Page 5 of The Ex Puck Bunny
I grit my teeth, about to use another code Aleeyah and I have for creepy losers when I glance down at my shirt. The brittleness inside dissolves into panic.
The first time I had a wardrobe malfunction since juggling life with a newborn was at the bank. I was breastfeeding and the pads leaked. The second time was at a work meeting and the back of my skirt was stuck in my nylons.
Today I’m wearing black pants and my O’Neely’s Fish Bowl T-shirt.
I realize what Grady was looking at.
Real friends tell their gal pals when they have spinach in their teeth or that they shouldn’t elope with a hockey player after a whirlwind night. But Sophia proved she isn’t one because I have my shirt on inside out . . . and backward.
Waitstaff wear black or white T-shirts withO’Neelyacross the back like a hockey jersey. On the front is a cartoon guy in hockey gear inside a fish bowl—slang for a helmet. We also offer customers free fishbowls filled with popcorn—and after hours, filled with beer. I’m trying to convince Uncle Stan that a pitcher would be less messy.
How Aleeyah missed my clothing situation, I have no idea. She gets a pass though because had she noticed, she would’vementioned it. Case in point, last week, I had a peppercorn stuck between my second tooth and my wonky canine and she discretely pointed to her own mouth to indicate I needed a mirror and a floss pick.
I’m certain Sophia noticed because, after our awkward hug, she looked me up and down.
So does Grady.
“I’ve definitely been here,” he says.
I expect him to follow up with something like,And I definitely know you.
Instead, he says, “I’ll just get a soda. I’m waiting for someone.”
If it’s Trey, I’m shutting this place down because Grady Federer is one of the usual suspects: six and a half feet tall, built like a Spartan, aka a professional hockey player . . . and my brother’sotherbest friend.
In a flat tone, I list the types of soda because he can’t be bothered to be more specific about what kind he’d like. Typical cocky, self-absorbed NHL pro.
He shrugs and says, “Surprise me.”
By dumping it over your head? But of course, sir.
He passes me the menu without a second glance.
I frown. Maybe he doesn’t recognize me.
I can’t decide whether I’m disappointed or relieved. However, the butterflies in my stomach, drying their wings after the deluge of melted sugar, have their own ideas.
CHAPTER TWO
When people askme where I’m from, I say Omaha. I told myself that I’d never return to Cobbiton except for games against the Knights.
I wouldn’t even spend the night in the team hotel and would make reservations elsewhere. If I had my way, I’d have wiped the place off the map. Though I’d keep Spaglietti’s because they make the best pizza on the planet.
Growing up here, this place was no better than a chewed-up corn cob. But it’s changed. Or maybe I have. Arriving this morning, it has a charming, small-town vibe that I had never before noticed. Could be that it’s early spring and everything is fresh.
On my way in, I spotted a new book store called Once Upon a Romance, the Busy Bee Bakery, a few restaurants, boutiques, and a toy store on 4thStreet.
There’s a trolley which must be the work of the Cobbiton Activities Committee—they reach out to me once a year and ask if I’d like to donate. The driver, who I think is Mr. Gormely, the town gossip’s husband, tooted the horn when he passed.I had just gotten out of the car, so I’m surprised he recognized me.
It’s no surprise that O’Neely’s Fish Bowl is the same. Outside, the brick is as faded as ever, the green paint in a perpetual state of needing a refresh, and the awning still sags.
Seated at a table makes me feel slightly nostalgic for the times when Mr. Rice would bring Derek and me to watch early games. It’s a family-friendly pub until about nine—seven on some nights. This place is a hockey fan’s paradise if they like glass fish bowls filled with free popcorn, greasy food, and televisions that only broadcast hockey—past games and present.
Not to mention there is memorabilia everywhere, including trophies, jerseys, sticks, pucks, posters, and random swag Stan O’Neely collected over the years. When I was a kid, the biggest highlight was Sir Goalwain Gretzky the Hockey Knight—a lifesize statue dressed in armor and a hockey jersey.
Even though St. Patrick’s Day was only a couple of days ago, they’ve already decorated with cheesy Easter décor—yes, on top of the rest of the stuff. Let’s just say every surface is cluttered, which reminds me of the small apartment I lived in when growing up, though this place is somehow cleaner.
I’m in Cobbiton to get my hockey career back and for no other reason. No drama, no relationships—my last one practically buried me in an avalanche of deceit and humiliation. I refuse to get distracted.
