Page 116 of Justice for Puck Bunnies

Nearly two weeks without Izzy. Without even knowing if she’s okay.

The thought roils in my brain and stirs the acid in my gut.

As I sit here on the locker room bench, with half my pads still on, I flap my shirt to cool my chest.

She’s shut off her number. That was a smart move, all things considered. We’re being bombarded with press inquiries. I’m sure she’s getting it worse.

The videos didn’t just go viral. They’ve gone superviral. Last time I’d checked, the second video had 95 million views.

Pro hockey players slugging it out over a secret omega? That’s a story to create urban legends.

Regular people have less protection from the paparazzi, the fans, and overzealous reporters. They lack the resources to buy security, and they’ve never had to guard their information from prying eyes.

But it also means we can’t get ahold of our girl.

The strap of the leg pad rips off as I tear the thing from my body and throw it at my locker. I lean forward, staring at the floor, and sink my hands into my hair to support my head.

I’m going to throw up.

I haven’t lost my stomach since my freshman year.

Right now, the anxiety is so much worse than my first pro game.

Where are you, Iz?

Pretty sure she’s ditched her phone entirely. She privated her accounts at first, but I was already following her. She hasn’t posted since the day of the last game.

At least she hasn’t blocked me yet.

I’ve written and deleted so many DMs I’ve lost count.

Her parents won’t tell us where she is, only that she’s taken care of.

All week, I’ve been this close to driving out to their house to see if she’s there. Bennett slipped me his card and their info when they came to visit.

The thing is, though, I don’t think she’s there.

She’s with Jolie. She has to be. If it’d been one of my sisters, they’d have immediately gone into hiding with their best friends.

In my mind, she’s sipping a fruity drink at a beach resort out of the country and that’s why she’s indisposed.

Jolie’s got to be involved in whatever Izzy is doing because three days after Bradageddon, all of Izzy’s belongings disappeared from our house.

We came home from practice to an empty omega room and all the baggage that left behind.

A hand waves in front of my face and Mason whistles at me.

“Yo,” he says. “You good?”

“What do you think?”

Mason drops onto the bench beside me and throws his helmet against my pads.

“This fucking sucks,” he says.

“Understatement.”

“I need to hit someone.”

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