moment the buzzer sounds, but it’s a good kind of rough.

While the other team definitely came to play, we are solid. They may have walked in undefeated, but there’s no way they’re leaving here that way.

I score the first goal and it’s a nonstop highlight reel from there. I’m locked in to what’s happening on the ice.

It’s not until the final buzzer that I look towards the stands, searching for Callie. Ready to climb the boards to get to her, to hold her.

Except, I don’t see her anywhere.

It’s a bone-deep dread that makes me scan the bench and look forhim.

And I realize I don’t see Spencer, either.

40

CALLIE

Watching Owen on the ice is poetry. I know it sounds cheesy, but when he’s zeroed in like this, there’s nothing else like it. I can see the way hockey is part of him, the way his instincts are attuned to each shift in a play, to each of his teammates.

He weaves in and out of the opposing team with ease, like cursive on ice. The center for the opposite team has the puck, and I’m on the literal edge of my seat, hands clasped over my mouth as he tears down the ice and takes an open shot.

But Heath drops into a full butterfly—thank God for all the work we’ve done on his tight hip flexors—and blocks the puck. The next thing I know, it’s sailing down the ice in the other direction and Owen has it.

I join in the rabble of fans screaming for Owen, and all I can think is that he is mine.

Which must be why I went insane and decided to stand up to Rodger Santos. He was being a dick to my man, so I looked him in his bottomless black eyeballs and threatened to tell everyone that his son raped me.

The same dread I felt in that moment swirls inside of me again, but I shove it aside and focus on Owen.

The sixth sense he has to predict exactly where he needs to be and how to execute a shot is mesmerizing. I’m watching Owen move with a grace I’ve never seen before when, suddenly, I’m doubled over in my seat.

I grip my stomach and cry out, but it’s lost to the sounds of the crowd. My stomach is tight and getting tighter. I’m grunting through the pain, ready to scream for help until…

Slowly, the pain ebbs away. The tightness releases enough that I can sit up, but I’m breathless.

What the fuck was that?

Did I pull a muscle while sitting down? With pregnancy, anything is possible, but that seems a little extreme even for me.

Whatever happened, something feels off. Something isn’t right.

Slowly, I get up and make my way past the screaming fans and out of the arena. I think about going to the bathroom, but there’s a long line of women holding overpriced White Claws, so I head to the PT room instead. Besides, I want privacy.

I’m twenty-one weeks along and showing more every day, so I don’t want to stand in the middle of a public restroom and lift my shirt over my head. I also don’t want anyone freaking out if whatever the hell that feeling was comes back, and I hit the damp, pee-covered deck of a public restroom.

I’m just pulling open the door to the PT room when the pain surges again. It’s a cramp all the way across my stomach, tightening like a vise and shooting down my thighs.

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