Page 71 of Justice for Puck Bunnies

The fan site message boards have been on fire all evening.

Wet T-shirt contests at all press conferences!

I’d pay good money to see Brad Cameron take off his shirt.

Bobby Vinson can put whatever he wants in my mouth.

It’s unprofessional to prank each other on national television.

Betas don’t belong in pro sports. Can’t the alphas keep that guy in check?

The last one is the only thread that really bothers me. I don’t mind the online ogling and the lusting. Hell, I’ve been the online ogling and lusting.

But Bobby Vinson has the lightning strike of being a truly good player and person at once. He isn’t weak or simpering.

My jaw clenches so hard it aches, but I keep scrolling anyway. I need to know what the reaction is so I can plan around it.

For Brad, of course.

Flipping between my phone and the burner, I swap between accounts to chastise the comments targeting Vin for his status. I add additional comments, noting how superior he is on the ice and that every alpha on the team is lucky to have him—especially Captain Cameron.

Someone engages with me to argue the fairness and safety of allowing a beta on the ice and it pricks at earlier irritation.

We lob blows at each other, with the other guy—who isn’t even one of Brad’s accounts so why does he care so damn much?—escalating each time.

The guys will be here any second. I need to get my head on straight. Instead of arguing further, I add a comment calling the guy a chauvinist asshole from one of my lesser used accounts and block him on the one he was arguing with.

And then I do something truly stupid.

I go to my personal social media pages and upload a picture of Vin in the kitchen with crumbs on his face while he eats a fresh cookie. The caption reads, A belated ‘after’ of amaretto chocolate chip. Strong and sweet like this guy.

I just need people to know that Vin is a real person and not his “place.”

We’re “dating,” right? It’s fine.

Once it’s up, I panic that I’ve shared too much and without his permission.

Too late now. The internet is forever.

“There you are,” Mason says. He and Vin walk up to me side by side near the entrance of the restaurant.

When Mase texted me and told me to bunny it up and meet here for dinner, I had to drop everything to be ready in time.

“You weren’t waiting long, were you?” Vin asks.

“Only a few minutes,” I reply.

Both of the boys are in the pressed gray suits I set out for them for the press conference. They all had similar cuts and shades in their closets, and I’d hoped it might help them feel like a team even if they weren’t feeling like pack.

It also made it easy to coordinate my own outfit.

The shimmering dress in an ombre of purple shades fits tightly to my curves until it flares out in a drop waist falling in waves to just above my knees. The demure boatneck is betrayed by how tightly it’s fitted to my chest. Add in the drop pendant I can toy with and my hair in long, luscious waves, and I’m every bit the bombshell bunny I need to be on a public outing.

Mason’s the first to reach me. I expect him to grab and grope, but instead he holds his hand out. When I place my hand in his, he lifts our joined fingers and gives me a spin. The skirt unfurls around my thighs.

Vin whistles his appreciation.

“Very nice, my sexy bunny,” Mason says and twirls me into his arms for a seductive kiss. My decision to opt for a wine-colored lip tint means we can lean into it without fucking with my makeup.

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