Page 38 of The Puck Bunny

“No argument here,” Sara says under her breath.

“We learned that lesson early and hard,” Billie Mae says. “I gotta go. I’m assigned to help Ryan O’-Flipping-Rourke, bless his DILF-able soul.” She gives me a sassy look and squeezes Sara in a hug that looks sincere, not an L.A. air hug.

Sara waves and then turns to me as she drags in a breath.

I smile. I can do friendly without flirting, pleasant without teasing. It’ll be real work to keep the lid on teasing because she’s so damn tease-able, but I’ll manage as long as I keep hockey and my family front and center in my mind.

“Don’t mind her.” Sara waves in the direction of Billie Mae. “She was only kidding about O’Rourke. She’s a total professional. In fact, you should feel flattered that she feels comfortable enough around you to be so… casual and open.” She picks up a jersey from the pile and hands it to me.

I snort, then lower my voice. “I’d say we’re definitely past the formalities after last night.”

She blushes and the familiar rush of lust pulses through me. So not helpful. And so not professional, non-teasing behavior. I clear my throat. “Sorry. Last night never happened.”

She stares at the pile of jerseys. “Maybe you should start signing the t-shirts since you’re likely to sell more of them than anyone else.”

Fuck. She’s doing better than I am at forgetting last night.

“Sure. All I need is a pen. They said sharpies would be provided.”

“Yes.” She reaches into a box and pulls out a handful. “Take your pick.”

A whistle blows, reverberating through the high-ceilinged glass lobby and I look toward the front door to see Delaney poised with the damn thing near her mouth.

“Doors are opening. Put on your smiles and bring the energy!” she shouts.

“I bet she would have been a great coach in another life,” Sara says, seemingly to herself.

“I bet she was a coach before she got this gig,” I add.

Sara looks at me like she’s surprised I heard her. Then she smiles and it beams. My chest tightensfor no reason.

My table is close to the entrance, right after O’Rourke and Rafe, so when the crowd surges through the doors, it’s no time before I’m inundated with fans wanting everything autographed, from shirts to posters to mugs. Sara takes care of the sales with a hand-held device and bags the merch while I sign and chat with fans of all ages, but mostly kids.

Not that there aren’t a lot of friendly moms lined up who are ready to take photos, most of them jumping in with the kids, but there’s no onslaught of aggressive female attention that Delaney was worried about. The place is loud and sounds like one of our games—fans cheering when one of them walks away from a table, holding a signed jersey high overhead.

The fans are great and I’m surprised by some of the lively and knowledgeable hockey talk. It’s easy to get caught up in their excitement and I don’t think the smile left my face for more than a second or two.

Watching Sara, I make sure I don’t rush through the signing so she’ll have a chance to close the deals. That’s not hard with the fans all wanting pictures. One lady asks Sara to take a picture of just h her and her sister—no.

“I’d be happy to. Turn a little to your left so I can see your pretty face,” Sara tells the sister—the one trying to rub her boobs against me.

Thankfully, she takes the pic fast and moves them along better than a bar bouncer with a drunk. There are half a dozen security guards spread around the lobby, but, thankfully, so far, the crowd has been orderly and respectful in their enthusiasm.

Sara hands me an open bottle of water when the sisters move on, then resumes helping the next group of fans to find their jersey sizes.

“This jersey will look perfect on you,” she says to a little girl, holding up a pink version of a Brawlers jersey with my name on it. “What do you think?”

“I love it. I love your jersey, too.”

“Only a t-shirt today, sweetie,” her mom says.

“How about if I put one aside for you and you can save up for it?” Sara squats down. “Quinn can sign it for you today and we’ll take a photo and when you’ve saved up, the signed jersey will be waiting for you.”

The little girl’s head bobs up and down as she grins, showing a gap in her teeth.

Sara smiles at the reluctant mom. “I’ll give you my card.” She pulls one from her pocket and gives it to the woman, holding her hands and squeezing. “No strings attached.”

“Are you sure? I mean, can you do that?”