Page 47 of Justice for Puck Bunnies

But Vin doesn’t seem angry about that. The corner of his mouth quirks up in this microexpression of mischief.

And I realize then.

He thinks she’s their omega.

Our omega?

The idea of any omega never even occurred to me. Hell, I’m still coming around to the idea of a pack.

Pack means I can’t pick up and leave for a team trade. If this is my only season on the Cannons, then it’s back to the minors for the rest of my life.

Thoughts swirl and a conflicting blend of disquieted discomfort muddles rationality.

“I think I need some sleep,” I mutter, but I don’t wait for an answer. I leave them in the dining room to the awkward post-scrimmage meal that none of us have eaten.

There’s too much to contemplate.

But, as I’m heading for my room, I bypass it and head to the one at the end of the hall.

I don’t know what I want right now.

Actually, I’m certain that I don’t want to talk anymore. I’ve got too much on my mind to be good company. I’m not even horny for fuck’s sake. Izzy as an omega should have me clawing the walls.

There may have been a time or fifty where I fantasized about this very circumstance. Being faced with the reality of it, though, is a whole different game.

I knock on her door gently. When she doesn’t answer, I crack it to make sure she’s okay.

Steam wafts out of the ajar bathroom door. The sound of running water competes with the roar of the vent fan.

Waiting around for her to finish feels pathetic, but also I can’t seem to leave. The comfortable mattress sinks under my weight, and the sheets are so fucking soft they may be silk.

When Izzy finally emerges, she stops short. Her hands are overhead plaiting her hair into a tight braid. There’s not a speck of makeup and her skin is an enticing shade of pink, and my first thought is that this is my favorite version of her.

There’s the Izzy all dolled up. The picture-perfect beauty. The twelve out of ten on a bad day.

And then there’s the one she doesn’t let anyone else see. They’re all amazing, but I like that this Izzy is only for me—even if I snuck in here and stole it.

We don’t speak. Not even a gesture.

The tight, little boy shorts stretch across those delicious curves and her tank top is so threadbare it may as well not exist, but my libido is totally shut down. My body reacts without remorse, but my brain can’t stop batting around the afternoon’s conflict.

I’m expecting her to make it sexual. We could both use the distraction. Melting into her perfect body means forgetting the day and enjoying the night.

She’s fucking fire any time, but right now it’s like some deity has decided to smile on me because damn.

My instincts encourage impulsivity.

Salvage the night.

Salvage her.

Make her forget while I do too.

That doesn’t happen though.

She circles the bed and draws back the sheets on the other side, then climbs in.

There’s still a lot I should do. The sun hasn’t even set yet. I washed the glass off, but fine cuts blanket the back of my neck and my knuckles are swollen as hell. I haven’t gone over the post-plays like I told Trick I would at the end of practice.

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