Page 4 of The Ex Puck Bunny
Mr. Sophia slouches. “Babe, I told you that the book I read about the gentle, child-led parenting approach said to let them decide when to give up the binkie.”
These people are doomed.
Her eyes slit at her husband. “And I told you not to call mebabeanymore. I’m not a baby.”
That was her takeaway from his comment?
“But you called?—”
I don’t hear the rest of what Mr. Sophia says because Aleeyah flurries past. Instead of using the coffee line, she says, “Do you mind grabbing table nine? I would, but the eight top just expanded to a twelve and I don’t think they plan on leaving anytime soon.”
I gather a few empty plates from the Schuster’s table and hurry away to grab table nine.
As if noticing her quarry escaping, Sophia calls, “I’ll text about that playdate so we can catch up. It’ll be like old times.”
I hope not. Anyway, after spending eight hours here, being with adults is overrated.
Just as I’m about to head over to table nine, a man with a beer belly intercepts me. “Hey, you’re one of the puck bunnies for the Los Angeles Lions.”
More like an ex-puck bunny. I could deny it, but he seems the type to want to pull out his phone and prove he recognizes me.
“You mean an Ice Kitty? I was. Now, I’m here.” My tone is easy breezy with an uncurrent of curt. Stupid me for working at a hockey pub, not that I had too many choices. But I’d prefer not to have reminders.
“That’s because the Knights are the superior team.” Beer Belly chortles and his stomach jiggles.
There is no denying that I’m an ex-puck bunny. Much like how football gets cheerleaders, I parlayed that level of enthusiasm and skill into the original LA Lions hype girl team. They dubbed our squad the Ice Kitties. We were a combination of cheerleaders, figure skaters, Rockettes, and yes, often part puck bunny—the term given to women who fangirl for a hockey team and often end up with players after a game. I wasn’tthatkind of puck bunny.
Okay, maybe a little bit.
But being back in Hockey Town only reminds me of where I went wrong—namely marrying a hockey player.
Beer Belly starts to say something more, but I have work to do.
“Look! A hockey puck.” I point behind him and scurry away.
I tell myself to forget about Beer Belly’s reminder of my marriage mistake, playdates, and mom meetups. Being recognized and old associations, and interacting with adults. Some days it’s dreadful.
I shove all of it, including Sophia and her judgy face out of my mind.
It’s time to focus on today’s lunch specials, gratitude that I have a job, and the baby Bunny I’ll be returning home to later … and table nine.
The customer has thick brown hair and a dark Henley. He’s facing away from me and pushes up the sleeves, revealing toned forearms, so probably not Beer Belly’s brother. My only hope is that he doesn’t know that I was a puck bunny or Mrs. Dillard for a minute. Well, about twenty-thousand-one hundred and sixty minutes, which was far too long after what Trey did.
I also hope his order is simple and he doesn’t make menu modifications or ask me to wash things that fall onto the floor.
Stopping in front of the table, I say, “Hello, welcome to O’Neely’s Fish Bowl. If it’s your first time here, we specialize in all things corn and potatoes. We have corn on the cob served five different ways, corn fritters, and cornbread along with French fries, also served five different ways with our special sauce. And our fan favorite loaded potato skin pub pucks, yes, topped with corn and five other items.”
He glances up from the menu and I meet a pair of green eyes flecked with gold.
I inhale slowly, but it gets stuck somewhere between my head and my chest.
The guy at table nine is Grady Federer, my brother’s other best friend.
My insides turn to melted sugar that rapidly sets into caramel when it hits the hard crack stage. Mom tried making candies for Christmas and the stuff was as sharp as glass.
Only, instead of flashing with recognition, his eyes pinch with concern.
His gaze trails from my face down to my chest and then back up.
