Page 11 of Justice for Puck Bunnies

Who am I kidding? I full-on made out with this man a few days ago and he’s acting like I don’t exist.

“Thanks for the fresh one, Dane,” he says.

“Thanks for humoring ‘em. You know we’ll treat you and the rest of the team special. We’re Cannons through and through, and you’re good for business.”

Vinson chuckles. “I guess we are. The one time fame comes in handy.”

I realize I’m staring and pivot back to my free-burger, but it’s hard not to watch him from the corner of my eye.

Every now and then, he glances over and then pretends he hasn’t. He does it a handful of obvious times while I pick at my food. I don’t finish off the burger but I make a good dent.

The cheesecake is sharp and sweet on my tongue. I savor every bite and lick the fork clean for Vinson’s enjoyment.

He shakes his head but doesn’t comment.

I smile, stretch, and enjoy his image in the mirror behind the bar while he watches me do it.

See, I’m fucking hot and I know it. None of this mopey shit anymore. Jolie is moving on and I should too.

If only I could figure out a way to make the next stop be Brad.

Unless . . .

Abandoning my half-eaten dinner, I gracefully shift off the bar stool and strut the five or so feet to where the Cannons’ star goalie is watching me like he’s both excited and terrified I’m coming over.

My favorite red heels clack on the wooden floorboards, the cadence building my confidence with each step.

I am fire.

I am a goddess.

I am not sleeping with this man, no matter how tempting.

My shoulders are back and my head is held high because if there’s one thing I’m good at, its playing fake it ‘til I make it.

Maybe I can convince him to flirt. Buy me a drink. Do something that will lift my spirits.

That is, if I can get past the specter of Brad. I don’t know where Vin stands on my former fling-cum-boyfriend.

I hook a heel on a stool’s metal rung and then lounge backward on the seat. It means I can lean my elbows behind me on the bar, flip my hair, and emphasize my boobs.

“Surprised to see you here without the team,” I say.

“I could say the same.”

His voice has this deep, raspy richness to it, like each word costs him. A pact for his soul in exchange for sounding like an eloquent Vin Diesel. When he first joined the team, I’d watched his interviews on repeat.

Getting to kiss him was certainly on my bingo card. Once Brad showed an interest, I’d assumed it was off the table.

And there are no regrets about that kiss.

Once he got past the shock of it, there was something so vulnerable about it. He didn’t attack like LaMille or surround me like Wyatt. Not that there’s anything wrong with either. They were both amazing in their own ways.

But the way Bobby Vinson kissed me... I’d almost think he’d been waiting to. He had no expectations. He didn’t push or pull. He met me in the middle, and it led to this strange sensation of helplessness that I hadn’t fully digested until right now, in the worst possible moment.

Collect yourself, Iz. You get to flirt with Bobby Vinson!

“No?” he asks.

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