The Ex Puck Bunny (Nebraska Knights Holiday Hockey Romance)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

You know those stories that start with Once upon a time and end with And they lived happily ever after ?

I was convinced I was going to have one of those until I married and subsequently divorced a hockey player.

It turns out that Trey Dillard is deceptive, diabolical, and dumb.

The name kind of says it all.

No offense to the Treys and Dillards of the world. But I should’ve known better.

Or perhaps the giveaway should’ve been the fact that he’s a hockey player , emphasis on the second part—forever playing the field, or the ice, as it were.

The red flags were flying, but I ignored them. Let’s see, there were the circumstances of our wedding—surprise! It turns out that what happens in Las Vegas does not stay in Las Vegas.

Could’ve been his high school history with girls, which I was well aware of—given the fact that he was a year ahead of me after being held back earlier on .

Maybe the chief indicator that our relationship would be a big fat fail was that he’s one of my brother’s best friends.

Yes, you heard that correctly. I married my brother’s best friend.

Why Derek ever gave him the time of day is a question that remains unanswered.

Then again, Derek now has a criminal record, if that says anything about the outcome of his (former) best friend doing me dirty.

Though, revenge doesn’t taste as sweet as the soda I just downed to help me get through the rest of the afternoon. Ever since I stopped breastfeeding, coffee makes me jittery. Experts say postpartum hormones can change a woman. Not only is coffee off the menu, I have a sudden fear of heights. Go figure. Right now, I need carbonated caffeine.

I stuff some extra straws in my apron and refuse to look at the clock—instead of the usual hand with arrows, it has hockey sticks and it always seems to run slower than normal.

My hometown of Cobbiton is known for two things: corn and hockey.

I’m a big fan of the first—especially when it comes in the form of cornbread. On special today with fried chicken and baked beans. Or corn chips. I challenge anyone to show me a better plate of loaded nachos. I’m not biased, not even given the fact that my Uncle Stan owns the joint. It’s also not lost on him that he was blessed with the name Stan—as in the Stanley Cup—that he’d be destined to own and operate a hockey pub.

Despite our menu, I have a love-hate relationship with O’Neely’s Fish Bowl, my uncle’s pub, in the heart of downtown Cobbiton.

When the Nebraska Knights outgrew their old arena in Omaha proper, they announced the new one would be constructed in a suburb. Cobbiton won the bid for the Ice Palace with its abundance of farmland for the facility and ample parking—my uncle and every other ice-blooded native of this town went bananas.

Er, corn-anas.

Seriously, hockey to these people is like a religion. They live it, breathe it, love it.

I could do without it.

Especially hockey players.

That wasn’t always the case, but I digress.

I cross the dining room to help Aleeyah bus a table because we’re short-staffed today.

She says, “Brace yourself for the lunch rush.”

“It’s Tuesday.”

“There’s a game tomorrow.”

“An away game,” I counter, not quite understanding how that will result in us getting stormed with customers.

She wipes crumbs onto an empty plate. “Everyone tailgates in the parking lot.”

“The game is tomorrow.”

“Heidi, you, of all people, should know that Knights fans take games very seriously. If they can’t travel with the team, they bring the party here.”

She’s right. I should know this. “By here, you mean here ?”

She says, “I’ve only been immersed in Hockey Town for three years, but the Ice Palace changed things for Cobbiton.”

By immersed she means that her husband is the Knights’ accountant, and she works the lunch shift a few days while their kids are at school. She says it’s to get out of the house. Aleeyah is a people person. She also has a side hustle and I’ve discovered that she is a non-stop, on-the-go kind of person.

If only I could say the same—on both accounts. Quite honestly, I’d rather be in the house with my kid. I used to be a people person until Trey ruined me. I was always out and about, social, active. Now, my battery runs low after twenty minutes of adult human interaction. I also blame Trey.

After we add some backup ketchup and condiments to the waitress station, Aleeyah says, “Preparations complete. Now, we wait.”

But we don’t have to wait long, though we do wait tables, tag teaming as customers start to arrive, decked out in Knights’ merch.

The pub is its own breed of dining and drinking establishment with a wood-paneled wall on one side, brick on the other, and old plaster in between. A garage sale assortment of Tiffany-style stained glass dome lights hang over a hodgepodge of tables and chairs. Hockey memorabilia covers every available surface, including on the ceiling.

The massive, flat-screen TVs show hockey all the time—old games, highlights, and commentary.

Without a customer service background, my uncle was gracious enough to give me the job this winter when I packed up my life in Los Angeles and returned to Nebraska, defeated.

I’m still getting the hang of serving tables and single motherhood. I accidentally deliver curly fries to a table who ordered shoe-string fries and forget the special sauce for the sweet potato fries.

If it’s not obvious, O’Neely’s Fish Bowl specializes in all things potato, corn, and fried—not fish, as might be implied by the name, unless you count the Friday fish and chips special or the fish fingers on the kids’ menu.

My flubs are less because I’m an airhead—though I’ve been called that—and more because I’m tired. Bunny is a snuggler until about three a.m. when she decides she’s going to tap dance on my kidneys. It started in utero and because she still wakes up once a night to come into my bed, the choreography continues .

Aleeyah has an eight top, so I do my best to grab the smaller parties as they filter in. We have a seat-yourself policy, but not a bulldoze-the-dining room protocol as a woman pushing a double stroller plows forward, knocking tables and chairs askew before parking herself in the middle of the milieu.

I’m about to help Aleeyah bring out the large party’s plates, but the woman snaps her fingers to get my attention. Her husband hasn’t even sat down yet.

Above the din, she hollers, “We need two high chairs.”

“Hi! Welcome to O’Neely’s. We have a table over here that’s more suitable for families?—”

She interrupts, “Oh my goodness! Heidi? Heidi is that you? What are you doing here? What are the chances? I had no idea I’d find you here,” she repeats, which tells me that the rumors of my return finally reached Sophia Snodgrass’s ears.

I’m shocked she hadn’t tracked me down sooner. In fact, I expected her to barge in on my first day. As the weeks passed, I let down my guard, nearly forgetting about the imminent threat of my former best friend coming here to gloat about my life change.

She launches to her feet and gives me a stiff hug.

I’m keenly aware that I smell like fry oil and popcorn with a side of Uncle Stan’s special sauce—it’s a little heavy on the vinegar today. He claims it’s a family recipe, but it’s a condiment mixture of ketchup, mayonnaise, mustard, pickle relish, vinegar, and a splash of hot sauce. Plus, the “secret” ingredient, a dash of smoked paprika.

Leaning back, Sophia looks me up and down. “You look fantastic. Wow.” Her smile moves like an inchworm, as if she’s not sure whether to love or hate my physique.

I might hate me too, but I did “snap back” after pregnancy with no thanks to more stress than a woman should have to bear on her own .

On autopilot, I flash a We almost won the game cheerleader smile—in other words, it’s fake. “Thanks, you too.”

We both look roughly the same as we did in high school, only slightly older and tireder. Is that a word? The fact that I’m not sure tells you everything you need to know about my sleep status.

I’m exhausted—by the last two years of my life, by circumstances, by my stupid habit of scrolling social media way too late at night on my phone. Part of me isn’t willing to let go of my old life, even though watching it unfold online is a certain type of painful.

Leaning in now, Sophia asks, “What’s your secret?”

For a moment, I mistakenly think she’s referring to the special sauces before I realize she wants the inside “Skinny.” How to stay thin was a hot topic back in high school.

My cheerleader smile falters. “Oh, you know, health and fitness.”

I don’t advise the “Bounce Back Diet” of constant physical motion after giving birth—serving, skating, and momming.

If only my teeth had stayed the same after enduring regular braces in middle school. I’ll admit now that I never wore my retainer. Then, during freshman year, I convinced my parents that I NEEDED the expensive, plastic, invisible braces. My mother recently told me she and Dad finally sent the last check for the payment plan. That was almost ten years ago.

I had a perfect smile, but one “eye tooth” rebelled and moved back into its old spot. Funny how life can do that, too. Now, as a parent myself, I regret ever being a brat and have a running tally of what I owe them. They’d never accept cash, but as soon as I’m back on my feet, they’re going on that Caribbean cruise they’ve been talking about since my brother and I were eight and six, respectively. They had to refinance the house to pay for his hockey league fees and my figure skating lessons, and then there was the orthodontics, cars, cheerleading stuff, and college. They just give and give and give. I get it now.

Sophia turns to her husband, juggling the children. “I keep saying I have to get back to Pilates. Babe, I’m going to start that ten a.m. class next week.”

“What day? I have a work meeting on Monday,” Mr. Sophia says.

She says, “Uh. Fine. I’m sure there’s an evening class. Six to seven, I think.”

“During the witching hour?” Her husband looks dubious.

She rolls her eyes and turns back to me. “He doesn’t get it. Just give the kids their devices and they’ll be fine.”

Mr. Sophia bounces a little girl on his knee. She must be around the same age as Bunny. He also has an infant in his arms.

In a hush, Sophia says, “Irish twins. Psst. Don’t tell anyone, we’re not Irish.”

“Everyone is at O’Neely’s,” Aleeyah says, breezing by. She adds, “Heidi, can you bring table four more coffee?”

On my first day, when I had a rowdy table of Cascades fans—the Washington hockey team—she made up this code. If we ever spotted the other in a situation that looked uncomfortable or like we needed an assist, we’d use the coffee refill line. Given the fact that the coffee here tastes like dishwater mixed with dirt, no repeat customers order the coffee, ever. So the code can’t be confused with a table actually needing something.

“Be right there,” I say, winking discretely with gratitude.

It’s not that I can’t hold my own with Sophia, I just don’t want to dodge the slings and arrows she throws about how my life didn’t turn out as picture-perfect as hers—married with a couple of kids. I’d place money on her having a picket fence in front of her house .

“I’ll be right back. Can I get you anything to drink?” I ask Sophia and Mr. Sophia, shifting back into waitress mode.

“We’ll start with those high chairs,” she announces, sliding right back into demanding and obnoxious customer mode.

While I’m at it, I’ll bring out some kind of barrier to surround them with because they’re spreading out and I don’t want someone to spill beer or fries with hot cheese on the baby.

Sophia Snodgrass was the Queen Bee at Clarkson High School, home of the Red Hawks, and it seems she’s still trying to wield her power. That’s an observation and not necessarily a criticism because I was the Bratty Beauty as my brother recently informed me. It explains why he often had bruised knuckles, punching any of the upperclassmen who so much as looked my way. Then he graduated, and I had a revolving door of boyfriends.

Sophia Snodgrass—now Schuster—and I were besties growing up, but in the hormone heyday, we vied for cheer captain and the attention of all the boys, resulting in us becoming frenemies. In her estimation, being a single mom and working at my uncle’s restaurant means she won our unspoken battle.

She has me running for the next hour with requests for extra barbecue sauce, napkins, and to wash her daughters’ toys after they fall on the ground.

At last, I bring them the bill.

She says, “It was so good seeing you. Do you have the same number? We have to plan a playdate.”

Fun fact: I haven’t mentioned Bunny, yet she knows that I’m a mom too. Mrs. Gormely airs everyone’s laundry—dirty and clean—so it’s no surprise, but living in a small town, this town in particular, has major downsides.

I don’t want people discussing my public hookup, followed by the public breakup behind my back. Technically speaking, it was more than a hookup because marriage was involved. I’m still working on forgiving myself for the lapse of judgment.

It’s not lost on me that this is some kind of cosmic payback. Sophia and I were the original gossipy mean girls. We were responsible for the rumor that a rat lived in the last stall of the girls’ bathroom on the second floor at Clarkson because we didn’t want anyone else to use it, so it would remain uncontaminated for us. If you’ve been in a girls’ public bathroom, you understand.

We also “leaked” Jeff Whitiker and Suzie Vanguard being caught making out in the library, which caused his girlfriend to break up with him. This was orchestrated so Sophia could make a move on the football player. Jeff and Suzie never so much as spoke to each other. He ended up taking Sophia to homecoming. Evil mission accomplished.

Oh, and there was the one where we told everyone that Constance Meadows was sent to juvie and was going to tell all her prison friends about everyone who ever looked at her the wrong way. In reality, she’d only moved to the other side of Omaha. Last I heard, she became a documentary filmmaker.

But I’ll stop now.

The name brat was well-earned.

Sophia says, “You must be craving time with other moms. I want to hear your birth story, nap time strategies, and when you plan to take the lovies away.”

Mr. Sophia slouches. “Babe, I told you that the book I read about the gentle, child-led parenting approach said to let them decide when to give up the binkie.”

These people are doomed.

Her eyes slit at her husband. “And I told you not to call me babe anymore. I’m not a baby.”

That was her takeaway from his comment?

“But you called?— ”

I don’t hear the rest of what Mr. Sophia says because Aleeyah flurries past. Instead of using the coffee line, she says, “Do you mind grabbing table nine? I would, but the eight top just expanded to a twelve and I don’t think they plan on leaving anytime soon.”

I gather a few empty plates from the Schuster’s table and hurry away to grab table nine.

As if noticing her quarry escaping, Sophia calls, “I’ll text about that playdate so we can catch up. It’ll be like old times.”

I hope not. Anyway, after spending eight hours here, being with adults is overrated.

Just as I’m about to head over to table nine, a man with a beer belly intercepts me. “Hey, you’re one of the puck bunnies for the Los Angeles Lions.”

More like an ex-puck bunny. I could deny it, but he seems the type to want to pull out his phone and prove he recognizes me.

“You mean an Ice Kitty? I was. Now, I’m here.” My tone is easy breezy with an uncurrent of curt. Stupid me for working at a hockey pub, not that I had too many choices. But I’d prefer not to have reminders.

“That’s because the Knights are the superior team.” Beer Belly chortles and his stomach jiggles.

There is no denying that I’m an ex-puck bunny. Much like how football gets cheerleaders, I parlayed that level of enthusiasm and skill into the original LA Lions hype girl team. They dubbed our squad the Ice Kitties. We were a combination of cheerleaders, figure skaters, Rockettes, and yes, often part puck bunny—the term given to women who fangirl for a hockey team and often end up with players after a game. I wasn’t that kind of puck bunny.

Okay, maybe a little bit .

But being back in Hockey Town only reminds me of where I went wrong—namely marrying a hockey player.

Beer Belly starts to say something more, but I have work to do.

“Look! A hockey puck.” I point behind him and scurry away.

I tell myself to forget about Beer Belly’s reminder of my marriage mistake, playdates, and mom meetups. Being recognized and old associations, and interacting with adults. Some days it’s dreadful.

I shove all of it, including Sophia and her judgy face out of my mind.

It’s time to focus on today’s lunch specials, gratitude that I have a job, and the baby Bunny I’ll be returning home to later … and table nine.

The customer has thick brown hair and a dark Henley. He’s facing away from me and pushes up the sleeves, revealing toned forearms, so probably not Beer Belly’s brother. My only hope is that he doesn’t know that I was a puck bunny or Mrs. Dillard for a minute. Well, about twenty-thousand-one hundred and sixty minutes, which was far too long after what Trey did.

I also hope his order is simple and he doesn’t make menu modifications or ask me to wash things that fall onto the floor.

Stopping in front of the table, I say, “Hello, welcome to O’Neely’s Fish Bowl. If it’s your first time here, we specialize in all things corn and potatoes. We have corn on the cob served five different ways, corn fritters, and cornbread along with French fries, also served five different ways with our special sauce. And our fan favorite loaded potato skin pub pucks, yes, topped with corn and five other items.”

He glances up from the menu and I meet a pair of green eyes flecked with gold .

I inhale slowly, but it gets stuck somewhere between my head and my chest.

The guy at table nine is Grady Federer, my brother’s other best friend.

My insides turn to melted sugar that rapidly sets into caramel when it hits the hard crack stage. Mom tried making candies for Christmas and the stuff was as sharp as glass.

Only, instead of flashing with recognition, his eyes pinch with concern.

His gaze trails from my face down to my chest and then back up.

I grit my teeth, about to use another code Aleeyah and I have for creepy losers when I glance down at my shirt. The brittleness inside dissolves into panic.

The first time I had a wardrobe malfunction since juggling life with a newborn was at the bank. I was breastfeeding and the pads leaked. The second time was at a work meeting and the back of my skirt was stuck in my nylons.

Today I’m wearing black pants and my O’Neely’s Fish Bowl T-shirt.

I realize what Grady was looking at.

Real friends tell their gal pals when they have spinach in their teeth or that they shouldn’t elope with a hockey player after a whirlwind night. But Sophia proved she isn’t one because I have my shirt on inside out . . . and backward.

Waitstaff wear black or white T-shirts with O’Neely across the back like a hockey jersey. On the front is a cartoon guy in hockey gear inside a fish bowl—slang for a helmet. We also offer customers free fishbowls filled with popcorn—and after hours, filled with beer. I’m trying to convince Uncle Stan that a pitcher would be less messy.

How Aleeyah missed my clothing situation, I have no idea. She gets a pass though because had she noticed, she would’ve mentioned it. Case in point, last week, I had a peppercorn stuck between my second tooth and my wonky canine and she discretely pointed to her own mouth to indicate I needed a mirror and a floss pick.

I’m certain Sophia noticed because, after our awkward hug, she looked me up and down.

So does Grady.

“I’ve definitely been here,” he says.

I expect him to follow up with something like, And I definitely know you .

Instead, he says, “I’ll just get a soda. I’m waiting for someone.”

If it’s Trey, I’m shutting this place down because Grady Federer is one of the usual suspects: six and a half feet tall, built like a Spartan, aka a professional hockey player . . . and my brother’s other best friend.

In a flat tone, I list the types of soda because he can’t be bothered to be more specific about what kind he’d like. Typical cocky, self-absorbed NHL pro.

He shrugs and says, “Surprise me.”

By dumping it over your head? But of course, sir.

He passes me the menu without a second glance.

I frown. Maybe he doesn’t recognize me.

I can’t decide whether I’m disappointed or relieved. However, the butterflies in my stomach, drying their wings after the deluge of melted sugar, have their own ideas.