Page 70 of Justice for Puck Bunnies

“Fair enough. I’ll just say that we’ve meshed really well in the preseason. No one’s pulling punches.”

Vin smirks at that but doesn’t interject. He takes a discreet sip of water from a bottle on the floor beside him.

“Does the Cannon’s star goalie have something to add?” the reporter shouts. “We heard you let a fly puck hit a panel.”

Under the table, my hands ball into fists. It’s good for Vin to be in front of the cameras. He’s the best goalie in the league. When the team gives him press attention, it shows they treat him as a full member regardless of his beta status.

But that had to have been a tip Brad planted. The entire arena knows who shot that puck and why.

Vin keeps his cool, though.

“How many players do you know that can shatter the glass? There’s maybe ten, fifteen in the whole league with the power. The Oak Leafs can catch that. I like my hands.”

The crowd laughs but the questioner persists.

“So no credence to the rumors of a rivalry in the ranks?”

“Absolutely none,” Adelard says and claps a hand on Vin’s shoulder. It raises my hackles more, but then Brad lifts the bottle to his lips again.

As the bottle passes horizontal, the unscrewed cap falls free and drenches him in icy water.

Brad sucks in a shocked breath and coughs, the strangled inhale garbled as water sticks in his throat. He rocks backward in the chair to escape and nearly topples over.

Lights pop and people hoot and holler at the hilarious expression on Brad’s face. He pitches the bottle to the side.

Fuck, Vin. At a presser?

I throw my arm around Brad and shake some sense into him with a lighthearted smile plastered on my face.

“Smile,” I say through gritted teeth in his ear.

To his credit, Brad recovers quickly. He shakes his head and the charming visage returns.

“Your beta’s dead,” he says through too-bright teeth.

“Got ya, cap!” I exclaim loudly.

“You son of a bitch!” he announces with a chuckle.

“Not the preseason without a few practical jokes,” Adelard quickly adds.

But Vin’s sitting there with a smug-as-fuck look on his face. He absolutely planned this shit. This better not become a problem.

“That should answer your question about the kind of rivalry happening on the Cannons,” Vin says. “We’re family here, and we don’t let anyone threaten that. The Oak Leafs don’t stand a chance.”

* * *

Izzy

The video of Brad splashed with ice water plays for the umpteenth time on my phone. The heels pinch my feet as I pace around the fourteenth-floor entrance to Superstition, one of Addevale’s hottest new restaurants, but the thrill of Brad the Cad’s fall from grace injects too much energy into my veins.

Humbling Brad has become my favorite pastime.

Subdued lighting and artsy, creative wall treatments create intriguing, if a little ominous, ambiance. It’s actually the unnamed thirteenth floor, and the theme leans into the mystique.

I chuckle at the screen in my hand, but I am absolutely certain the guys got shit for this.

Proud of you, Vin.

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