Page 1 of The Puck Bunny

PROLOGUE

SARA

Is it too weird that, at twenty-one years old, I, Sara Bellagamba, have a poster of Quinn James—arguably the most outstanding and definitely dreamiest hockey star who ever lived—on my bedroom wall, albeit turning at the corners because it’s been there since high school? Of course I still live at home because I can’t afford to move out since I’m paying student loans for my business degree from UNH—aka the University of New Hampshire, a premiere hockey school, of course. Did I mention that Quinn James himself is an alum? Yup, the most famous and spectacularly successful hockey player ever to come from the UNH Wildcats hockey program.

It’s also weird that I’m working in a low-paying entry-level job after graduating magna cum laude.

In my defense, it’s my dream job and I wouldn’t trade it for a million bucks. Okay, maybe I’d consider a million bucks… And sure, the job itself isn’t a dream because who dreams about staring at spreadsheets filled with ticket sales stats?

But who cares about all the tedium—I’m working for the freaking Boston Brawlers hockey team! (inner shriek!) Just walking in the doors to the corporate office suite at the Garden gives me goose bumps every single morning.

Besides, all the weirdness can be explained away by one single fact:

I’m a lifelong super fan of hockey and especially the home team Boston Brawlers.

So, when I find out Quinn freaking James just signed with the Brawlers at the last second in a stunning free-agency deal, I almost faint. Luckily, I’m sitting at my desk chair and can close my eyes until the dizziness passes.

“Did you see this?” I whisper-shout across the top of the cubicle to my co-worker and best friend from college, Billie Mae. She’s from Arkansas and God-only-knows how she ended up at UNH as my roommate, but after dragging her to all the college hockey games, she joined me as an official fan of the sport, though not quite at my level.

She’s enough of a fan to have finagled an internship with the Brawlers her senior year. Her dad is some kind of muckety-muck VIP in the business world with enough gravitas—or money—to pull some strings. Anyway, the rest is history because we now have our foot officially in the door, both having landed these horribly boring, low-paying jobs working for the best sports organization in the world.

“Have I seen what?” she says, only half-paying attention as she taps away at her keyboard at lightning speed.

“About the free-agency deal?” I whisper-shout a little louder as my eyes stay glued to the keyboard. “The online article describes him as—and I quote—the movie-star-handsome, hockey mega-god who played with the LA Shooting Stars for ten seasons, dominating the league and building a leading-man persona with his on- and off-the- ice glamorous-player lifestyle.”

“Oh yeah,” she says, still tapping. “I thought I heard someone in the elevator on the way in talking about a deal to get Quinn What’s-His-Name.” She turns to me, finally paying attention. “Isn’t that the guy you had a crush on when you were a kid?”

Okay, maybe I exaggerated about Billie Mae being an official hockey fan. She still has a lot to learn about who the best players in the league are. Also, I may have fibbed to her a little when I told her about my old crush since it’s not that old. In fact, it’s still fresh as a daisy and blooming out all over me right now as I scroll down the article to the photos.

“Sure.” I stay cool. “He’s still cute.”

She makes a face like she ate a lemon. “If you like old guys—whom, as it turns out…” She taps another key— “PR just sent me photos of to post on Insta. Maybe you’re right,” she says, studying her screen for a beat. “He’s not half-bad. Kind of a heartthrob vibe. I wonder if his teeth are real?”

“Yes, they are,” I answer too fast.

She laughs, shaking her head as I finish reading the article.

Apparently, I’m not the only one stunned by the deal. It’s also a shock to the sports world that he chose to go from the star power of the LA glam market to the cultural opposite with the notorious blue-collar Boston Brawlers. Not even his agent, best-in-the-business, Ham Jett would say any more than, “It’s the right move for him at this time.”

Some people—and, by people, I mean me—find that explanation a stretch when he was last seen in video clips in the off-season dating Princess Anica Romanova from Romaldestan.

But maybe, just maybe, he wanted the trade because he misses New England. He’s the best player to ever play hockey at UNH, still holding a half-dozen records to this day, ten years later.

If only I’d gone there when he was there… What might have happened?

Get a grip, Sara. Not a goddam blessed thing would have happened because you’re too average—possibly below average—to attract the likes of him.

My stupid reality check is right. I’d barely dated at all. At parties, I’d been the quintessential awkward girl, talking hockey instead of flirting. Flirting had never been my specialty. I’ve always been a numbers person and even though I’d ended up getting chosen as one of the student volunteer statisticians for the team my senior year, do you think I ever dated one single hockey player the entire season?

No. I did not.

I’d wanted to. I just couldn’t manage to close any deals. They were too far out of my league—my league being the Pee-Wees C-team compared to their top NHL prospect status.

But I’m more worldly now, a college grad working in the city in a professional job and working on my wardrobe and my weight. Billie Mae made me promise to let her help me and we’re making progress.

The first thing on her training list—yes, she’s calling it training—is to build up my confidence with men. She says I have a body-image problem and insecurities that make me awkward when I try to flirt. Maybe it stems from too much time with two brothers who constantly tease me, or maybe it’s because of the time my dad went away for a while. But today Billie Mae and I are going out to lunch and she’ll coach me on what to eat and maybe to practice flirting.

And now I have something to practice for. Because, now that Quinn’s here, there’s no way I’m not going to do something about it.