Page 92 of The Puck Bunny

To his credit, the kid laughs.

Quinn whispers, “Coach isn’t known for his tact, but he’s a good soul and a hockey genius.”

“And he has damn good ears,” Coach says, not completely covering his smirk with a frown.

But the locker room laughs and we get dressed in our brand-new classic Brawlers’ uniforms

We mill around outside the rink, waiting for the photographer while the Zamboni finishes up.

Delaney appears around the corner and asks, “Where’s the photographer?”

Coach yells back, “You’re the one in charge of this fiasco, Delaney? You tell me where he is.”

“It’s a she. I’ll find out now.” She stares at me like I’m the one to blame and puts her phone to her ear.

“This better not take long. We have practice for an important game coming up.” Coach bristles while Delaney cups a hand over her phone and has a vigorous conversation with some unlucky bastard on the other end.

Chase says something to me, but I miss it because that’s when Sara shows up, her long, killer legs in black tights and impossible platform heels. Her sinfully short skirt spikes my already surging heart rate and her green eyes stare straight at me, daring me to change my mind and throw in the towel and succumb to the weakness deep inside me that answers to her, that craves her and every fucking little thing about her.

Fuck.

Her pint-sized friend is holding on to her like she’ll kill anyone who tangles with her—meaning me if the snarl aimed in my direction is a clue.

Sara clutches a sheet of paper, clears her throat, then says, “Let’s line up while we’re waiting for the photographer to arrive.” She turns to Coach. “You don’t mind, do you?”

The old bear smiles at her like he has a heart of mush. “Great idea. Do your thing.” He turns to us, any trace of the smile gone and shouts, “You heard her, men! Onto the ice and follow Ms. Bellagamba’s directions.”

O’Rourke leads the charge as the captain

I hang back. “Are you going out on the ice with those shoes?”

“Do you think I’m crazy to? Wait—don’t answer that.” A moment of real panic crosses her face before she grins. “I’ll call directions from the bench.”

I grin and nod. “Good idea. Not that I wouldn’t love to see you on skates.”

“I can skate.” She lifts her chin. “Wouldn’t be a full-fledged member of a hockey family and fan since birth if I couldn’t.”

Delaney storms toward us, shoving her phone back into its holster, usual grimace in place.

“I better get out there.” I nod in the direction of Delaney and Sara turns then scrambles into the penalty box. I keep my laugh to myself because she won’t be able to call anything from inside that glass.

She seems to figure that out and opens the door onto the ice.

“What are you doing?” Delaney asks.

“I’m going onto the ice to make sure the guys are lined up,” Sara says bravely.

Billie Mae stands nearby, horrified, but not brave enough to come onto the ice to rescue her friend.

“You’re going to—” Delaney sounds truly alarmed.

“I volunteered to help,” I say.

Coach raises an eyebrow.

Delaney narrows her eyes.

Billie Mae frowns like she’s holding in a growl and my teammates snicker.