Page 55 of Puck Princess

Grand gestures aren’t really in my wheelhouse. There’s never been a need for them before. I kind of worried I’d take it too far and scare her off. But the way she was crying my name last night, I think I struck the perfect balance.

I’m reliving the vision of Callie on top of me, soap bubbles slipping down her chest while she rode me in the tub, when the elevator doors open, and I sprint to the front desk.

The woman smiles. “Good morning. The rest of the team left a few hours ago. I didn’t know anyone was still?—”

“Car,” I blurt, cutting her off. “I need a car.”

“Absolutely.” She gets on the landline and, for the first time since my eyes open, I remember I have a cellphone. I pull it out and there are no less than fifty missed texts.

“Fuck.” Everyone from Lance to Coach has been blowing me up for the last—Shit, three hours.Practice started at seven.

“A car will be out front for you in three minutes.” She beams her service industry smile at me. “Anything else I can help you with, Mr. Sharpe?”

“What happened to the wakeup call I ordered for rooms 1703 and 2018?”

“They were canceled.” She answers with the same flaccid smile until she realizes I’m not smiling.

“I didn’t cancel shit. Who canceled them?”

“I’m sorry, sir. But there was a man earlier?—”

“Who? What did he look like?” Maybe this is Coach’s way of fucking with me. He knows I slept with his niece and he’s pissed. But with the tightrope the team is walking, he wouldn’t date.

Or maybe it was Santos…

“Middle-aged. He was wearing a suit.” She trails off as her eyes land on something in the distance behind me. The poor woman looks like she’s going to faint.

I turn around and… there’s a middle-aged man. In a suit.

He walks through the lobby, tossing a quick wave towards the woman behind the desk. A small smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth, and that’s all it takes for me to know who he is and who canceled my wake up call.

Rodger Santos.

On the ride to the arena, I catch up on all of my missed text messages.

They shift from curious to desperate fast and then continue every few minutes for hours. New ones keep rolling in.

Apparently, Coach decided my absence needed to be felt by the whole team. We fuck up together, we suffer together, or some kind of bullshit mantra like that. What it means for the team is that they’ve been running drills for the last three hours.

Lance:He won’t let us stop until you show up. GET HERE NOW YOU ASSHOLE. Everyone wants to kill you.

Weird, because I want to kill Spencer Santos.

Callie and I stayed up irresponsibly late last night. When I fell asleep, I knew I was going to suffer the next day, but I would’ve woken up on time. I would’ve dragged my exhausted, sexually sated ass to practice and been there with my team.

But Spencer hid behind his big bad daddy and fucked with my schedule.

Now, I need to show him who’s in charge.

I get to the arena and run straight to Coach. I don’t even hit the locker room first. He doesn’t look happy to see me, and I don’t blame him.

“I’m sorry, Coach. I?—”

He holds up a hand. “I don’t want to fucking hear it, Sharpe. Whatever your excuse is, I don’t care.”

“And that’s fair. But it’s not what you think.”

“What I think is that you’re sliding. What I think is that you’re losing grip on your temper and your self-control has cost us more than one game already. I won’t let the team suffer because of you again.” He gets right in my face, lowering his voice so no one else can hear. “What I think is you’re missing practice during an away game because you were up all night in the king suite with my niece.”

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