Page 121 of Justice for Puck Bunnies

The feed flies under my thumb as I approach Jolie’s car—the gossip mongers have pictures of my actual car and license plate, albeit covered in slut shaming courtesy of Livvy and her big, conniving mouth.

Livvy tried to press charges against Jolie at first, but she also continued the fight by yanking on Jolie’s hair so the complaint died a quick death.

A picture of men I recognize catches my attention. I drop into the driver’s seat and pause so I can really examine it.

Mason and Trick are boxing in the gym. They’re shirtless, and this is Mason’s first post in three weeks, so it has tons of engagement.

Some things are worth fighting for.

The caption is cryptic and not good for my mental health.

He means his position on the Cannons. The boards say the guys were scratched for three games—an egregious amount of missed time on the ice.

Even in my absence, I can still fuck up their lives.

The benching means lots of time keeping in peak physical shape. Mase and Trick especially have to be able to take and deliver hits. It’s a grueling sport.

The urge to check on them again is irresistible.

Trick’s tagged in Mason’s post, so I flip over to his account.

Still no updates.

My heart sinks. He paid me for my last week at the house, which ended the Friday of the game. I missed posting half the week because of my heat, but he still transferred me the full amount.

His social media accounts have been silent since.

Vin, though, that man has taken my ideas and really run with them. He’s continued posting pictures of the banal parts of the life of a pro hockey player.

Today’s post is a candid selfie of the three of them. It’s neither a hockey pic nor an athlete’s photo. Instead, they’re crashed on the couch, watching something on the big screen. My guess is a game, based on how focused they are.

The caption simply says, The Wyatt Pack.

Does that mean Mason’s full-in now? It makes sense. They fit together so well. I know firsthand how good it is.

Mason lounges in the middle and lifts a handful of popcorn to his mouth.

Trick’s sitting at his favorite place at the short side of the L with his arms crossed.

Vin’s smirking sideways at the camera. He’s got our sex blanket over him, and it stings a little that he clearly doesn’t remember. I suppose it was only another night to them. A bit of fun.

Trick’s got bags under his eyes, but of course the idiot is an anxious mess right now.

I wish I were there to remind him to relax.

With that intrusive thought, I shut the phone off immediately and throw it into the passenger seat.

When I get home, I go right to my nest and swim my way in between the cotton.

Their scents seem so much stronger now. The shirts were fading until this emotionally charged moment. My body is a masochist. It’s this invasive reminder of everything I had.

Of course, I never actually had them.

It was all pretend.

To them.

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