Page 39 of The Puck Bunny

“Absolutely,” I say. “Let’s get that picture.

“I’ll take it,” Sara says, “of the three of you.”

We take the photo and I take the pen to sign the pink jersey. “This jersey really is perfect for you,” I say to the little girl.

“You’re perfect for me,” she says and I laugh.

“You are, aren’t you?” I say. “What’s your name?”

“Sara,” she says, her grin plastered, and my chest squeezes as I exchange a quick glance with the grown-up Sara. This little girl is like a miniature version of her, right down to the name, adorable and passionate and charming. And Sara sensed the connection, treating her with extra warmth. Not that she hasn’t been great with all the kids—because she has, especially the little boys who seem to adore her, and the not-so-little boys whose minds I can read and whose faces I am prepared to punch if they step out of line.

But they didn’t because Sara seems to knows how to handle herself. Well, with everyone except me that is.

“Thank you so much for everything,” the mom says, scooping up her girl and taking the bag with the signed t-shirt,

“I hope to hear from you soon. Please keep in touch.” Sara winks at little Sara and adds, “Your pink jersey will be waiting for you.” They wave at each other as they move away and the next family of fans takes their place.

Before we have a chance to continue the parade of fans, there’s a commotion at the entrance. A hush follows and then an explosion of excited murmurs as the people pull in that direction with their phones up and aimed at whoever just walked in.

Several security guards rush to the scene, pushing back the wave of Brawlers fans leaving their ques for someone making an entrance.

“Who is it?” Sara asks, standing on her toes.

All the fans in line are watching and drifting toward the new star of the show, whoever it is.

“I can’t see yet. Too many people.”

“It’s gotta be some kind of hockey god. Maybe Bobby Orr.” A pop of excitement lights her face.

I laugh. “Maybe.”

The security guards clear a path—which happens to be leading directly toward me.

The fans part like curtains sweeping open on a stage to reveal the new main attraction.

And she’s no hockey god.

She’s the devil. The bane of my existence. The woman who started the chain of events that toppled the foundation of my life. The one woman I truly would like to forget and have planned to never see again.

“Fuck.” I don’t realize I’ve said it out loud until Sara plasters herself to my side, holding my arm protectively and whispers.

“Isn’t that Princess Anica Romanova?”

CHAPTER 13

SARA

“Yeah, it’s her.” His whole body tenses beside me, into fight-or-flight mode. It’s like he feels the Princess is a threat.

I tense up too, going into protection mode. Am I being ridiculous? As I watch the princess walk over to us with her cold, regal gaze aimed at Quinn, I can’t convince myself that he doesn’t need my protection and I double down, clinging to his side and dousing any hint of a smile on my face. Don’t even think about it, Princess.

She’s gorgeous in a slick, magazine-cover-way and I feel like I’m in junior high compared to her sophistication. Her outfit is over-the-top—all red, from her cashmere turtleneck to her wide wool palazzo pants and the long fur coat open and draping around her like a seductive robe. She has the kind of poise and command that I don’t even bother dreaming about.

When she stops in front of us and smiles, he stiffens even more so I wrap my arm tighter around his. I’m his friend, aren’t I? This is what friends do. They protect each other from nasty princesses up to no good.

“It’s good to see you, Quinn. You look yummy in your new team colors. I never thought I’d see the day you’d leave the L.A. Shooting Stars to come here.” She looks around at the fans aiming their cameras at her and Quinn and the rest of us like we’re in black-and-white next to her technicolor presence.

“You here to buy a jersey?”