Page 35 of The Puck Bunny

“I’m sure you’ll be far from my neighborhood, somewhere on the other side of the proverbial tracks. On the ocean, right?”

His dimple shows up. “Neighbors in spirit.”

I get out of the car and I’ve almost escaped when he says, “See you tomorrow at the pop-up event.”

Crap. How the hell am I going to face him in the light of day? At work.

CHAPTER 12

QUINN

Escaping the Night of the Puck Bunny Disaster, which is how I’m thinking of last night as I lie in bed, might have been a lucky thing. There should be no question about it after discovering Lola and Sara are the same girl. That shit is so wrong on so many levels.

She’s not a puck bunny from a bar; I work with the girl. Fuck. There’d be no escaping the fallout of a fling when I see her at work. And there’s no escaping the fallout from last night since I’ll be seeing her today at the charity event.

This is something I should be dreading because she’s an emotional lady whether she’s Lola or Sara, and who knows what she’ll say or what kind of scene she might cause? But, as I wait for my alarm to go off at nine, I feel the opposite of dread.

I pick up my phone from the night stand. It reads 8:59. I tap the alarm off before it blares, then shove the covers off me. Heading to the hotel bathroom, I get out my shaving kit. I should be avoiding her and all the trouble of getting involved with someone from the organization even if it’s only a mild flirtation. Especially with Sara. She’s young and my gut screams at me that she’s vulnerable and naïve and so not ready for a spin with the likes of me in spite of her protests otherwise. In spite of her begging me.

Double fuck.

I have a hard-and-fast rule: never sleep where you eat. That’s what my dad used to tell me when I was younger, though he was never one to spell out the gory details. My mom, however, would elaborate and tell me to never fool around with anyone from school or work.

Either way, message received and rule followed ever since puberty and especially over the past ten-plus years of my hockey career. Until now. Fucking idiot.

Shit. A small sting sparks on my jaw as I draw the razor up. Note to self: never call yourself out while you have a fucking razor in your hand. Tearing off a piece of toilet paper, I plaster it to the bloody nick on my jawline. My focus is crap. What has me so fucking messed up? Something besides Sara/Lola. She’s only a symptom of my problem. A distraction.

My reflection stares at me like I’m stupid. It’s no fucking mystery what’s messing you up. It started with that incident with Princess Anica Romanova that I had to deal with—in Paris. Then my dad dying. And because I was in Paris then, I didn’t get a chance to see him. Or my mom and family. I haven’t really had a chance to grieve since with the free-agency negotiations and moving to Boston and now the starting the season with my new team.

It’s no wonder my family’s fucking pissed at me. I haven’t seen them because that means dealing with my dad’s death and I can’t do it—not yet. I need to concentrate on hockey, don’t I?

Mom’s more disappointed than pissed, but it feels the same as pissed to my battered no-good conscience.

My normally excellent sense of self-preservation which has been almost flawless for all these years—until that fucking incident with the princess—is now turned off and broken. It may be partly because I’m supposed to be avoiding all women and concentrating on hockey, according to my coach—and my agent based on his latest text. Or I’m supposed to be finding a down-to-earth woman to settle down with, according to my mother.

It doesn’t escape even my muddled mind that these two sets of expectations are the exact opposite. This is what it feels like to be squeezed from two sides by the forces that are most important to me, hockey and family. I want both, but that seems impossible from where I stand right now.

In the mirror, I notice the toilet paper patch on my face, something I haven’t seen in years, and the dark circles under my eyes from sleeping poorly, which was never a problem for me until lately.

This is what it looks like to be between a fucking rock and a hard place. Nowhere to go to for escape. Except, apparently, into a fog so muddy that I start making bad choices about puck bunnies who work for my team.

The fucking kicker is that knowing she’s a bad choice doesn’t change how I feel right now because I am, in fact, looking forward to seeing Sara Bellagamba, aka Lola-the-puck-bunny, aka bad-choice-personified. Because I like her.

I should be running the other way from her crazy ass, because she’s a distraction to finding any kind of success in either hockey or a stable relationship. She’s about as opposite from stable as I can imagine.

But as distractions go, she’s a tough one to ignore. Maybe even a necessary one. Keeps my mind off my baggage. I can’t wait to see what she’ll do or say next. I wonder what Dad would think of her… Fuck. Do not even go there.

Instead, the image of her laughing and sprawled on the bed last night moves everything else from my mind.

She’s a beauty, but there are a lot of beauties out there. I feel like I’ve met at least half of them. So, why her? I look for the answer in the uninspiring hotel bathroom ceiling and wipe the excess foam off my face.

I admit to myself the basic truth about her, either in her puck bunny Lola persona or as Sara Bellagamba, she’s a nice person. Kind and sincere in her caring and her emotions and not very good at pretense when it comes down to it in spite of how hard she tries.

In short, she’s something I haven’t encountered in a woman in a very long time—she’s modest, even humble.

She has no idea how tempting she really is.

I take off my boxers. In spite of the semi-hard, Sara-inspired morning wood, I step into the shower and force myself to contemplate hockey pucks and Coach’s face rather than give in to the temptation of getting off on the replay of last night’s most tantalizing moments.