Page 26 of Puck Princess

9

CALLIE

In the NHL, I got paid good money to work with high-performance athletes at their physical peak.

At Tender Touch Massage, I could make pennies over minimum wage to massage walk-ins off the street.

How will I ever choose?

I sit on Owen’s couch, a salad that I ordered from a nearby deli on my lap, and scroll through job listings so bleak, I’m considering a life of crime. The few jobs that are more appealing than starting my own counterfeit money operation—like one downtown in a private practice with full benefits, near shopping and the riverwalk—pay half as much as I made with the Scythes.

I mean, it makes sense. Those jobs are cushy. I’d have my own office and, at the start of every day, I could look at my schedule and know exactly what the day would hold. I doubt helping locals with post-op mobilization and the elderly with aches and pains has anywhere near the drama a hockey team does.

When I show up at the arena in the morning, I have no idea who is gonna break their nose in practice or have a flare-up of an old injury. A few weeks ago, Dax stubbed his toe on a weight plate in the gym and thought it was broken. (It wasn’t. He’s just a big baby.)

And I like that chaos. I thrive in it. The only part I don’t love as much is ex-boyfriends and fist fights.

So, as I pick all the mandarin oranges out of my salad, I dive deep into the bowels of physical therapist jobs. My search engine is now set to a range of one-hundred miles, allowing me options like working in Flatonia, TX or the middle of the Gulf of Mexico.

I’m considering the pros and cons of a two-hour daily commute while I have a newborn at home when there’s a knock at the door.

I’m not expecting anyone. It’s the twenty-first century and cellphones exist, so I’mneverexpecting anyone.

I freeze, trying to decide if I should pretend no one is home.

The problem with that plan is, if it’s someone I really don’t want to talk to on the other side of that door, no response could be all the response they need to kick the door in.

There’s another knock, but it’s soft, patient. So, I press my luck and tiptoe over to peek through the peephole.

“Oh.” I open the door. “Uncle Randy?”

“Hey, Alley Cat.” His hands are in his pockets. He looks like hell.

“Are you looking for— Owen went to work. I mean, he’s not— I mean.” Clearly, I don’t know what I mean.

Is he looking for Owen? Is it bad that I am here? And speaking of Owen, I am totally wearing one of his old t-shirts, which pretty much erases any chance at plausible deniability.

Uncle Randy saves me the emotional spiral.

“I’m here to see you. I was wondering if we could talk.”

I haven’t seen him since he fired me, but I hold the door open. “Of course.”

My uncle walks in, taking a look around before slowly turning to face me.

“Is everything okay?”

If something was wrong with Kennedy, he wouldn’t be this calm, would he?

He lets out a breath that almost makes its way to a laugh. “I don’t know ifanythingis okay lately.”

Ain’t that the truth?

“Do you want to sit down?”

He nods, taking off his Scythes ball cap and dropping down into an armchair. I glance at my phone again, but there are no missed calls or texts. No warning at all what this could be about.

Which is why the next words out of his mouth hit me sideways.

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