Page 48 of Justice for Puck Bunnies

Toeing off my shoes, I jettison my socks and shirt as well then shuffle under with her.

Those are all later problems. Right now, I just want to hold Izzy close and avoid dealing with the rest.

She scoots her way toward me.

“You can’t tell anyone,” she says, her words a staccato of agitation. I let the purr rumble in full force and hold her tight against me so the skin contact and scent will help her calm.

“Your secret is safe with me. I won’t let them tell anyone either.”

She cuddles herself under my arm, but her pulse still taps a frantic beat against my shoulder.

“Tomorrow is tomorrow,” I murmur to her.

I’m sure there will be hell to pay. I’m sure Brad thinks he blew us up. I’m sure there will be fallout from the glass and the car and from the solid punch he couldn’t dodge a second time.

She’s as shaky as I am right now.

But that’s a tomorrow problem.

Tonight . . .

Tonight, I curl her under my arm, purr until her breathing evens out, and submit to a buried desire and pretend this is real.

* * *

Vin

Coach Adelard screams spittle onto the desk while he berates the four of us in his office.

It’s rare to be called in for a Saturday morning meeting. Even rarer for it to happen in the preseason.

I suppose being caught on CCTV pummeling each other will do that.

Video-only CCTV, thankfully.

My captain, the idiot sitting on my right with a beauty of a shiner courtesy of LaMille, doesn’t seem to care at all about what will happen to Izzy if the Administration finds her.

He showed no remorse while we were waiting for this reaming either.

The three of us glared at him. He glared at us. No one hit anyone else at least.

“Here’s what’s going to happen,” Coach announces. “You four are going to learn to get along or I’ll scratch all of you.”

“Coach, you can’t—” Brad gets out, but he’s cut off with a slice of Adelard’s hand.

“I’ll do it if I have to. Brawling in the parking lot! What were you thinking?”

This is the first time Coach’s paused to breathe, and Brad wastes no time jumping in.

“I didn’t do anything wrong! Mason hit me first. Both fights were entirely unprovoked.”

“You shot a full speed puck at us!” Mason replies.

Brad scoffs. “An hour before. You didn’t hit me then. If you can’t handle me talking to Izzy, then you can’t handle Izzy period.”

Mason’s swollen fingers flare brighter red as he grips the end of the armrests. He needs to take care of that or he’ll end up with busted knuckles for the rest of his life. It might look tough, but it can mean early onset arthritis and limited mobility.

“It’s best we all calm down,” I say. “Blaming each other isn’t going to resolve the issue.”

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