Page 46 of The Puck Bunny

“The Brawlers win their opener and the big question remains whether signing the former scoring star from L.A. will be worth it. What do you think, caller one?”

“So far he’s oh-for-one and the so-called hot shot still has a lot to prove—”

“Is that guy stupid, or what? Lenny lowers the volume. “Where do they get these callers? Idiot. You set up two of the three goals, Quinn. What do they want you to do in the first game? A hat trick?”

I laugh and throw in my two cents, and we argue with the sportscaster and his callers, giving them shit for any criticism. But in the midst of all the fun—because I can’t take the shit seriously, learning long ago the radio guys are paid to stir the pot—I keep an ear tuned to the back seat to make sure Sara is okay.

At one point, she says to my mom, half laughing, “Are they for real?” She’s talking about me and Lenny swearing at one particular comment by a caller about Hollywood Hockey—my old nickname, the one I’m trying to ditch. It’s the only comment that pricks my thick-as-a-puck skin.

Mom laughs. “Afraid so. They enjoy giving grief to sports journalists from afar. It started out as a defense mechanism for their fragile high school egos, but, now, the ritual is plain ol’ fun. They love nothing more than giving grief, period.”

Glancing in the rearview, I see Mom shake her head with a smile—amused and… sad.

CHAPTER 15

SARA

“I understand you recently lost your husband, Mrs. James. I’m very sorry.”

“Thank you.” She takes a deep breath and glances out the window while I stop breathing, wondering if I’ve said the wrong thing. But then, there’s no right or wrong way to confront grief and I can tell Quinn’s mom is a grieving woman.

She turns back to me, a fragile, yet real smile in place. “So, tell me about yourself, Sara. Where are you from?” Mrs. James’ eyes show that same uncanny deep-down interest as Quinn’s eyes do, and I feel that same connectedness, like I’m the most important person in the world at this moment.

“Quinn’s lucky to have a mom like you.” Crap. No filter.

She blinks and then chuckles. “Thank you. I’m not sure what brought that on, but I’ll take it. Be sure to mention it to Quinn.”

“I will. First chance I get.”

“Now, about you,” she says, forcing me to do the thing I hate most, talk about myself.

“Oh, not much to tell. I’m just your typical recent college grad in the city trying not to get overwhelmed while I live on a poverty-level salary, working for my ultimate dream team. The Brawlers are awesome—but I don’t have to tell you that, do I? I’m a certified—maybe certifiable—fan from way back.”

She’s smiling, almost laughing, but not quite. I’ll have to try harder to erase that melancholy she wears.

“How do you come by your love of hockey?”

“I was raised on it. Hockey rinks were my Disney World and Zambonis were my roller coasters growing up. My older brother worked at the local rink and gave us free rides. I’m from a hockey family. Both my brothers play and my father… used to play.” I hate thinking about the fact that the only place I ever saw my dad on skates was in old photos. But the car’s gone quiet, so I brighten. “The good old days.” I go for a wistful smile and hope it works.

“It couldn’t have been too far back—you’re still very young.”

I don’t respond because this is too obvious, almost embarrassing to be such a child compared to everyone else in the party. A self-conscious blush creeps up my neck to my cheeks in a warm wave.

“How old are you? If you don’t mind my asking. Just curious.”

She must be dying of curiosity to be so bold. Or maybe Quinn takes after her.

“I’m twenty-two.” I answer her even though I mind very much. I can’t turn her down.

She nods and the radio goes silent as we pull up to the curb for valet parking at Buttermilk & Bourbon.

Quinn jumps out and gets my door, reaching a hand in to help me out. I take it and a shock of awareness jolts me. I freeze as I meet his gaze.

I talk under my breath as he leads me inside the door being held open like we’re someone important—though, I guess he is someone important. That makes me even more nervous. “Are you sure this is a good idea?”

He laughs softly. “Depends what you mean by good. You’ll be a good distraction for me and a buffer between me and my brother. We’re more likely to stay on best behavior with you—a newcomer—around.”

“Well, when you put it that way… Just don’t come looking for me if I disappear into the ladies’ room for longer than expected.” I’m half-kidding and he laughs as we gather with the crowd at the host’s station.