Page 149 of Justice for Puck Bunnies

“Yeah, security? Please escort Brad Cameron off the property. I’d also like his pass voided. If he comes anywhere near my stadium, you inform me and then you call the police for trespassing.”

The moment the phone lands in its cradle, the room erupts. Another round of cheers echo against the tile in the neighboring room.

“Enough!” Adelard roars, but the team ignores him. Every player gets up to shake his hand.

“You’re all a bunch of idiots,” he gripes. “Get ready for practice. We have work to do.”

The crowd settles, but he points at me.

“You—in my office. I’m not sending you out there until he’s gone. And I had better not see you in my locker room ever again.”

“Yes, Coach,” I reply.

When we’re in his office, he leaves the door open and I make myself unobtrusive in a chair in the corner.

Coach returns to his computer and paperwork and slides his glasses onto his face.

When he speaks, he’s still looking at the screen and I’m not entirely sure he’s talking to me.

“I should probably thank you. That guy’s such an asshole. He deserves what’s coming to him.”

I remain quiet but let a smile slip out.

He looks at me over his glasses.

“You treat my boys right, yeah? I’ve seen the difference in them. You make ‘em happy. They play better that way. We’ve got a cup to win and we’re down a starting player.”

“Yes, sir. I promise.”

It’s a promise I am absolutely certain I will have no trouble keeping.

Epilogue

Izzy

Yes, I am a stereotype.

This barefoot and pregnant omega is waltzing around a kitchen to make a decadent meal for her pack.

I’m in the one place I said I’d never be, and for some twisted reason I’m ecstatic about it.

Granted, this kitchen is in a rented high-rise condo in Las Vegas while the guys are in the playoffs.

It’s been three and a half years since I sucker-kissed my way into their lives. They won that championship despite missing their “captain,” then again the next year with Trick at the helm, and then they lost.

We’re hoping to rectify that over the weekend.

I snap a picture of the table all decked out and share it to our Wyatt Pack accounts.

Managing their social media presence is a full-time job all on its own. Sponsorship and endorsement requests flow in daily. Everyone’s enamored with our origin story. Between a secret omega, a jealous ex, fistfights on the concourse, and a criminal conviction, who can blame them?

I’ve thoroughly embraced my status. I’m still me, and it doesn’t feel so suffocating when I’m taking care of them.

Patrick Wyatt, Mason LaMille, and Bobby Vinson are everything I could ask for and more.

The message from Vin chimes through. I rush around the kitchen and put the finishing touches on the dinner spread.

Vin knows they knocked me up—he figured it out almost immediately—but Mase and Trick are clueless. I could’ve sworn Trick caught on once, but he hasn’t said anything and isn’t acting any different.

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