Page 7 of The Puck Bunny

“You’re not joking, are you?”

I shake my head, weighing the risk of hot pizza sizzling my mouth against the cruel judgment of my best friend accusing me of going off the deep end if I’m forced to tell her the whole story. “My brother wasn’t around and I didn’t feel like watching alone.” It’s half of the story.

“Soon we’ll be eligible to request tickets and go to a game in person. In the meantime, maybe we could to go out to a bar together to watch the next game?” Her voice is too high and her smile too bright.

I’m digesting her words and ready to agree when she goes on, “I hear The Tea Party is a hopping place for Brawler’s fans.”

* * *

Saved by pepperoni pizza from telling her the whole story, we leave the idea of going out to The Tea Party—where I’m pretty sure my new puck bunny friends would greet me like their own—up in the air. She’s been wanting to get me out since she moved to Boston, and though I’m not cut out for flirting with strangers at a bar in spite of her recent training, I’m not strictly against going out for a good reason.

Either way, I’m chewing my lip (and dead pieces of skin off the roof of my mouth) on the way back to the Brawlers’ corporate offices, when I should be telling her about my brief conversation with Quinn. Okay, conversation is a stretch of the meaning, but I don’t know what else to call it. Exchange? Whatever, it’s strange that I’m reluctant to share—or, maybe, I’m embarrassed because, let’s face it, I didn’t handle it gracefully.

In the building on our way to our cubicles, we’re walking down the hallway and I catch a whiff of a dizzyingly sexy masculine scent and then I hear,

“Go, Wildcats!” From behind us.

It’s him. It’s Quinn James.

I stumble and look back, then, before I ask in total shock how he knew I went to UNH, I look down.

I’m wearing a UNH Wildcats hoodie over my sweater and skirt because it’s cold in the office.

He smiles and gives me a thumbs-up.

I open my mouth but I can’t speak. Thankfully, I can move, so I duck into the aisle of cubicles and dash for safety behind the half-walls. Shit. I can’t let him recognize me as the girl from the bar. Stop being paranoid. If he finds out that girl works here, my fantasy will never come true. The Brawlers have a serious non-frat policy. It was the most important thing that was made clear to me and Billie Mae when we took this job—absolutely no hanky-panky with the players—or anyone at work, for that matter.

For me, it would be totally worth it. What’s a stinky little admin job compared to a night of bliss with my man, Quinn James? Not a gosh darn thing. It’s my dream job, but a possible night with Quinn is a bigger dream.

Unfortunately, it would be a disaster for him. Ipso facto, he would never do it or, more precisely, he’d never do me.

My cheeks heat up just thinking these deliciously naughty thoughts.

Is something wrong with me? Like, what makes me think it’s a possibility—unless I continue to play Lola. I must be crazy.

But I don’t have time to contemplate the cost of a good psychiatrist because Billie Mae tracks me down.

“What the hell?” Billie Mae whisper-shouts as she finds me hunkering in my cubicle. “Are you out of your mind?” She swings her chair over. “You can’t act like a crazy fan-girl with players. You know the rules about behaving professionally?” I stare at her and she softens. “Are you okay? You look pale.”

“I feel shredded.” I grip her arms. “I don’t think he recognized me. Did it look like he recognized me?”

“Recognize you?” She snorts. “How would he know you? Have you met him?”

“I turned my head for a second.”

She shakes her head. “You took off fast.”

Players and staff do not mix. Ever. They are off limits for anything but a professional relationship. I can’t let him know I’m the same person he saw at The Tea Party, the crazy big- mouthed girl he’d stood up for, saving me from even worse embarrassment by giving my objection legitimacy.

But I don’t think he recognized me just now and I heave a sigh of relief. Cursing that I have no make-up on and my hair is a mess after being out in the wind, I realize I’m clutching Billie Mae’s arm when she pries my hand off her.

“You sure you’re all right? And why would he recognize you—"

“Where do you think he was going?” I whisper.

“I don’t know. Not PR. He walked right past the office.”

I scrunch my face. PR is where Billie Mae’s boss lives. I’d say that’s where she works, but it seems like she lives here because she’s always here in the morning no matter how early I am and always still in the office when I leave since we started working here almost three months ago.