Page 87 of The Puck Bunny

He gives me a look and nods. “Boy problems.”

It’s not a question so I give him a watery smile and wave him off. The last thing I want to do is confess to my dad that I’ve been a fool. “They’re the worst.”

“The worst is never having a boyfriend or someone who you think is special,” he says. “You’re a brave girl to take chances and better for it, no matter how bad things seem now.”

He stares at the ceiling like he often does and I think he’s gone back into his faraway world where he lives most his life until he speaks up again, surprising me.

“Most of life is like that, but you got to live, don’t you? No such thing as a safe life, so you may as well live a good life and take some chances.”

I nod. That’s the most he’s said to me in a very long time—since I went away to college and he’d given me a speech. Now that I recall, it was a similar one. He’d encouraged me to put myself out there and have fun, meet new people, take a few chances. “Thanks, Dad. I love you.” I kiss his scruffy face. He feels frail and it makes me sad, but it puts my problem with Quinn into perspective.

“No problem, sweetie. Hey, at least we have the Brawlers’ game today to look forward to. That should take your mind off your troubles.” He smiles bright and it takes everything I have not to stumble and collapse right then and there.

I’d forgotten that today was the day I got tickets to take the family to see the Brawlers. They’ve been looking forward to it for a week, well, actually, forever. Which means I have to go—crap.

There are worse things in life, like not living it or letting it waste away—like Dad, sitting in his rocking chair, dishing out his cautionary tale.

Bobby couldn’t make it because he’s on a road-trip to Baltimore, but the rest of us pile into two cars including Mom, Dad, Paul—who drives—Aunt Yolanda, and Grandma Zanetti. Billie Mae meets us at the game and keeps giving me concerned looks and mouthing questions… Like I can answer her.

I never had a chance to call her back after my talk with Dad because I’d been too busy holed up in my room, trying to make myself look presentable with ice packs on my eyelids all morning. Dad had promised he wouldn’t say anything—not that I’d told him much—and ruin the day.

So, I let Billie Mae drag me to the ladies’ room before the first period is even over and I tell her the longer version of what happened last night and what Quinn said. I manage to keep my emotions down to a quiver in my voice and no tears.

“He needs to focus on hockey?” she shouts.

“Sshh.” I look around in panic, but only one older woman gives us a glance and shakes her head like she’s been there, done that. I feel ridiculous.

“He’s right,” I admit. “I’ve been a distraction and he’s been in a wicked scoring slump.”

“The bastard better score a goal today or I’ll wring his—”

“Shush already. I appreciate your outrage on my behalf, but he’s not the bad guy.”

“No? It sure looks like it from where I sit. He took advantage of you. He knew you were inexperienced—”

“I convinced him—badgered him really—to…” I look around and wave a hand in lieu of saying out loud what I’d badgered him to do. My face heats up, remembering it.

She snorts and remains skeptical as we go back to our seats.

Quinn scores not only one goal, but two, and performs like the super star he is on the penalty killing line. I don’t know if I’m proud and happy or extremely disappointed. Then I scold myself for being a jerk. How can I begrudge the guy for finally scoring his goals? It’s exactly what he needed. He’s a great player and a decent human being; he deserves his success.

And I need to move on.

It’s near the end of the game and the crowd erupts as Quinn takes a wrist shot from close in. The goalie barely saves it and the place applauds the team as they regroup for a face-off with only twelve seconds to play. The fans chant, “Hat-trick! Hat-trick!” and I can see the grin on Quinn’s face from here. Or maybe I can imagine it, right down to the devastating dimple.

Paul and Mom talk about him like he’s the second coming as time runs out and the team piles together in mutual congratulations.

“Too bad he’s so old, Sara.” Mom reaches over and jiggles my knee, giving me a sly smile. “He’d be the best catch of them all on the team.”

As we file out of our seats, Paul insists that I should use my employee badge to go down to the locker room area and get an autograph.

“You must know at least one of the guys,” he says. “You can introduce me and I’ll get my jersey signed. Maybe I can get the whole team to sign it.”

“I’ll bet that nice Quinn James will sign it for you,” Grandma Zanetti says. “He seems like a really nice man.”

She winks at me like we have a secret, and a bubble of panic threatens to close off my windpipe. I cough.

“How do you know he’s a nice man?” Billie Mae asks, not hiding her scowl.