Chapter Twelve
Remy
I tuck my keys into my pocket, make sure that I have both coffees securely loaded into the paper tray, and double-check that the laces of my sneakers are still tied.
“Okay.” I attempt to psych myself up with a pep talk. “You’re here, you’re prepared, you’re a professional, and you’re about to be caffeinated.” After yesterday’s events at the bar, I’m completely drained.
But I’m a professional, dammit. A little hazing isn’t going to slow me down, though I wish I hadn’t let myself drink the limoncello.
When the WAGs started talking about my crush on Owen—which is not a real thing—it got under my skin.
It’s easier to dismiss it outright than to examine why everyone else seems so convinced it exists.
Yeah, Owen’s attractive in a general sense, but he’s not my type. At all.
Halfway across the lot, and deep in denial, I spot Owen moving toward the arena’s entrance. And in one heartbeat, the rest of the morning drops away.
“Hey, Owen!” I call.
He takes one look at me and books it.
Okay. So we’re doing this.
“Owen!” I jog toward him, somewhat hampered by the coffee cups I’m carrying. It feels utterly ridiculous to be chasing my client through his workplace, but I’m already losing ground. Ridiculous, and somehow still personal. Damn his long legs!
“Owen!” I bellow.
He ignores me, though my shouting does attract the attention of a few of the players. Adler grins and waves at me. “Good morning, Remy! I totally didn’t strain my groin yesterday.”
“Hey, Adler.” I flash him a tight smile as I hustle past the cluster of Venom players. They immediately start whispering among themselves. I swear, I thought the girls in college were bad. Who knew that jocks were as gossipy as co-eds?
Owen swings into rooms with no apparent pattern.
He bolts from hydro to the skate shop, then to the weight room, then the film room, then the trainer’s office.
It feels like shadowing a very large, very irritated hummingbird, and every time I get close to catching up with him, he manages to give me the slip.
Like he’s not just avoiding the conversation, but me.
He finally dips into the locker room, leaving me standing outside, breathless and flushed. He’s lucky that he’s out of reach of the tepid coffee I bought him, because otherwise, he’d be getting a faceful of bean water. I’m clammy. Part exertion. Part irritation. I don’t like being handled this way.
“Problem, Remy?”
I swallow a groan, expecting to find Adler hovering at my shoulder. I’m surprised, and somewhat relieved, to come face to face with Camden instead.
“I’ve misplaced my client,” I say through gritted teeth. My petty bullshit meter is in the red.
“Ah, yes.” Camden offers a sheepish grin. “I think he may be having a bad day.”
“He is?” I demand.
Camden reaches for the coffee cups. “Was one of these for him?”
“Here.” I shove one of the cups into his waiting hand. “Take it. He clearly doesn’t want it, and if I drink both of them, I’ll have steam coming out of my ears.”
Camden chuckles to himself as he takes a sip. “Listen, I know Owen can be difficult to talk to.”
I raise one eyebrow. “You think?”
He hums while he takes another swig. “Ooh, you got the good stuff. Listen, can I tell you a story?”
“Go for it.” I take my own coffee and slurp down the lukewarm beverage. He’s right, it’s still pretty good, but it would have been better hot. Too bad I was too busy chasing somebody around the arena to enjoy it.
Camden smiles at my no-doubt grumpy expression. “My wife works with rescue animals, you know? She’s really good at earning their trust. But sometimes she’ll come across an animal that needs their space.”
“Is Owen the sad kitten in this situation? Because I’m feeling less than sympathetic at the moment.”
Camden cocks his head. “You think he’s a cat? I see him more as a puppy. And dogs are pretty friendly, for the most part, unless they’ve been hurt before. Once a dog learns to be distrustful, though, they tend to lead with their teeth.”
I exhale through my nose. “Okay.” If this turns out to be some story about how Owen got burned by a woman in the past, and now he’s wary of redheads or whatever, I’m going to flip a table.
“He’s a good guy,” Camden says slowly, choosing each word with care. “When he has time to think, he’s easygoing. But when you corner him, he lashes out. Why do you think that is?”
Because he’s gotten one too many concussions while goaltending.
Camden’s serious expression makes me think twice, though. “Because—”
“Because it’s what he’s been taught,” Camden says in a low voice.
“Because it’s what he knows.” That lands differently than I expected.
He takes a step back from me and grins, speaking at normal volume.
“Thanks for the coffee, Remy. I’ll tell Owen he’s a dick for giving you the runaround.
” He uses the cup to give a gesture that vaguely resembles a salute, then turns away.
I watch him leave, wondering what to do with the information he just gave me. Why can’t guys ever seem to come out and say what they mean?
But I get the idea, at any rate. I head off to the lower bowl to watch the team practice and figure out my next move.
Not to cool off. To rethink my approach.
* * *
Owen’s attempt at escaping the building is foiled by my foresight. While he took the world’s fastest post-workout shower, I posted up by his car. When he sees me leaning on the hood, he grimaces.
Score one for foresight.
“Wow,” I deadpan. “You were just going to drive off, weren’t you?”
“I was going to go home. I don’t need a babysitter.” Owen won’t meet my eye. Red flag behavior, to be sure.
“You weren’t going to go anywhere today?” I ask.
“I mean, not really.”
I narrow my eyes. “You weren’t planning to leave the house for even a single second?”
“I’m…” He lets out a wordless rumble of frustration. “Look, if I let you come, can I open my door?”
“Let me come?” I repeat. That came out differently than I intended.
“I—” Owen’s neck is suddenly flushed.
“You don’t get to tell me when and where I come. If you’re there, I’m coming. That’s in the contract.”
Owen covers his eyes with one hand. “Please stop saying the word come.”
I snap my mouth shut as my own cheeks warm. I’m a little surprised by the innuendo, especially since he seems more uncomfortable than amused by it.
“Just get in the truck,” he says.
I oblige, still somewhat overheated, and we ride in silence to Owen’s condo. Not comfortable silence. Not yet. Owen doesn’t say a word on the drive over, and I don’t push him. The morning has already been weird, and I’m not sure how to read this man.
In his driveway, Owen leaves the truck idling.
“Be right back,” he says. He opens the back door before heading toward the house.
Less than a minute later, an enormous, gangly-limbed dog comes rocketing out of the house and practically vaults into the front seat.
I yelp as he plants one paw on my thigh and tries to stick his tongue in every orifice on my face.
“Shutout!” Owen bellows. “Back seat! Now!”
The dog ignores him and continues trying to stick his entire tongue up my nose. I splutter with laughter as Owen hauls the dog off me and manhandles him into the back seat. The dog seems delighted with this roughhousing, if his frantically wagging tail is anything to go by.
Eventually, Owen plops into the front seat. “Sorry about that.”
Shutout sticks his head between the seats and slurps my ear.
“Okay, okay, knock it off!” Owen uses one arm to block his dog’s aggressive affection. “He’s not used to company.”
I wipe the slobber off my cheek with the back of one hand. “Aw, he’s just friendly. Unlike his dad.”
The second it leaves my mouth, I know I hit something.
“He is not my son. That shit where people talk about their pets as if they’re kids is so weird.” Owen backs out of the driveway.
“Don’t be mean. He’s a beautiful baby.” I reach back to scritch Shutout’s ears. I’m more of a cat person, but only because my lifestyle doesn’t lend itself to dog ownership.
“He’s, like, fifteen!” Owen argues. “He’s half my age!”
“Which means that in dog years, he’s old enough to be your dad,” I tease.
The slight smile on Owen’s mouth vanishes. “Yeah,” he bites out. Well, crap. I’ve hit a nerve with that one.
Shutout eventually stops trying to crawl into my skin and wanders over to the window so that he can stare through the glass and slobber.
“Where are we going?” I ask.
Owen hooks his thumb toward the back seat. “Dog park.”
Shutout howls in evident approval of this plan.
By the time Owen parks, Shutout’s pawing at the windows and whining.
The moment the door opens, he bursts out and runs straight to the fenced-in area for big dogs.
At the moment, he’s the only large dog present, but there’s a cluster of women on the other side of the fence in the little dog zone, watching their lapdogs chase each other around and yap.
The little dogs are fascinated by Shutout even if they can’t get to him, and they line up at the fence to try to get his attention.
The women seem equally fascinated by Owen. A few of them seem to recognize him, but the rest stare at him with blatant thirst in their eyes. And for reasons I’m not interested in unpacking, that bothers me more than it should.
Neither Owen nor Shutout acknowledges them. Owen produces a ratty tennis ball and hucks it out toward the far fenceline. Shutout tears after it, tongue flapping and ears pinned back against his head.
“Okay, we’re at the dog park.” I cross my arms and turn my back on the thirsty housewives. “Want to tell me why you were avoiding me?” Let’s try direct.
Owen swallows hard enough to draw my attention. “Uh. Not really?”
“Owen.” I narrow my eyes.