Page 9 of The Puck Bunny

As soon as we get back, she sits and rolls her chair over to my cubicle again as I plop into my chair.

She whispers, “What the hell were you doing there? What’s going on?”

“Shhh.” I glance around. Margaret, the lady who wears a wool Brawlers hat in the office all day. I think it’s sometimes so she doesn’t have to wash her hair. She smiles at me as she retrieves a stack of paper from the office’s only scanner-printer.

Billie Mae resorts to torture to get me to talk, pinching my thigh hard enough that I’m worried she’s going to penetrate my tights even though they’re advertised as indestructible and I could write the testimonial—until now.

“Stop. There’s nothing to tell. I stayed for a few drinks.”

“A few drinks?” She stares at me, giving me the sinister arched brow treatment along with enough telepathic persuasion that I swear it would make anyone crack.

“Then some of the Brawlers came in. There were some puck bunnies. And Quinn James.” I take a breath. “My puck bunny name is Lola and Lola is going for a night of bliss with Quinn.”

CHAPTER 4

QUINN

While Ryan and Rafe have me corralled in the locker room, talking about our next opponent, an East Coast team I don’t know as well as they do, for our last game of the pre-season, Jonas manages to slip out of the locker room. Shit. I won’t let him get away after practice.

“Pappadue, their goalie, is hot but has a weakness in the upper left corner of the net.”

“Who doesn’t?” I say. Ryan snorts and Rafe glares, but annoyance forces my gaze to the door and I pick up my stick. “Let’s get on with it. I’ll test Finn’s upper left corner and see how he does.” I wink because I’m not out of that habit. There are a lot of L.A. habits I need to lose.

“Cocky s.o.b. aren’t you?” Ryan doesn’t move.

“I don’t mean to be.”

“Liar.”

I laugh.

“You mean you have no reason to be,” Rafe says.

He’s right. In actuality, they both have as many stats to be cocky about as I do, and more wins. The only difference is that my rep comes with more glitz and my face happens to be out there in the media as if I’m the star of the league, though I’m more like the poster boy. My visibility is hard to understate since my cameo appearance in last year’s Academy-Award-winning action flick—and the fling I had with a certain woman I refuse to allow any headspace.

“Guess I’m not used to playing with a couple of superstars of your caliber,” I say.

“Not used to winning The Cup either,” Rafe says. He’s won The Cup on two teams and I feel like saluting to the icon.

“Touché. That’s the reason I came here.” Only a half-lie. But the last thing I want to talk about is how I’ve allowed my priorities to drift from important things like real people and relationships. I needed to leave L.A. and everything about it behind me.

“I thought it was to escape the clutches of too many—”

“Losses.” I cut Ryan off because I have a premonition he’s going to say too many puck bunnies and I don’t want to hear it. Mostly because it’s more truth than my half-lie.

I shove off the wall where I’m leaning and head for the door.

Ryan snorts and they follow.

The locker room empties out, then we jump onto the ice, shredding the good work of the Zamboni within two minutes. I work up a sweat as I skate circles, feeling the breeze ruffle the hair around my neck as I gaze up into the rafters.

The banners wave back, reminding me where my focus should be and that I need to turn the ambition of my half-lie—to win The Cup—into a reality.

The other half of the truth—that I need to find someone to settle down with, a woman who’s authentic and honest and into me for me. After the season. Maybe next year. Or maybe by Christmas so I don’t have to spend the holiday alone if my mom’s warning is for real.

Okay, I’m a little reluctant about the settling down part, but I made a promise to Mom, and, besides, it’s inevitable, right? I get a chill and not the good kind, but I shake it off as I skate around behind the net, circling Finn who’s scraping up the crease with serious intent.

“Get ready to be bombarded. I’m coming for your upper left corner.” It’s only polite to give fair warning. Plus, I need the test of a prepared goalie.