Page 82 of Justice for Puck Bunnies

Still nothing.

Fucking fine.

Sighing, I toy with my hem and then pluck my tank top overhead. I’ve got a sports bra on; I planned to come in here and reasoned that I could pretend I wanted to work out if things went south, but it means that I’m fully covered even shirtless.

Mason willfully refuses to look my way, even when I lower the center zipper between my breasts by two inches.

I’ll come back to you.

When I make it behind Mason, Trick’s eyes constantly track me.

Mason sneaks in a pot shot to his stomach, and Trick finally relents. He steps back with a placating arm out.

“Alright, alright. Point taken,” he says with a grunt.

“See, bunny? No one is immune to you—not even the almighty Patrick Wyatt.”

For some reason, that irks me. Trick’s been the perfect gentleman.

Well, except for fucking me into oblivion when I needed it, and then again in the living room.

But, those two exceptions aside, Trick’s kept things friendly but not heated.

A painful chink in my armor cracks at the realization that I’m simply his convenience.

I’m the omega who needs to be satisfied.

I’m the woman messing around with his beta on their couch.

He’s never come to me for me. It’s fair. I know it is. I’m not here to actually be his girlfriend or omega. There is no reason to expect him to want me.

But I want him to.

That gritty impulsivity that’s been gnawing at my bones the last few weeks takes a vicious bite.

I straddle a weight bench and lean back with both arms on the bar still sitting in its racks.

The players take the ice.

“I don’t know about that, Mase. He seems perfectly comfortable ignoring me and letting you captivate my time at night.”

The puck is dropped.

Mason opens his mouth to respond, but I cut him off before he can speak.

“Not a complaint, only an observation. I don’t want anyone in my bed who isn’t one hundred percent dedicated to it.”

Success in the face-off.

“I’ve rocked your world twice,” Trick replies.

An attempt to steal by the opposing team.

“The first time I was in a bad way because of this one”—I shake my thumb at Mason—“and Vin had a solid hour of playtime before you even arrived. I’m not an obligation to meet, even if we’re pretending or playing around.”

I fly across the ice toward the attacking zone with the puck.

Trick’s jaw flexes, and he stands to his full imposing height. In two long strides, he’s looming over me with both hands on the barbell behind me.

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