Page 43 of The Puck Bunny

“Did you get anything autographed?” Mom lets me go with an expectant smile.

“No. We ran out of merchandise so I couldn’t get anything.”

“You could have had him sign your shirt,” Paul says. He turns to Billie Mae. “Did you get him to sign something?”

Billie Mae gives him the finger—but with a smile.

Mom laughs and shakes her head, then goes back to eating a meatball. “Next time you have a chance, you make sure you get us something. I thought you said that’s why you wanted the crummy-paying job?”

She isn’t wrong.

“You’re right, Mom. I need to get something out of this job besides a pay check.”

She smiles, pleased.

However… she might not be so pleased if she knew what I have in mind.

CHAPTER 14

QUINN

The first game of the season hits me like an out-of-body experience. . The reality of being on a new team not even remotely like the L.A. Shooting Stars is like the difference between a rodeo clown and a bull. The locker room, the rink, the press, the fans, the weather, and the sonic boom that slams me when my skates hit the ice, the banners hanging around the rink… This team is a legitimate contender for The Stanley-fucking-Cup.

Warm-ups flash by until I find myself standing at center ice, lined up around the face-off circle for the start of the game. No one was more surprised than me that Coach made a last-minute change, slotting me for the first line.

The puck drops, O’Rourke wins the face-off, then I catch the puck on my stick like it’s a magnet. The three of us—O’Rourke, Rafe, and I—race into Montreal’s end and we’re off, caught up in the time-bending frenzy of an NHL hockey game.

With thirty seconds left in the second period, I sit, dripping with sweat, on the bench, with the score two-all.

“Which one of you reprobates is going to score the fucking go-ahead goal?” the coach asks.

Some of the guys volunteer by grunting even though I’m pretty sure it was a rhetorical question. But he stares each one of us down in a row, and when his steely gaze meets mine, I go for it and raise my hand. I’ll play this game.

“I’m scoring the next goal.”

The three forwards from the fourth line race to the bench. As they scramble over the boards, I jump onto the ice and race to the blue line. One of our defensemen shoves the puck up in my direction and I go. Rafe is with me and I deke around the defenseman backing up, then flick my wrist.

The puck whistles toward the goal. The goalie lifts his glove hand and it hits his arm then bounces off.

Rafe is there in front of the goal and beats the defenseman to the puck, swiping in the rebound under the goalie’s pads. Score!

Okay, so maybe it wasn’t me, but I had a glove in it.

The red goal light goes off and, a few seconds, later the airhorn ends the period as the team rallies mid-ice to celebrate the go-ahead goal. The crowd is deafening, transforming the arena into a play-off-like cauldron of energy.

Boston Brawlers hockey is intense. Making a run for The Cup is no joke, and, as I get battered by sticks and gloves and jostled by good-natured chest bumps and congratulations littered with four-letter words and emphasized with one-armed bro-hug, [finish thought]

“We still have a fucking period to go,” I say as we finally skate towards the gate. “And I didn’t score a goal yet.”

* * *

“What are you doing in the locker, old man?” Jonas says to me. “Maybe you should get back out on the ice and score that goal.”

That’s right. No goal. I got two assists, but that’s not what I was shooting for. Literally. I give Jonas the finger and snort in disgust both meant for myself, but the little shit makes a good proxy.

O’Rourke walks by me, shirtless but still wearing his pads, and taps me on the shin with his stick. Without the pads, the gesture feels less friendly, but he grins.

“I don’t mind if you keeps dishing the assists. You can go scoreless all season and I don’t care—if you get two assists every game.”