Page 3 of Justice for Puck Bunnies

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Trick

“Fuck that guy,” Vin proclaims.

Bobby Vinson, Vin, nurses his beer and leans against the brick wall beside the take-out window. We wouldn’t normally eat fried food in the immediate preseason, but we’re all sulking and I want comfort food. Burgers and onion rings sound perfect. There are few substitutes for pub food.

Vin’s almost a dozen years my junior, but we’ve been as close as it gets since the moment he stepped onto the ice in his Cannons sweater. The guy’s a gifted goalie despite the size difference of being a beta.

He flicks his head to get the shaggy, dark hair out of his face. I keep telling him to cut it down and comb it over like mine, but he insists on pinning it up under his goalie mask.

And I know mine when I see him. Smart and stubborn. He’s perfect for the Wyatt Pack and practically jumped for joy when I suggested it. Maybe one more alpha and we can apply to the selection.

“Yeah, fuck that guy,” Mason adds. The tall alpha sucks on his teeth like he wants to spit.

“You don’t even know him,” I reply.

“I don’t need to. Coach pushed me onto you for a reason. They ain’t doing that with some shit-for-brains with a cheesy smile. It shoulda’ been you, Trick.”

Compared to my decade, Mason LaMille is all of five seconds old on the Cannons. Mike got benched for an injury, which meant an opportunity opened up for a new winger.

LaMille was in the running for Rookie of the Year until he punched the team owner’s son at a press event. After three trades and five years in hockey Siberia, another player’s summer injury meant the Cannons needed a last-minute replacement. Mason was the best fit.

Coach pushed him off onto me to keep him on the straight and narrow. Mason even moved in with me and Vin for the season.

Right now, though, his ice-blue eyes skim over the skin on display in Fluke’s. The bunnies miraculously showed up the same time we did. Any minute now, someone is gonna drape themselves all over Mason. They love fresh meat, and he’s admittedly a good-looking guy.

We’ve only done a handful of events, and every time a woman seems to find him. He even went home with the photographer’s assistant at his photo shoot.

He’ll get over that soon enough. I sowed my wild oats years ago. Now I just want to watch a game with a pizza that I don’t throw up after a practice.

I knock my fist on the wooden pass-through window used to expedite food. I placed a huge order for the entire team to prevent a mad rush. It’s taking the kitchen forever, though.

“You’re Patrick Wyatt!” the guy in the kitchen says in shock.

“Most days. How long for the team’s order?”

He snatches a few slips off the ticket holder, removes a permanent marker from a little pocket on his sleeve, and makes a few marks.

“Hey,” he calls to the guys cooking like the fire of hell fuels them. “Where’s 48?”

“Huh?”

“48!”

The guys ignore him and continue madly flipping food on the flat top and plunging stuff into friers.

The guy at the window mutters something I can’t hear over the din of the bar. He tosses his marker into a lowball glass full of marked tickets on the sill and marches to the back.

“We’re never gonna get—” is all I manage before a very feminine body falls against me, grabs me by the nape of the neck, and yanks me into a salacious kiss.

The supple body molds against mine, her breasts pressing against my chest and her lips parting to spear her tongue into my mouth.

The moment of surprise melts into a delicious warmth because this kiss is like a dream.

Whoever the woman is, she’s just tall enough that I can lean down without breaking my neck and would fill my arms perfectly.

The taste of spicy honey overrides my brain.

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