Page 17 of The Puck Bunny

“Okay, I’ll help. But… I’m not sure what I can do—”

“No worries; I have a plan.”

That’s exactly the moment I start worrying like a world-class Olympic champion worrier, like the gold medalist worrier who’s about to break all the worrying records in the universe.

I might have drawn blood just now when I bit my lip.

Outside, Billie Mae tracks back, knocking on the glass door. She’s mouthing, We only have an hour for lunch.

I nod and try to focus on Sheila while licking the blood from my lip.

“What’s… the… plan?” I ask like I’m in a cartoon waiting for the anvil to drop on my head.

“You’ll come with us to the game tomorrow night and, afterward, we’ll go out and you can convince Jonas Bergman of the error of his ways—that Mindy is a good, decent girl and has real feelings for him.”

“Me?” I squeak like a Minnie Mouse impersonator. I better watch it or my voice is going to stay like Minnie’s older sister permanently. “I—of course I’ll help.” My underdog empathy strikes as if I’ve slugged down a gallon of margaritas. I feel a lot like Popeye after he eats his can of spinach. What does it say about me that my hero-inducing spinach is tequila-laced margaritas? Never mind. The puck bunny avenger is back.

“Great. Meet us at The Tea Party before the game for a costume check.”

WTF? “Did you say costume check?”

“Yeah. Nothing personal, but you were dressed a little…”

“Never mind. I get it. Not exactly sexy.” I stave off the blush even though we’re on the phone and she can’t see it because I have a feeling I’ll need the practice. “Don’t worry. I’ll be prepared. Dressed for success.”

“You sure?”

“Never mind me. How do we know Jonas will be at The Tea Party after the game?” My practical business-like-self kicks in, the me I’m comfortable with.

Billie Mae throws her hands in the air then brings them down to check her watch while tapping her foot like a fellow cartoon character.

“He texted Mindy—out of the blue—and said he’d be there if she wanted to talk. I think he might have an inkling what it’s all about and that’s why he blew her off last time. Thankfully, for whatever reason, he’s manning up.”

“Then what do you need me there for?”

“To keep him from fleeing as soon as she opens her mouth. You’re as good as a guilty conscience personified.”

I swallow her words, not sure if they taste sweet or sour, but, either way, I own them. I butted in to call Jonas out and now I need to finish the job. This must be how avengers feel.

“I’ll be there at five-thirty for the costume check. Then I’ll see you at the game.”

* * *

Once I fly out the door to the street, feeling like Superman busting out of the phone booth, I explain everything to Billie Mae as we high-step it to The King and I, my favorite Thai food place in Boston. She forgives me about the delay for the pure intrigue value of the phone call.

Two days later, Billie Mae helps me with the hair dye, but I dress myself which increases her already pouty mood because I banned her from going to The Tea Party.

All clothed, I emerge from her bathroom and stand in front of her, only mildly self-conscious.

“What do you think?” I say in a low, scratchy voice. I decided my voice needs a disguise too.

She circles her finger.

Spinning around in a short black skirt with textured tights—I couldn’t bring myself to buy the fishnets—with a fitted Brawlers’ jersey—Quinn’s number 17—I get a little dizzy and stop to wait for the verdict from my fashionista bestie. Who also happens to be the owner of a championship poker face.

“Where did you get that jersey? Didn’t they have any smaller sizes?”

“I guess the pro shop needed to save them for the charity event tomorrow.”