Page 22 of The Puck Bunny

“Help him out?” Mom squints her eyes wondering what the hell that means.

“Give him moral support. He needs it.”

“You’re such a good man—”

“I don’t know about that,” I say before Mom can get going. I can’t believe she’d still sing my praises after… well, after everything.

“Dad says hello,” Lenny says.

“How is he?”

“You should visit and find out.”

“Touché. I will. Better yet, I’ll get you all tickets to next Saturday’s game—both families—and take you all out to dinner afterward.” I shake my head. “I can’t believe you two paid for tickets and didn’t tell me—”

“Don’t you worry,” Mom says. “I can afford a ticket to your game. I thought it would be fun to surprise you.” She gives me a half worried-half apologetic look, pretty much accusing me of failing to come home. I bet she thinks that I’ve going out carousing, that I prioritized fooling around over coming home—.

“Look, tonight’s not what you think. I really do need to help out a friend—”

“I believe you, sweetheart. Not that you owe me any explanation. I knew I was taking a chance surprising you like this.” She smiles and pats my face like she always has, like the warm wonderful woman she’s always been.

Shit. I feel gulty anyway. Because I owe her for all my absences in the past ten years.

I glance at Derico. His smile is genuine and without judgment.

He punches my shoulder the way he always did when we were kids. “Don’t worry about it. You help your friend and we’ll see you next week—if that works for you?”

“Thanks. It does.”

“I’m not used to playing so close to home and didn’t even imagine you’d be here. I’ll get the best tickets they have for next week. Talk to the family, both of you, and let me know how many tickets you want and I’ll have them for you."

Mom laughs and Derico grins. “Don’t go Hollywood on us, big guy. This doesn’t need to be a big production.”

He’s still smiling but my smile is forced now—because he has no idea what a bullseye he’s hit right in my Achilles heel. Hollywood is the last thing I want to be.

“Maybe your brother and his family will come.” Mom arches an eyebrow. “If you call him.”

My gut churns and I nod. I should call him, but the last time didn’t go well. I’d called to let him know I was coming back east to play in Boston and hoped to see him and get to know my nephews. He’d told me not to make any rash moves on his account. Even if the words were less than warm, his tone had left me frozen. And angry. But I was angry at myself not him, so I’d ended the call before I blew up and made things worse than they already were between us.

After one last heartfelt hug between Mom and me, I exchange a look with Lenny as he takes Mom’s arm. He knows I owe him my right arm and left nut for tonight and all the other times he’s been there for me.

With an understanding smile, a little sadness at the corners, he escorts Mom to the exit.

I watch them leave, then try to shift gears to an intervention at the Tea Party.

Spotting Jonas stuck with a reporter—the same one who’d asked me that crappy question. I’m about to rescue him when Coach shows up and sets him free. Good man, that Coach.

Jonas reaches me in a few strides and we don’t say much as we escape through the garage and walk to The Tea Party. We’re wearing ball caps when we walk in, trying to stay unrecognized if we can.

“Whatever you do,” I say, “keep it low-key. No attention. No social media moments.”

He grunts and leads the way to the back of the bar. There are three women sitting at the table closest to the back hallway near the exit. They have their backs to us, but I’d recognize that redhead anywhere. She’s here, my earnest young puck bunny. That gut feeling I’d had about seeing her tonight was right. But I don’t need that complication because I’m supposed to be here for Jonas’ moral support, and the last thing I need to do is fuck up and involve myself in any more puck bunny drama. It’s bad enough he’s tangled up in it. This isn’t supposed to be about me and some puck bunny.

Jonas greets the ladies. She turns around and stands up, and my priorities go haywire with just one look.

My earnest puck bunny has gone from shy to full-tilt in-your-face-sexy-as-hell puck bunny to out-play all puck bunnies. Fuck. It’s damn amazing what a short skirt and long legs will do to a guy. And ridiculous considering this guy has been around the block and been exposed to the best of the best Hollywood has to offer. I’ve been literally around the world and had every manner of woman thrown in my path, so I am not a man easily impressed. Not at all.

In fact, it’s not her legs, or her impressive cleavage or her pretty face that impress me, though they’re all nice. It’s those eyes and the raw innocence sparking from them and hitting me right in the solar plexus as if she’s reached out and grabbed me by the balls. Except I bet that’s not something she would do and the idea is hotter than the reality of any number of starlets who’ve done just that.