Page 89 of The Puck Bunny

Jonas is impressed and they talk hockey.

Crisis averted. Meanwhile, Quinn’s arm is still around my shoulder.

I sneak a look at Mom and the family, and they’re watching, open-mouthed, from a respectful distance, not making a move toward us for introductions, which I think is strange except… Mom’s holding them back.

Crap. She thinks I have something going on with Quinn.

I slide away from his hold. “It was nice of you to take care of Paul. I gotta go… get Grandma Zanetti home.”

Quinn’s face looks wistful, his eyes sad, and I stop for a fraction of a heartbeat.

“Go ahead,” Paul says. “I’ll take the other car and catch up with you at home later.” He leans in.

I punch his shoulder, wave to Jonas, then, without another word or backward glance at Quinn, I rush back to the family and herd them toward the garage.

I try not to read too much into the looks he gave me, like he’s wistful or something. I’m proud of not taking the bait, not even when his dimple showed and my panties wanted to melt. I clench my jaw instead of my thighs and remember that he’d said, “There is no us.” He has hockey and his family and he doesn’t want a relationship with me.

I ride home with Mom, Dad and Grandma Zanetti. Aunt Yolanda said she’d wait for Paul because there’s not enough room in one car for everyone.

“You make any progress on hooking up with that hot player I saw you talking to?” Grandma Zanetti asks.

Dad watches me in the rear-view mirror while Mom drives.

I try not to give anything away, but I’m worried he sees more than he lets on.

“It’s against the rules, Grandma. No dating the hockey players because I work for the team.”

Mom snorts. “Don’t worry about those rules. They can’t fight Mother Nature. The heart wants what the heart wants.”

I zip my mouth shut as Mom goes on about the virtues of dating a hockey player and Grandma argues that football players are better and then Dad joins the conversation. Me? I keep my mouth zipped and jump out of the car as soon as we get home.

When I finally crawl into bed after this draining endless day, I do the one thing I know better than to do. I check my texts because I’m a fool and I seem to require multiple doses of disappointment before I’m cured of my delusions.

Nothing. My gut feels like I had a bunch of organs removed and the surgeon left a big gaping hole there.

To compound my gluttony for punishment, I scroll through our text chain and stare at his name and the call icon longingly.

In the end, I’m not brave enough or stupid enough to turn into that girl—the stalker who won’t leave her celebrity crush alone.

Am I a puck bunny after all?

* * *

Monday morning, I slog into the office, determined to make it business as usual. The fact that the team left this morning for a three-game road trip makes me optimistic that I can carry it off.

Billie Mae comes in ten minutes after me and gives me a hug before she takes her seat and spreads out in her cubicle.

I’m humming along, answering calls while I tap on my keyboard and stare at the columns of numbers on the screen, kicking butt on this multi-tasking deal.

Hanging up from one call, I answer the next one, feeling good about myself and my happy, productive roll.

“Hello. Brawlers’ ticketing and public relations. How can I help you?”

“Is this Sara?” a familiar woman’s voice asks.

“Yes.” My mind buzzes around trying to place the voice and getting nowhere.

“This is Mrs. James—Natalie James—Quinn’s mom.”