Page 20 of The Puck Bunny

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“Great outing,” Coach says, not exactly smiling. He nods in my direction and Ryan smacks me on the back. We’re in the locker room after the game, still dripping with sweat and working off some adrenaline. Coach followed us in right off the ice, before taking his usual session with the press. My smile takes credit for the two goals and two assists, but I keep the pride tamped down because it was a pre-season game and our opponent wasn’t at full strength. Still, we won and that’s better than losing the game whether I scored a couple goals or not.

Coach says to the room at large, “Sleep in an extra fifteen minutes tomorrow and don’t forget to meet here in the locker room by ten a.m. sharp, ready for the pop-up event. There’ll be a lot of kids coming, so bring your energy.” He nods one last time and we return with a chorus of grunts and Yes, sirs and Go Brawlers.

Before he leaves, he says, “I’ll send for you if the press wants to talk to one of you reprobates.”

After he leaves, Jonas laughs. “Reprobates?”

I’m not sure he knows the meaning of the word. But he needs to learn.

A couple of the guys joke around, accusing him of being the chief reprobate.

With my towel wrapped around my waist, I head for the shower. As I pass by him, I mutter under my breath,

Reprobate means incorrigible.”

He gives me a slight nod and then a wicked smile, worthy of a reprobate. “If the shoe fits.” When I turn to head to the showers, he touches my arm which stops me. “You’re still on for tonight, right?”

I nod and move on. Going out to a bar tonight is not what I’d had in mind; I’d planned a quick quiet dinner—maybe with a couple of the guys, maybe alone—and then hitting the sheets early because it’s been an exhausting week. On the other hand, I can’t deny the building anticipation of returning to The Tea Party.

Maybe I’m the incorrigible one. Maybe it’s a symptom of withdrawal from my L.A. lifestyle when I’d automatically gone out every night, because why else would I look forward to returning to the scene of the crime?

A picture of the brave puck bunny snaps front and center in my head without provocation. Puck bunnies are people, too. A smile follows that thought before I can banish the idea that I might be looking forward to seeing her again. There’s no guarantee she’ll be there, and, yet, as I dry off, my energy is up—along with maybe one stupid part of my anatomy—for no good reason, confident that there will be an encounter of the kind I’m trying to avoid.

Shit. It’s definitely been too long since I’ve been with a woman.

When I’ve barely finished dressing, the assistant coach, Barney, opens the locker room door and calls my name. “Press wants to talk to you. Pronto.”

Some of the guys give me shit, including and especially the chief shit-flinger, Finn.

“There goes Hollywood doing his thang.”

I give him the finger on my way by. We’re both grinning. Giving him my middle finger is beginning to be our thang now.

I grab a towel from the pile near the door and swipe it over my hair, but it’s no use. It won’t be the first or last time I face the press with my hair a dripping mess, but at least it’s not from sweat.

Pushing through the door, I expect to head for the press room, but I’m immediately confronted by cameras of all kinds and at least a dozen media types standing in the hall right outside the locker room. Coach is standing by with his game look in place and he tilts his chin in my direction. Taking a deep breath, I join him.

This scene is a little different than L.A. where even the media are as polished as the fans. Here the environment is earthy and moblike. My back is against a cement wall and questions are being thrown like bricks. Like the good old, old days back in high school when I first gained notoriety.

“Do you think you can have another hundred-point season?”

“How’s it feel to be in Boston?”

Then, “Why did you really leave L.A?”

Followed by the bolder, “There are rumors that you left a pregnant woman behind—are they it true?”

I forget to duck the brick question and feel the blood drain from my face in spite of my notorious poise and cool under fire. Shit. “No. It’s not true.”

“What the hell?” Coach says. “Hockey questions or I’m having you all thrown out.”

“I’ll try to get past a hundred points this season, but I’m really focusing on doing whatever it takes for the team to win The Cup.”

“Is that why you came to Boston?”

“I came back to Boston to be near family and get back to my roots where I grew up. The Brawlers is my hometown team, the one I rooted for when I was a Peewee.”