Page 49 of Justice for Puck Bunnies

“That true, Vinson?” Coach asks me. “You think you can keep your alphas in check, beta?”

“Don’t fuckin call him that,” Trick growls out. “He’s not a beta in this building.”

Brad chuckles on my right, but Adelard drops into his seat and pounds a fist on the desk.

“You’re right. No offense meant, Vin. I just need everyone to stop posturing. Get your shit together or I can’t let you onto my ice. Got it?”

“Yes, Coach,” we all reply in unison.

“Brad, building management will be emailing you about the glass panel. We’re docking the cost from your next check.”

“Whatever.”

“And Mason? You’re lucky the CCTV is hardwire only. We were able to keep the tape from getting out, but I won’t have you acting a fool again. I brought you up because I thought you’d matured past slugging those you disagree with. If you haven’t, tell me now and save us all the headache.”

Mason looks to me and Trick, his eyes searching us for direction before resting on Trick. There’s a minute headshake in my peripheral vision before Mason responds.

“No problems here, Coach.”

“Good. If you won’t do it for yourself, then do it because Wyatt’ll catch whatever hell you do. That’s it. Get out of my office.”

“Wait, that’s it?” Brad scoffs. “He struck me twice!”

If you don’t shut the fuck up, I’ll be adding a throat punch.

Coach examines him, his jaw set and the annoyance tightening his eyes so hard his crow’s feet have multiplied.

“Cameron, everyone in this room knows you provoked him. I’m not letting my captain play the victim. You’re pro players, son. If you can’t take a hit at this level, then you should hang up your skates.”

* * *

Trick walks Mason down the hall to the ortho room. It’s normally off limits to players when a doc isn’t in, but Trick has a key as an AC.

Mason plops into a chair while I gather a small tray of clean water, soap, bandages, ice, and cream for his knuckles. He took a few body shots from Brad; dished them out too. I can’t do much about those. He’ll heal fast, but infections still happen, and he doesn’t want fucked-up knuckles for the rest of his life.

You’d never know it from his attitude. He’s reclined in the chair. His dominant arm rests on an examination table while I inspect the injury. The skin’s broken in two places and his fingers are puffy as hell.

Mason hisses when I gently rub the inflamed skin with mild soap and wipe them clean. He splays his hands out on the cushioned surface while I crack and twist the ice pack. I set it over his banged-up hand and wrap them in bandages to keep it in place.

Trick leans against the wall on the other side of the room with his hands in his pockets.

“Now that Coach isn’t here,” he says, “is this gonna be an issue? Your anger management?”

“I don’t have anger management issues.”

“No? We know your history. Hell, the whole league knows your history. You were viral for a little while there. Hitting someone at a press conference is bad enough, but the owner’s son?”

“Little prick deserved it.”

“And your reward for serving it to him? Was that worth it?”

Mason sulks instead of answering.

“If you’re going to stay with us, I need to know you can keep it in check. I’m not letting you be a danger to Izzy or Vin.”

My eyes shift to my alpha while I wrap Mason’s other hand in the bandages.

That had to have been intentional. If he’s including Izzy, then he meant it when he agreed she’s staying.

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