Page 36 of The Puck Bunny

Turning the water to cold, I make the shower quick and dress in black jeans and a Brawlers t-shirt with my name and number provided by PR. Since I’m still accustomed to L.A. weather, I throw on a light leather jacket against the cool autumn day.

When I get down to the lobby, I throw on my sunglasses and a ball cap that says, Keep It Lite, a leftover from a promo I did with Miller Lite that I kept for some reason. It’s my Average Joe look to keep a low profile for my walk to the Garden. Whether I need it or not.

* * *

Arriving at the locker room, I’m greeted by the team’s equipment manager, Zeb Standish, and his assistants in the hall outside the locker room. They hand me the official team hat and my jersey to wear for the day. Zeb takes the hat from my head with a wry grin. A few other guys are there, throwing on their shirts without bothering with the locker room as others arrive.

“As soon as you’re dressed, get up to the lobby. Find the table with your merch on it. Someone will be there to help you. Sign as much as you can ahead of time.”

“You got pens for us?” Finn asks.

“They’ll have them for you.”

“Some operation, eh?” Rafe says.

Finn laughs. “You gonna sign yours All the best, eh, Mr.-I’m-from-Canada?”

“Fuck you. You’re just as Canadian as I am.”

“Not for a while.” Finn shrugs. “When in Rome…”

I grin and notice that Rafe leaves it alone as the three of us head for the stairwell together.

The lobby has been transformed to a hockey gear shop of mega proportions, smothered in all things Brawlers. Even the sales assistants are covered from head to toe in Brawlers gear and colors.

“Knock ’em dead.” Finn punches my shoulder. “But watch out for the flirty fans.”

I laugh, not bothering to mention that I’m more than familiar with flirty fans. This isn’t my first public relations rodeo.

Searching the sea of merch displays with tall banners at each showing a larger-than-life action pic of a player, I spot mine.

My heart kicks like an engine revving because… there she is, Sara Bellagamba, the ultimate distraction in the flesh.

Striding over with my genuine smile, I remind myself that she’s kind and vulnerable and young.

She looks up and her gaze meets mine like there’s a magnetic connection between us. Her whole body freezes, then she drops a jersey. She scrambles to pick it up. I reach the display and take off my hat and jacket, then throw them on a chair. She spends some time opening a box, acknowledging me with a silent nod, then hiding behind the curtain of her dark, no longer red, hair. I’m afraid she’s going to cut herself her hand is shaking so bad.

With extreme caution, I take the utility knife from her hand.

“We need to clear the air between us—for safety’s sake if nothing else,” I say like I’m calming a skittish animal.

She gives a small laugh, but when my hand touches hers, a zap of acute awareness jolts me and I wonder who’s going to calm me down.

Surrendering the knife, she takes a quick step back. “Don’t worry about me. Nothing to see here. No air to clear. Everything’s crystal clear. I’m good. No problem—”

“Sara, let’s be friends, you and I.” Running the knife along the seam of the box, I rip it open, then close the blade and hand it back to her. “I like you. You’re a decent, honest person and fun. How about it?”

The slow smile that takes over her face as she takes the knife from me looks like a beautiful dawn, the kind that wakes up all my senses—especially the ones I’m trying to keep dead and buried. I smile back because I’m helpless not to.

“That’s what I call an offer too good to refuse,” she says. “You have nothing on The Godfather, you know that?” She returns to the business of getting the merch arranged on the display. “So, we forget about…” She waves a hand as if last night is unmentionable.

I have my work cut out for me if we’re aiming for an easy rapport, the kind not loaded with pent up lust.

“Last night never happened,” I say. “We start fresh as co-workers.” The kind with a very special, physical connection that draws us together like gravity. Even though I don’t say the words, I see them reflected in the expression on her face. Fuck.

This is going to be hard.

The buzz in the large space starts up and before either of us can work out the coil of lust clogging the conversation, Billie Mae rushes over from a nearby display. Shit. Her friend who caught us naked together—bringing a whole other level of awkwardness.