Page 36 of Justice for Puck Bunnies

“Izzy?” Vin calls out from the laundry room. “Do you know where the extra sports bottles are? The ones with the team logo on them.”

“In here,” I reply and slide open a drawer in the dead space of the kitchen. The little items get lost so easy. I filled the cabinet with their spare bottles, mouthguards, and tape. So. Much. Tape.

“Hey, that’s smart,” Vin says as he comes in the room. He snatches up the bottle and points it at me. “You’re pretty good at all this organization stuff. You could sell it as a service to the single guys on the team. It’d enrage el capitan.”

Could I go to other players’ houses? Other single players? The idea raises my hackles.

Vin’s smile spreads on his face. He probably thinks I’m going to take him up on the offer, but I have zero interest.

“Thanks. Big families mean space is precious,” I reply. “You three are spoiled for storage here. I’ll have to think about the rest.”

Vin’s grin remains despite the gentle rebuff, but Trick comes in before he can respond further.

“Let’s go,” he barks out.

Vin mouths at me to think about it before he disappears through the garage door with the two alphas.

It’s a nice idea, but bringing even more attention to a beta shacked up with three pro hockey guys might not be the best.

No one’s taking my place with the guys seriously... yet. The ruse can’t jeopardize my privacy, at least not until it’s run its course.

With the badge in hand, I head up to my room to pack something more appealing for the game.

Vin is absolutely right. It’s time to remind Brad what he’s missing.

Chapter Seven

The practice is already well underway by the time I make it to the arena. A lot of players invite friends to watch from the stands and cheer them on.

The scrimmage is as close to a real game as it can be, and there’s something special about watching a game just for you and the players. The team plays each other for practice, so it’s good-hearted and meant to test each other’s weaknesses. I’ve been to my fair share as Brad’s favorite.

There’s typically a dozen or so bunnies and girlfriends watching in a gaggle. The girls group up in the seats at ice level. They always sit in the same space near the player’s box to natter and chirp at the guys, who pound the boards when they skate by. It’s fun to be a part of the game in a more private setting, like we’re participating in it.

The downside, of course, of sitting by the box is there isn’t an easy way to get there. I have to come in the main doors directly behind the goalie and net, tromp all the way down the stairs, and then circle around the boards.

The women whisper hurriedly when I come through the door. They see me notice them gossiping and freeze, but Livvy catches my eye and grins.

Greeeeaaatttt. What’s she done now?

Another massive benefit of the wife card—sitting up in the box or in the lower club seats without having to worry about girl-on-girl crime. Some of the wives still sit by the glass for the kids to cheer on their dads, but mostly not.

As I head toward the women I’ve known for more than a year, their eyes rake over my exposed legs in the black cut-offs barely visible under a jersey with Mason’s new number on it. He left it in my room my second night at the house, and both he and Brad are going to flip their shit when they see me walking around like all I’ve got on is Mason’s navy-and-white jersey and my favorite flame-red heels.

Is it a little trashy? Maybe. But I’m fucking hot and that’s what matters most.

Under the girls’ intense scrutiny, I straighten my spine and add a hitch to my hips. Each step girds my responses and builds up my defenses. They can fire their heaviest artillery because I’m winning this war in my polyester armor.

When I make it to the glass circling the rink, whistles from the guys ring out to Coach Adelard’s harsh reprimands to simmer down.

The glass is cold under my fingers as I skim them along the surface and seek out my guys.

Vin’s at the net closest to me and stops and turns around entirely to take me in. He pretends to drink from his water bottle while he grins at me through the mouthguard.

I flip my hair so he can see where I’ve written “W V L” on my neck in navy blue permanent marker. He shakes his head but smiles and then pivots back to take his position.

Ice flies as Mason comes to a sharp stop in front of me on the other side of the barrier. He’s already laughing when I draw the collar aside to emphasize the callback to our first kiss.

Mason thumps his glove on the glass. With a tenuous glance at the player’s box, then over the guys skating circles around on the ice, and he leans against the glass to awkwardly press his cheek to the surface. I roll my lips together to refresh the lipstick and plant a kiss on the pane where his face is.

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