Page 4 of The Puck Bunny

A puck bunny who disses a player? That’s something new and intriguing. And for a guy like me who’s seen it all, had every kind of girl—every age, size, and level of crazy—throw themselves at me every which way, meeting or, rather, almost meeting, a woman who’s different is like fucking butter, the kind that melts in my mouth and weakens my resolve, lighting up my interest meter as if the pinball puck bunny hit my jackpot good and hard.

Half-listening to the guys as I raise my glass in congratulations to O’Rourke, I watch one of the other puck bunnies—this one older and dressed like she’s in the official puck bunny uniform of tight jersey with a low neckline that shows a lot of cleavage, a tight black skirt too short for the imagination, and black fishnets under her tall boots, as she goes out the door after my girl. Damn. I was hoping to sneak out myself and run into her.

Okay, so maybe I could be that creepy.

Stupid idea. Shaking my head, I return my attention to the guys. “This calls for a bottle of whiskey for the table.” I drain my beer, then aim my glass in the direction of the server hovering close enough to see my move and scurry over. The guys nod and laugh, but they’re not overly excited about the whiskey. Maybe because we have another game tomorrow night and, in spite of the fact that this is still pre-season, this is a disciplined bunch.

“One shot to the lucky father and then off we go home for our beauty rest,” I don’t want my new teammates to think I’m still that party guy from L.A..

Or, at least, not anymore.

O’Rourke nods. “Perfect, I could use the beauty sleep.” He takes a gulp of beer. “All us old guys could use the sleep.”

I point to my chest as if to say who me in mock denial. But he’s be wrong. Not that I’m old-old, but, in hockey years, anyone over thirty requires more care and attention than he used to. The margin of error for what I can get away with off the ice has shrunk down to exactly zero. Not that I learned the obvious lesson the real hard way, but I did experience an incident or two that drove the point home like the first nail in my professional coffin.

Glancing back at the door as the server delivers our bottle and shot glasses, I’m not surprised to see the flashy puck bunny return without her apprentice. She seems stoo real to be a game player. Is she even one of them? Though she was quick to speak up loud and clear in defense of all the ladies, and the one in particular who’s still crying in the corner.

I groan inwardly. There’s no way I’m going to let the incident go without having a quiet word with the offending asshole. Not that I needed the brave puck bunny to fire me up over his assholery because I don’t put up with that shit when I see it.

I lift my glass with my new teammates. A sense of comradery hits me as we drink to O’Rourke. When I swallow the shot of golden fire, I know the warmth I feel is only partly from the whiskey, and only partly from the comradery. Some of the spark I owe to my brave little puck bunny.

Standing, I glance at the table of her friends and give an acknowledging nod. They respond with raised glasses and cheers, but I slip into my jacket, signaling my imminent exit, to calm them down. No way I want to start my tenure here by making a spectacle with a bunch of puck bunnies, no matter how lovely they may be. They’re too high-profile, and, if they’re anything like L.A. puck bunnies, they want the splash of attention from social media more than me.

“See you in the morning, guys.”

“You still at the hotel? Want a ride to the rink in the morning?” Finn says. “I live downtown and can swing by.”

“Thank you, really, but I think I’ll walk.”

More than one guy raises their brows and I get some shit about not being the pedestrian type. I laugh and leave the table after throwing down a few extra fifties because over-tipping is one L.A. habit I don’t feel inclined to change. The servers here work just as hard to afford to live in a city that’s almost as expensive.

None of the guys bat an eye at my excessive tip and that makes me smile wider as they all get their coats on. I feel the eyes of all the ladies at the puck bunny table on me as I walk by and can’t help waving—which makes them break out in titters and shouts that include phone numbers and invitations that I bet would make my shy puck bunny blush.

As I pass by Jonas Bergman, the asshole player—or, to be fair, the guy who made the asshole statement about puck bunnies—I touch him on the shoulder and direct him toward the back exit of the bar. He follows, though with a skeptical furrow in his brow, a downturn at the corners of his mouth and his shoulders hunched and tense.

We reach the back door and he stops. “What do you want?”

“Let’s talk about that puck bunny comment.”

“You’re not buying into the crap that loud-mouth girl spouted, are you? She had no business butting into my personal thing. She has no idea—”

“Suppose you tell me what the idea is. Like, explain why there’s a young lady back there crying her eyes out in between giving you a stare down every few seconds like she wants to strangle you while she’s jumping your bones?”

He narrows his eyes and clamps his mouth tight like he’s a kid in the principal’s office being asked to rat out a friend. He’s so pathetic I temporarily forgive him for calling my brave puck bunny a loud-mouth.

“You may as well tell me or I’ll find out from the young lady.” Or one of her friends, like maybe the brave loud-mouth who’d stood up for her.

His eyes widen. “What do you care?” He stares down at his shoes and I wonder how old this kid is.

“Walk with me.”

We step out the back door because it’s my habit to leave through the back. Then I realize that maybe I don’t need to do that here in Boston. We’re in a back alley bordering a narrow side street with a few cars jammed in. I return my attention to the young man who needs to learn a lesson in respect.

“It’s not going to get any easier holding it in—and don’t tell me there’s nothing because I know there’s something.” I’ve been around long enough to know a problem when I see one and I know there’s something more than meets the eye going on here.

He sucks in a deep breath of city air, then talks.

“She said some things. She’s trying to use me, to get money or something maybe.” He doesn’t look convinced, more like panicked.