Page 76 of The Puck Bunny

“Well, fuck,” I say. It’s true. I know it is. I’ve felt the connection. But knowing she’s like this with everyone deflates me. I scoff at my idiocy, thinking without thinking that we had a special connection.

“But I have to confess,” she says, turning a deep pink and breathless. “With you, that connection goes to another level. Something I’ve never felt before…” She trails off and turns away.

Instant lightness returns to my soul like I just had a shot of some kind of super drug that powers me to take her in my arms. She feels our connection the same way I do. My face forms the deepest, most sincere smile I’ve ever felt, the kind I can’t stop or erase even with an effort, even if I think of kittens drowning or losing The Stanley Cup.

“It’s all so impossible,” she says. “You can’t possibly put both your family and hockey first. You can’t have everything.”

Fucking bingo. A whoosh of relief removes a chunk from the knot of tension in my gut like scoring a goal in sudden death overtime. I’m ready to get everything out.

“On the way to the airport after I left my mom, , I called my agent, Hamish Jett. He’d been at the funeral, but I hadn’t bothered talking to him because I hadn’t had it in me. I hadn’t had anything for anyone. The whole thing was a major low point in my life.” I look away from her, but I keep talking.

“In spite of my obligation to comfort my distraught family and deal with the media, I didn’t have anything to give. I was empty, like a shell of a person. Not even my slick, star persona showed up. I felt like I’d lost everything, my very soul.” I clear my throat, admitting the hard truth. “But I still had hockey.”

She presses against me and puts her hand over mine but keeps silent while I travel back to that day I’d last left home, and I keep talking.

Last summer

Resting my head against the plush in the back seat of the limo, my legs sprawled out, I will Jett to answer the damn phone.

After two rings, he does.

“What’s up, Quinn? You okay? I’m so sorry—”

“I don’t want to re-sign with the L.A. Shooting Stars—”

“Are you fucking with me?” he asks in a how’s the weather tone of voice. “They’re giving you everything you wanted.”

“Get me a deal with the Boston Brawlers. I want to play back East. Back home.” There’s only one beat of silence on the line before Jett comes to a complete understanding like I knew he would. He’s a smart man and he knows me better than anyone, including my teammates in L.A. None of them were at the funeral though they had all sent condolences. To be fair, it had been quick notice—one day. But Jett had shown up.

“Okay. I get it,” Jett says. “For what it’s worth, I think the change will do you good. Especially after—”

“Do you think the Brawlers will go for a deal?”

He snorts. “You’re shitting me, right? You may have to take a pay cut, but we can make it happen.”

My pay cut doesn’t matter, but that means he’s taking a pay cut, too. “Thank you, man. I owe you.”

“Just get your head straight, heal your soul, and keep playing hockey. I’ll be fine.”

I laugh and end the call. I swear this flight back to L.A. will be my last except to travel with my team. No more Hollywood Hockey, no more shallow glamour, and no more fucking arm candy.

Now

“I’m so sorry for all the emotional turmoil you’ve been through, Quinn. That you’re still going through.” Sara strokes my arm, her deep concern overriding her innate shyness.

I snort. “It’s all of my own making.” The last thing I want is her thinking I’m blameless, that I’m innocent. I’m anything but. And I’m definitely nothing like her—the opposite, in fact. The kind of guy who’s seen too much—enough to spoil everything good about her.

“Not exactly,” she says, undaunted. “You can’t be blamed for a devious-minded princess or for your dad dying more quickly than expected. You’re too hard on yourself. You’re a human being and you’re not perfect.”

My heart lifts like it’s taken hold of a balloon named Sara Bellagamba. And I don’t want to let go.

“You have a point.” I wink, feeling her admiration down to my soul.

She sucks in a breath. “I guess I’m glad I don’t qualify as arm candy,” she says, her wry smile emphasizing the small spray of freckles across her nose. I’m coming to have a thing for those freckles.

“In what universe are you not the exact definition of arm candy, Lola?”

She blushes deeply like I knew she would, and my dick takes notice. My dick has a definite thing for her blushing.