Page 8 of The Puck Bunny

Billie Mae rolls her eyes and glides her chair back into her own cubicle to answer her phone. Her boss, Delaney—because no one ever calls her Ms. Delaney, or Miss Delaney or certainly not Mrs. Delaney because she doesn’t seem to be married, or at least not to a person, having already married her job and I’m not sure what her first name is because no one ever uses it—is a piece of work. Billie Mae is afraid of her though she tries to pretends otherwise because she always gets a nervous look when she talks to her boss on the phone. Like she is right now. Shoot.

“Yes, ma’am. We’ll be there in a minute.” She gives me a look that says, Save me.

“Who’s we?” I say, patting her back in comfort as she stands.

“You and me.”

“Me?” A blast of nerves hits me. Beads of sweat pop onto my face. “Really?” We saw Quinn in the vicinity of Delaney’s office.

My stomach plummets because I can’t let Quinn see me at work. Ever. Face it, I’m not as much worried that he’ll recognize me as I am that I’ll give myself away somehow. I’m no good at lying. Forget about acting.

I’m not ready to lose my job since I don’t have another one unless I count my mom’s promise of the waitressing job—which I don’t because I didn’t work hard to make summa cum laude so I could waitress. For now, I desperately need this job—and, even more, I desperately want this job—for the perk of hockey tickets and the cool factor on my resume. I have to stay at least a year.

Quinn can’t see me, but I can see him, can’t I? And Billie Mae and I can get free tickets to games starting next week when our probationary period is over—assuming I make it that far. Those tickets, alone, are worth half the fifty hours a week I work. Plus, my brothers will throw all my belongings into a dumpster and start a fire—exact quote—if I don’t get them tickets to at least one game this season.

“Don’t be so nervous. I need you to be the strong one,” Billie Mae says, dousing the panic and forcing me to get a grip. “Whatever Delaney has to say, it’s going to be abrupt and delivered with a scowl and we’ll end up having to work late. It’s only a matter of how late.”

“Right.” I make haste as I follow Billie Mae toward our VP of Public Relations, checking for a Quinn sighting or any whiff of his presence because I’d know his scent anywhere now—that earthy sexy spicy smell was intoxicating. It’s probably some kind of crazy rare cologne that only billionaires can afford.

We get to Delaney’s office and I beat Billie Mae to the punch, knocking on the door, because I’m here to take some of the pressure off her.

Delaney shouts for us to come in. Without asking us to sit. “There were some interesting videos posted all over social media last night.”

I cough and my eyes start watering, but I swear I’m not crying.

Billie Mae’s sliding me a look. She nudges me and I calm down, managing to meet Delaney’s scowl.

Is it deeper than usual or am I being paranoid? Those videos could be anything, having absolutely nothing to do with me.

I straighten my shoulders.

The boss clears her throat. “The videos are about some puck bunny who made a scene at The Tea Party last night, accusing one of our players of being an asshole.” She pauses and glares meaningfully—emphasis on the mean. “We need to counter this. Find out about the incident and get some positive clips on there.”

Dizziness makes my brain fuzzy, and I would sink to the floor in despair, embarrassment and shame if I weren’t frozen solid as stone as if Delaney had turned into the Medusa and nailed me.

“Right away,” Billie Mae says.

“I just sent you the link to one of the posts on IG. I hope she’s not talking about Quinn James. That’s all we need.”

“It’s not him.” The words shoot from my mouth like I’m a fire extinguisher shooting frozen air from my lungs to kill the nasty idea. “I mean, he’s not that type of guy… Is he?”

I’m trying not to pee my pants with anxiety over the fear that they might discover the puck bunny in question is me. Fully thawed, I spout on.

“No one’s that type of guy—until they are.” Delaney scowls. She waves at her computer screen showing an IG clip starring little ol’ me, the former wallflower who wishes she could jump back into the wallpaper right now.

“We’ll find out all about what happened and make sure we post photos and clips of the offender kissing kittens, puppies, and babies.” Billie Mae clutches my arm.

“Good. Sara you’re on this detail too. We’re officially moving you part time to PR as a general helper now that the season’s starting. You okay with that?”

I nod, keeping my mouth clamped shut like it’s the proverbial barn door and there are all kinds of horses now escaped and running around. Mostly in my stomach.

We leave Billie Mae’s boss’s office—though I suppose she’s my boss, too, now—crap—and Billie Mae practically drags me back to our cubicles.

“What’s wrong with you? It was you in that video, wasn’t it? I took one look and I knew—”

“How?” I thought I looked pretty well disguised with black-rimmed glasses, the over-sized team jersey, baggy jeans, and ball cap. Not to mention the red dye job on my hair.

“Come on, Sara. I know you. I know that cap and those clothes and… you.”