Page 61 of The Puck Bunny

“What did you do?” Jonas pokes me as he walks by on his way to the shower “Can I talk to you after Coach gets through with you?”

“Yeah, sure.”

Dressed in jeans and a Brawlers t-shirt, I fling my jacket over my shoulder and head for the door.

Finn stops me. “You okay?”

“Sure. Why do you ask?” It’s a stupid thing to ask and I suck in a breath. “Nothing winning The Stanley Cup won’t fix.”

He smiles, but shakes his head. “Tell me it’s not that girl from the front office?”

My eyes widen . “What are you talking about?”

“You’re in a scoring slump. I figured maybe you’re going too hard on the extra curriculars.”

“Fuck no. Jesus. Give me some credit.”

“No judgment. I fooled around with an intern when I definitely shouldn’t have.”

“Yeah? How did you get away with that?”

“I married her.” He grins.

I snort-laugh. “Quite the solution.” I take a hard look at him. “But you’re happily married, aren’t you?”

“Yes, I am. Mostly because of her. I’m a lucky man. Just saying. Maybe you ought to think about a serious relationship.”

“Fuck no. She’s far too young—”

“I didn’t necessarily mean with Sara,” Finn says in a low voice. “But with someone.”

“You sound like my mother.”

“I’ll forgive you for that comment only because I don’t believe in kicking a guy when he’s down.” He smacks my shoulder.

I give him the finger. “Thanks for the pep talk. It’s not my first scoring slump and it won’t be my last.”

He nods and I leave, walking at a brusque pace to get this talk with Coach over with. I’m not looking forward to it.

Knocking on the door jam, I wait for him to look up from his computer and wave me inside his small office. It’s spare in furniture with not much else—no photos, no shelves, only a white board and a large wall monitor. I sit in one of the two sturdy chairs in front of his desk.

“I’ll get straight to the point, Quinn,” he says as he gets up to close the door behind me, then comes back and sits. “We need to get to the root of the problem that’s causing this scoring slump. We can’t afford for it to linger.”

“Yes, sir. I’m working on it. I—”

He waves a hand. “I don’t mean extra shooting practice. I mean figuring out where your head’s at because it’s not on hockey.”

Boom. I didn’t expect his accusation, but I should have. I haven’t been focused even though that’s been my goal, my aim, and my intention from Day One. I sit and stare back at him, unsure what to say. Since he didn’t ask a question, I say nothing.

“I expect more production from you. Is there a problem?”

“Hell no.” The image of my father’s grave stone pops into my head and I close my eyes.

“You lost your father recently, didn’t you?”

Fuck. This is not what I need to talk about. I can’t open that box of shit. Not now. But I can’t lie either. I nod.

“A loss like that is a funny thing. You think you have it under control, but find out you don’t at the oddest times. It messes with your concentration. Believe me, I know something about it. Lost my wife not long ago.”