Page 2 of The Ex Puck Bunny
“The game is tomorrow.”
“Heidi, you, of all people, should know that Knights fans take games very seriously. If they can’t travel with the team, they bring the party here.”
She’s right. I should know this. “By here, you meanhere?”
She says, “I’ve only been immersed in Hockey Town for three years, but the Ice Palace changed things for Cobbiton.”
Byimmersedshe means that her husband is the Knights’ accountant, and she works the lunch shift a few days while their kids are at school. She says it’s to get out of the house. Aleeyah is a people person. She also has a side hustle and I’ve discovered that she is a non-stop, on-the-go kind of person.
If only I could say the same—on both accounts. Quite honestly, I’d rather be in the house with my kid. I used to be a people person until Trey ruined me. I was always out andabout, social, active. Now, my battery runs low after twenty minutes of adult human interaction. I also blame Trey.
After we add some backup ketchup and condiments to the waitress station, Aleeyah says, “Preparations complete. Now, we wait.”
But we don’t have to wait long, though we do wait tables, tag teaming as customers start to arrive, decked out in Knights’ merch.
The pub is its own breed of dining and drinking establishment with a wood-paneled wall on one side, brick on the other, and old plaster in between. A garage sale assortment of Tiffany-style stained glass dome lights hang over a hodgepodge of tables and chairs. Hockey memorabilia covers every available surface, including on the ceiling.
The massive, flat-screen TVs show hockey all the time—old games, highlights, and commentary.
Without a customer service background, my uncle was gracious enough to give me the job this winter when I packed up my life in Los Angeles and returned to Nebraska, defeated.
I’m still getting the hang of serving tables and single motherhood. I accidentally deliver curly fries to a table who ordered shoe-string fries and forget the special sauce for the sweet potato fries.
If it’s not obvious, O’Neely’s Fish Bowl specializes in all things potato, corn, and fried—not fish, as might be implied by the name, unless you count the Friday fish and chips special or the fish fingers on the kids’ menu.
My flubs are less because I’m an airhead—though I’ve been called that—and more because I’m tired. Bunny is a snuggler until about three a.m. when she decides she’s going to tap dance on my kidneys. It started in utero and because she still wakes up once a night to come into my bed, the choreography continues.
Aleeyah has an eight top, so I do my best to grab the smaller parties as they filter in. We have a seat-yourself policy, but not a bulldoze-the-dining room protocol as a woman pushing a double stroller plows forward, knocking tables and chairs askew before parking herself in the middle of the milieu.
I’m about to help Aleeyah bring out the large party’s plates, but the woman snaps her fingers to get my attention. Her husband hasn’t even sat down yet.
Above the din, she hollers, “We need two high chairs.”
“Hi! Welcome to O’Neely’s. We have a table over here that’s more suitable for families?—”
She interrupts, “Oh my goodness! Heidi? Heidi is that you? What are you doing here? What are the chances? I had no idea I’d find you here,” she repeats, which tells me that the rumors of my return finally reached Sophia Snodgrass’s ears.
I’m shocked she hadn’t tracked me down sooner. In fact, I expected her to barge in on my first day. As the weeks passed, I let down my guard, nearly forgetting about the imminent threat of my former best friend coming here to gloat about my life change.
She launches to her feet and gives me a stiff hug.
I’m keenly aware that I smell like fry oil and popcorn with a side of Uncle Stan’s special sauce—it’s a little heavy on the vinegar today. He claims it’s a family recipe, but it’s a condiment mixture of ketchup, mayonnaise, mustard, pickle relish, vinegar, and a splash of hot sauce. Plus, the “secret” ingredient, a dash of smoked paprika.
Leaning back, Sophia looks me up and down. “You look fantastic. Wow.” Her smile moves like an inchworm, as if she’s not sure whether to love or hate my physique.
I might hate me too, but I did “snap back” after pregnancy with no thanks to more stress than a woman should have to bear on her own.
On autopilot, I flash aWe almost won the gamecheerleader smile—in other words, it’s fake. “Thanks, you too.”
We both look roughly the same as we did in high school, only slightly older and tireder. Is that a word? The fact that I’m not sure tells you everything you need to know about my sleep status.
I’m exhausted—by the last two years of my life, by circumstances, by my stupid habit of scrolling social media way too late at night on my phone. Part of me isn’t willing to let go of my old life, even though watching it unfold online is a certain type of painful.
Leaning in now, Sophia asks, “What’s your secret?”
For a moment, I mistakenly think she’s referring to the special sauces before I realize she wants the inside “Skinny.” How to stay thin was a hot topic back in high school.
My cheerleader smile falters. “Oh, you know, health and fitness.”
