Page 51 of The Puck Bunny

I’ll have to call her—but when? I can’t have this conversation with all the guys around.

And what about Sara? When the hell am I going to talk to her about it? More importantly, what am I going to say that won’t hurt her feelings… the truth?

What the hell is the truth?

Pacing around the hotel room sucks because even though it’s a suite, there’s no space to unwind. I can’t wait to get out of here and move into the house. A walk along that beach would be perfect about now. The salty ocean breeze would help me calm down enough to sleep.

Tonight, it’s about more than hockey and more than the weight of guilt over my family or disgust with myself for the stupid glam lifestyle I allowed myself to get sucked into. The strain of keeping the soul-crushing hurt at the loss of my father at bay is wearing me down.

I pick up my phone and wonder who I can touch base with at this hour.

Scrolling through, my thumb lands on one name and I click. Shit. Am I stupid or what?

I still don’t know what the appropriate thing is to say to Sara, but my thumb had a mind of its own, apparently and doesn’t care about appropriateness. There must be a straight line from my dick to my fingers right now as they start texting.

Me: Are you safe at home now?

Sara: If the lock on my bedroom door holds.

Who’s asking?

Me: Your favorite hockey player.

Sara: The one with the big head?

Me: The one with the big stick.

It takes a while before the three dots appear on my phone and I let out a breath. I should not be flirting with her. In fact, I should probably apologize.

But my dick has control of my fingers, so. I settle on the couch because said dick is squirming around and making it impossible to pace. I lean back and wait for the results of those flickering dots, holding my phone with two hands, resisting the urge to shove one hand into my pants. Do not go there.

Her reply finally appears.

Sara: The forbidden stick?

I laugh and my stick takes notice, stiffening and begging me to turn up the volume on the flirting. But, damn, what kind of ass would that make me? I’m not going to be the guy to toy with the likes of Sara Bellagamba. I never was that guy and I don’t care how much she begs me, I’m not going to start now. I need to shut this down.

Me: That’s right. There are no sticks among friends. I’m leaving for a week of away games tomorrow.

Sara: Good. I deserve a break from you.

Me: You’re right. After tonight.

Sara: What about Thanksgiving dinner? What will you tell your mom?

I have no idea what I’m going to do about Thanksgiving dinner except that Sara can’t be there. We can’t carry on the charade and allow my family to think there’s something between us. Because there’s not. Plus, it would be career suicide if the press thought there was. But I’m not going to resolve the puzzle of our relationship in a text tonight, so I kick the can.

Me: Don’t worry about it. Thanksgiving is five weeks away.

Sara: That’s right. A lot can happen between now and then. Maybe you’ll find a real girlfriend to invite to dinner.

Shit. The last thing I want to do is make her feel rejected, like she’s less than.

Me: No. No girlfriends for me.

Sara: Just puck bunnies who work with you?

Me: You’re no puck bunny.