Page 80 of Justice for Puck Bunnies

Why hasn’t Trick knocked on my door since that night?

I know why he knocked. He was being kind; that’s all.

We all recognize that I’m not staying and couldn’t even if I wanted to. Trick’s insisted on paying me weekly. That immensely awkward conversation conveyed the premise that, “we don’t know how much longer I’ll be here, so it’s best this way.”

Vin is in full blown sullen boy. He pouts around the house with his shoulders hunched and his head down.

Mason’s sleeping in my room most nights. In the irony of all ironies, we cuddle and occasionally kiss but it never goes beyond that.

I kicked him out the first time, then ended up in his room instead and we admitted defeat.

The single, shining upshot is that it’s affecting Brad every bit as much. He’s missed shots and failed to adequately argue calls in both of the first two games of the season.

He surreptitiously texts me from the bench to ask if I’m watching and tells me not to bother when I lie and say I’m not.

It all defeats part of the purpose of the pact, but it also serves part of it, and my head is too conflicted to reason out a new course of action.

All attempts at “practice” with the guys have ceased. The fundraiser is later today, and we are woefully unprepared.

All of this is why I’m standing here, in front of the door to the home gym I’ve only ever been in to clean.

Their trainer, I think his name is Estie or Eddie, already left five minutes ago. That means that Trick and Mason are done with their morning session. They normally come up right after.

The bottles in my hand are cold but it’s not as chilly as the reception I’m expecting.

Blowing out a breath, I fiddle with the knob and shove my way into the room.

Mirrors lining the far wall confront me with the abrupt realization I’ve invaded their sacred space. The guys are both circling on a mat on the other side of the room. Trick’s got hit pads on his hands while Mason takes swings.

“More,” Trick demands, and it has that alpha intonation that sends a frisson of energy up my spine.

“Don’t look at her,” he snaps. “Focus, Mason.”

I’m a little peeved at that, but it’s fair enough. I’m the intruder.

“What do you need, Izzy?” Trick asks.

“You can talk to her but I can’t even look at her?”

“Yes.”

Mason mutters to himself but continues the pattern.

One, two, dip, dip.

“I brought you water,” I say feebly.

“Leave it on the floor outside the circle,” Trick responds.

My toes dig into the mat like they’ll actually dig into the floor and keep me grounded.

I watch them circle each other for several minutes. Condensation on the outside of the bottles drips across my hand.

Trick has to give Mason several more corrections to remain focused.

“If you’re going to stand there, then you get to help,” Trick informs me. “Come stand behind me, outside the circle.”

“Erm, sure,” I squeak out and quickly do as I’m told. His eyes skim over me as I pass by.

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