Page 1 of Puck to the Heart
I should’ve known havingmy nose stuck in an eReader during a work sponsored event was a bad idea, but I desperately needed to find out if the kilted Highlander Alpha shifter in my book wore his kilt…ahem… traditionally. Coincidentally, so was his fictional lady love.
Chants of “Kiss, kiss, kiss,” fell on my distracted ears, and that’s where my trouble began.
“Livy!” my coworker Brad’s voice cut through my reading along with his hand as he grabbed my face and tried roughly tugging it to his. His unwanted puckered lips drew close to mine, and before I registered what had occurred, I shoved his face away one handed to avoid dropping the only people I was interested in seeing kiss.
“What are you—” A sad trombone sound boomed from the sound system and cut me off.
There it was. Therewewere.
Two of the most embarrassing moments of my life took place at ice rinks, and of the two, this one was far worse.
A screen the size of a house replayed the scene on a delightful loop as I righted myself—Brad looking at the camera, grabbing me, and my subsequent freakout. Little hearts surrounded my pixelated face as the camera zoomed out, capturing Brad beside me. Then, the camera zoomed in again, catching the sticker-covered back of my eReader. The giant smiling eggplant and bright pink ‘Smut Reader’ stickers were particularly vibrant on screen.
All around us, our coworkers turned their heads, hiding laughter behind drinks. The hockey fans nearby weren’t nearly as subtle, all of them pointing at the failed kiss and my questionable taste in stickers.
Horror and mortification grappled for dominance as the cameras finally panned away. All at once, the roaring crowd’s screams flooded my ears. Instead of explaining to Brad in excruciating detail why kissing your coworker on camera wasnotokay, my brain went into flight mode.
Must get away.
Someone in a nearby seat took a photo, and the flash seared through my retinas. The hockey fans, who’d thankfully turned their attention to some player flashing his abs, offered me no reprieve, with the entire section seeming to light up in one giant starburst. A tension headache pulsed behind my left eyeball, making me want to vomit. Even without my face still showing on the screen, laughter and jeers continued to loop in my brain.
Air. I needed air. And probably food. This debacle was the perfect excuse to escape. Besides, I had no interest in the abs on the screen or in Brad.
Launching myself away from the block of seats reserved for our company, I pushed through the knot of people clogging the walkway until I found an empty spot near a window. Cold seeped through the glass, soothing the embarrassed heat lingering on my face. Normally, I wouldn’t subject myself to the bite of it on my skin, but I was desperate.
When my breaths slowed to a normal rhythm and the pulse behind my eyes dulled, I wandered over to join the line for the stand selling loaded fries. Because as much as I wanted to go home and crawl beneath the covers in my sad bed in my miserable apartment, we’d carpooled from work—I was stuck. At the very least I deserved a mountain of cheesy fries for my troubles.
To drown out the incessant noise both inside and outside my head, I tugged out my eReader again to try to focus on the knotty goodness rather than my still racing heart and sweaty palms. A few paragraphs in, a light tap on my shoulder drew me out of the chilly Highlands and back to the concessions line.
A white-haired woman who appeared to be in her seventies stood before me wearing a navy blazer with teal piping and a shield-shaped logo embroidered on the lapel. “One rarely sees young people reading at sporting events. Youwerereading, correct?”
Did people speak so well in real life, or was she some sort of time-traveler? Slowly nodding, I answered, “Er—yes?”
“I thought so. I’m a reader myself. Actually, I’m rather enthusiastic about—” she lowered her voice a bit, “—bodice rippers.” The lady continued like she hadn’t just dropped the best kind of bomb on me. Was it too early to proclaim my love for her? She waved a dainty, elegantly manicured hand toward the screen showing the players zooming back and forth. “Are you enjoying yourself? With either the book or the game, I suppose.” She winked.
“The book is wonderful.” I showed her the book info, delighted when she made a note of the title on her phone. “But I am struggling to follow the game.” I admitted how much everything overwhelmed me, from the thunderous noise to the invasive fans. What I didn’t admit was how much I didn’t care. I came tonight for Dr. Hurst’s mandatory “team building and coworker relations,” not to understand hockey.
“Ah. I understand. Actually,” the lady tapped the sleek earmuffs on her ears, “I prefer to watch the games without listening to all the nonsense. It can be rather jarring. I take it this is your first time here?”
“Yes, that probably would’ve been wise. But I came with a group from work, so I arrived unprepared.” And holy shit, did I regret it. My attempt to speak like her sounded forced, even to my own ears. Too bad.
“I see. Well, I hope you give it another shot.” She flipped open a small, vintage velvet pocketbook. “And to thank you for your book recommendation, I want you to take this.” She held out a piece of paper roughly the size of a bookmark. “It’s a raffle ticket for a dinner at Le Rêve, some new French restaurant all the young people are talking about. If I won, I’d go with my grandson. But between us girls, I prefer my own cooking, and I’d rather give this to someone who’d enjoy it.”
I blinked back in surprise. “Um, thank you?” It came out as a question, all attempts at fancy speech evaporated. Statistically speaking, I knew there was little chance I’d win; thousands of people must’ve entered. I flipped the thin cardboard between my fingers, and the word fundraiser jumped out at me. Ah, that explained it.
“Besides, even if you don’t win, there’s a coupon for a free appetizer and cocktail at Le Rêve on the back.”
Well, free food and cocktails perked me right up. And the older woman was right, Le Rêve was making the rounds on socials for its signature cocktails and the chef’s modern take on classic French cuisine. It looked divine.
As we waited, we chatted about books. She told me she was interested in eReaders like mine, though she thought she’d prefer a physical book. I explained my love for both formats and audiobooks, too, but all my physical books were across the country, so my reading selection dwindled to library books and downloaded fics for the foreseeable future.
It was the longest non-work conversation I had in months, save for the ones I had with my dad every week. I found myself enjoying it more than I imagined, and when she introduced herself as Polly Lorne and invited me to her book club, I was thrilled. “It’s very informal. We mostly drink wine, talk about books we’ve read, and gossip; it’s not a strict ‘everyone reads the same pretentious nonsense’ club. You read what you like.” Polly handed me another card, this one more like an old-fashioned calling card, with her contact information on it.
Seriously, was she accepting applications for a granddaughter? I would absolutely be up for grandparental adoption. “Oh, wow, Polly. Thank you.” Maybe I would drum up the courage to join her. It sounded so nice.
After placing my order and saying goodbye to Polly, I found a very nice stadium employee who, upon realizing I was the unfortunate girl caught on the kiss cam, let me sit in an empty seat in the nosebleed section.
Rather than dripping grease from my extra-large basket of cheese-and-bacon-loaded fries onto my eReader, I let my eyes wander to the game. As the players sped across the ice, I remembered how fascinated I was with figure skating in my younger days. It was a brief infatuation, ending with that first unpleasant experience I didn’t want to fully conjure up.
