Page 1 of The Ex Puck Bunny
CHAPTER ONE
You knowthose stories that start withOnce upon a timeand end withAnd they lived happily ever after?
I was convinced I was going to have one of those until I married and subsequently divorced a hockey player.
It turns out that Trey Dillard is deceptive, diabolical, and dumb.
The name kind of says it all.
No offense to the Treys and Dillards of the world. But I should’ve known better.
Or perhaps the giveaway should’ve been the fact that he’s a hockeyplayer, emphasis on the second part—forever playing the field, or the ice, as it were.
The red flags were flying, but I ignored them. Let’s see, there were the circumstances of our wedding—surprise! It turns out that what happens in Las Vegasdoes notstay in Las Vegas.
Could’ve been his high school history with girls, which I was well aware of—given the fact that he was a year ahead of me after being held back earlier on.
Maybe the chief indicator that our relationship would be a big fat fail was that he’s one of my brother’s best friends.
Yes, you heard that correctly. I married my brother’s best friend.
Why Derek ever gave him the time of day is a question that remains unanswered.
Then again, Derek now has a criminal record, if that says anything about the outcome of his (former) best friend doing me dirty.
Though, revenge doesn’t taste as sweet as the soda I just downed to help me get through the rest of the afternoon. Ever since I stopped breastfeeding, coffee makes me jittery. Experts say postpartum hormones can change a woman. Not only is coffee off the menu, I have a sudden fear of heights. Go figure. Right now, I need carbonated caffeine.
I stuff some extra straws in my apron and refuse to look at the clock—instead of the usual hand with arrows, it has hockey sticks and it always seems to run slower than normal.
My hometown of Cobbiton is known for two things: corn and hockey.
I’m a big fan of the first—especially when it comes in the form of cornbread. On special today with fried chicken and baked beans. Or corn chips. I challenge anyone to show me a better plate of loaded nachos. I’m not biased, not even given the fact that my Uncle Stan owns the joint. It’s also not lost on him that he was blessed with the name Stan—as in the Stanley Cup—that he’d be destined to own and operate a hockey pub.
Despite our menu, I have a love-hate relationship with O’Neely’s Fish Bowl, my uncle’s pub, in the heart of downtown Cobbiton.
When the Nebraska Knights outgrew their old arena in Omaha proper, they announced the new one would be constructed in a suburb. Cobbiton won the bid for the IcePalace with its abundance of farmland for the facility and ample parking—my uncle and every other ice-blooded native of this town went bananas.
Er, corn-anas.
Seriously, hockey to these people is like a religion. They live it, breathe it, love it.
I could do without it.
Especially hockey players.
That wasn’t always the case, but I digress.
I cross the dining room to help Aleeyah bus a table because we’re short-staffed today.
She says, “Brace yourself for the lunch rush.”
“It’s Tuesday.”
“There’s a game tomorrow.”
“An away game,” I counter, not quite understanding how that will result in us getting stormed with customers.
She wipes crumbs onto an empty plate. “Everyone tailgates in the parking lot.”
