Page 48 of The Puck Bunny

I almost stop walking because I’ve seen that wink before, that exact expression—from her son. It’s uncanny because she doesn’t have his bright blue eyes or look that much like him, but there’s something about her, from deep down, that they share, that reminds me of him exactly.

“We’re going to get along, you and I,” she says, looping her arm through mine so that Aunt Mary, her, and I walk in Quinn’s wake to our table.

Eyes turn stare at him. He nods at anyone who speaks to him—which is quite a few. “Good game” or “Glad to have you on the Brawlers” and the like.

Lenny sticks to his side, running interference.

“No one’s asked for his autograph, thank God,” Aunt Mary says under her breath. “Last time we went to dinner with him, it took us an hour to get out of the restaurant.”

“Oh, don’t exaggerate,” his mom says before looking at me. “You must be used to this kind of thing.”

“Who, me? No one’s ever asked for my autograph.” I snort.

She laughs. “I mean putting up with all the interruptions whenever he’s out in public.”

“Oh. Aah…” Thanks to the restaurant gods, the maître d’ interrupts us as we reach the table to seat us. We’re at a round table in a private corner and I’m seated between Quinn and his mom, with Aunt Mary next to her. Lenny sits on the other side of Quinn. I want to kiss him because Jennifer almost sat there and something tells me that wouldn’t be ideal. The kids are across from us and Chris is on his wife’s other side.

Our server takes over and asks Aunt Mary, “Can I get you something to drink?”

“I’ll have a margarita,” she replies.

“I’ll have the same,” Quinn’s mom says.

He smirks at me and that’s all the encouragement I need.

“I’ll have the same.”

Jennifer orders white wine and Chris orders some kind of ale, with soda for the boys.

“I’ll have an ice water,” Lenny says. “I’m driving.”

“And for you, sir?” the server asks Quinn.

“I’ll have what he’s having, but with lime, thank you.” He grins at Lenny.

Chris raises his brows as the server walks away. “Since when don’t you drink?”

“Since the season started.”

“I’ve seen you drink during the season before.” His brother doesn’t let it go.

“This is the season we’re going to win The Stanley Cup.” Quinn’s stares at his brother, as serious as a priest. After two beats of silence—during which I watch Quinn’s jaw muscle twitch—Tyler finally breaks the tension.

“How can you be so sure you’re going to win, Uncle Quinn?”

“Because I’m going to give everything I have and so is everyone else on the team. We have an awesome team.”

“Yeah, you do,” Tyler says.

“Does that mean we get to go to more games?” Timmy asks.

“Absolutely,” Quinn says. “As many as you want.”

“We’ll see about that,” Chris says. “We don’t want to make promises we can’t keep.” He directs a pointed look at Quinn.

“No, but we do strive to do our best to make things happen,” Quinn says to Timmy, who’s now become the unfortunate proxy for the brothers to argue with each other.

“Oh, look, here’re our drinks,” Aunt Mary says with undisguised relief as the server approaches with a tray filled with assorted drinks.