Page 53 of The Puck Bunny

My eyes pop as three dots appear on the screen.

An instant later, the world thanks appears.

I wait… but no more dots.

I huff out a breath and shove the phone into my bag. That’s it.

The short response doesn’t encourage me to send another message and I know better than to push it, to distract him when he’s trying to not be distracted.

He needs balanced and I’m the opposite of balance. In fact, I’m thoroughly unbalanced.

* * *

After the game is over and I’m bouncing up and down in my bed because the Brawlers win, temptation to reach out to Quinn again curls around my heart and squeezes.

My text is innocent enough with a “Congratulations!” him. for scoring his first Boston Brawlers goal in the third period, sealing their 4-1 win.

Then my phone rings—it’s him!

I pounce to answer it. “Hey.”

“What the hell are you doing texting in the middle of the night?” His words are lazy and full of mischief.

“Besides watching you play hockey?” The loaded question pops out and a vibration of excitement runs through my entire body—not for any other reason except that I think I’ve finally learned how to flirt. I can tell by the tense silence on his end that my flirting is working.

“Okay, I’ll bite. What are you doing besides watching me play hockey? Being a naughty girl?”

“Depends on what you call naughty,” I say, having no idea where I’m going with this because the truth is a big fat dead end and I’m not much at making up stories.

He gives a breathy chuckle into the phone that sends a chill of need through my body and an impulse to my hand as my hips arch up reflexively.

“Tell me what you’re up to,” he says, “and I’ll let you know if I think it’s naughty.”

Holy moly. This could get really hot really fast. I try to think about if that’s good or bad or what could go wrong, but my brain power has been seriously curtailed on account of all my blood flow hitting my lady parts right now. I can feel the unmistakable tingle.

Then it occurs to me that it’s my turn to speak.

“I…” have no idea what to say.

“That’s what I thought.” He sighs. “You’re too good to be naughty.”

“You forget that night at Billie Mae’s…” I shouldn’t be reminding him of that debacle, but I’m desperate not to be cast as too good to be naughty. What a horrible thing for him to say.

“That night you were Lola. And she does have a naughty streak.”

“You realize there is no Lola, right? Not anymore. We agreed—”

“We agreed we’d be friends. Didn’t we?”

“Yes.”

“So why did you text me tonight, Sara?”

Is that accusation in his voice? Defensiveness spikes in me.

“Friends can text, can’t they?” Can I tell him the truth? That I don’t want to be just friends, that I want to have a fling and finish what we started?

“They could, but… Look, I’ll be honest. There’s something about you that… I have a hard time leaving alone. You intrigue me. You interest me. And I find you sexy as hell. So being friends is a challenge.” He lets out a breath. “But it’s a must.”