Page 19 of The Puck Bunny

He stops with a sock in his hand and looks at me, brows knit. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“Never mind. It’s something my dad used to say. He was a baker.”

“Was?”

I nod without elaborating.

His face changes. “Sorry.”

I shrug. “Meantime, you have a problem with a puck bunny—who is actually a woman—and who, for whatever reason, is broken up about you.”

“No, she’s not. Those weren’t real tears. She’s a good actor. She doesn’t give a shit about me.”

I don’t bother arguing with him about the authenticity of her tears or her acting ability because I know something about crying women and actors, courtesy of my long stint in L.A. with the Shooting Stars and my brief interlude in the movie business. “You like her?”

“Not a chance. She’s crazy. Has crazy ideas about us.”

I lean in and lower my voice because we’re getting somewhere. “What kind of ideas?”

“The usual. The kind I can’t afford to listen to no matter what.”

“I see.” And I do. He’s talking about a real relationship. I’d bet my pinky ring on it—the one I never wear because it was a stupid gift from a woman back in L.A. with more money than sense.

“There has to be someone else,” he pauses, “besides me.”

“Besides you? What makes you say that?” There’s something more going on here and I get a pit in my gut—and a whiff of déjà vu.

He looks down at the filthy locker room floor and then drops his head to his hands, mumbling something.

“What are you saying, man?” I think I know, but this shit is real, so I need to hear it plain and simple from him.

He straightens, leans in and says in a low strangled voice, “We might have done it without protection once… Or twice…” He swipes a hand over his face, muttering some curses about being a fucking dick.

I can’t agree more, but I bite my tongue. No good beating up on a guy when he’s clearly doing a good job of it himself.

“So, what are you going to do about it?”

He looks miserable. “I’m going to talk to her tonight after the game at The Tea Party. Satisfied?”

I nod and give him an encouraging smack on the back. “Good man.”

He nods, but his misery is undiminished

“I’ll go with you if you want.” I mean it, but I doubt he’ll take me up on it. He takes off his other shoe in silence before looking up at me.

“Thanks, man. I appreciate it.”

Shit. I stand because I need to re-focus on the game. Pre-season or not, I have a mission and it doesn’t involve star-crossed hockey players and puck bunnies. I’ll handle it. I’ve always handled multiple priorities haven’t I?

Maybe not, or at least not well. Maybe that’s been my problem.

“What’s up?” Finn comes over and takes my seat. He turns to Jonas. “You look like an old man with no teeth sitting in front of a steak.”

I laugh and Bergman eyes him, shaking his head.

“I’m fine.” He says this in a tone that implies he’s not the one with a problem.

Moving on, I get in line for a stretch with the trainer and get my head back into hockey. When my skates finally hit the ice in pre-game warm-ups, my mind is cleared of all but the puck, the stick, and the net.