Page 14 of Justice for Puck Bunnies

Clearing my throat, I ask, “Have you been over before?”

She tilts her head at me, her eyes narrowing.

“I’ve never slept with Wyatt, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Then what did you mean?” Her tone is crisp, and I immediately know I’ve stepped in it. I thought she needed somewhere to escape to, someone to talk to, but maybe I miscalculated.

“I just . . I was only making conversation.”

Her chin juts out, but it’s not really a nod.

It occurs to me then that she’s as thrown off by being here as I am.

“I thought you might want to go somewhere that wasn’t so public,” I offer.

“I’m not with Brad anymore but I’m not not with Brad, if that makes sense.”

“No, it doesn’t.”

“You’re a good-looking guy, but sex is not on the table.”

Time stops while the thought of Izzy here for sex spirals in my mind. A fantasy materializes of her blowing me on this couch while we watch a game. My fingers massage her scalp while I cum down her throat.

The image is an aggressive beast stalking around in my thoughts, but I trap it as fast as I can. She already has the wrong impression, and I don’t want to make it worse.

She said it so casually, and I finally grasp what she thinks she’s here for.

“Oh, no! No. I didn’t bring you back for that. Not that I wouldn’t... I mean, you are...” I pinch the bridge of my nose and comb my hair back out of my eyes.

This is going downhill so fast.

“I thought you might want someone to talk to,” I finally get out.

This woman, this force of energy, caves in on herself. She sinks deeper into the couch, draws socked feet up, and hugs her knees so she’s a little ball of stress.

Ah, fuck it.

Settling into the space beside her, I do the only thing I can think of—I turn on the TV and find a recorded game playing on one of the hockey channels.

We’re silent for several long minutes. We silently watch a replay of an Airmen’s game from last season.

“This is the one where they pull the goalie,” she says, and I cover my surprise. It was probably wrong of me to assume she wasn’t as much a fan of the game as the players.

“Yup,” I reply. “Stupid move here. Their line isn’t good enough to sustain that, even in the last 40 seconds.”

“It’s a Hail Mary. You just don’t like the goaltender not being on the ice.”

“I am biased. The goalie’s the most important position.”

“Uh-huh.” She elbows me, and we go back to watching in silence.

A commercial break interrupts the game play, but neither of us move. We continue facing the screen like we’re afraid to look at each other.

She’s so close, and that spicy-sweet taste from the kiss lingers in my memory.

“Why were you really upset?” I murmur.

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