Page 77 of Justice for Puck Bunnies

Chapter Twelve

My ill-advised text message taunts me.

That one A.M. text is only surpassed in frustration by Brad’s four A.M. response.

This reply is the height of hypocrisy. Brad was caught with his literal pants down that night at Fluke’s.

He’d argued that we weren’t “really” dating so it was fine for Livvy to blow him in the bathroom. If that was the case, it wouldn’t matter if I’d been screwing other guys.

I dwell on my response until late in the morning.

There’s also the obvious—we aren’t dating anymore. His texts have slowed to only once or twice a week, begging for my return but not making any promises. It’s typically something to the effect of, we both know you need me so help us both.

Every time, I throw back a comment about how I won’t return without knowing I have an indisputable place. That typically kills the conversation.

But what really bothers me, what irks me at the highest level, is that we’d been doing so well fueling his jealousy.

In love and war, controlling the conversation places you in the highest position of power. Deciding priorities secures the win.

We had been waging a shadow war to push Brad into taking an action he’d believe was his own idea. He’d beg for me back and offer a concrete commitment, and I’d phrase it when I did like he’d convinced me.

Now, though, I’m on the defensive and having to convince-slash-remind Brad why he wanted me at all.

There are very few skimpy outfits in my closet, but I pair a thong, a short flouncy skirt, and a cute, lacey bra to snap a few salacious pics.

Once they’re edited, I study the screen entirely too long, debating whether to use them.

It feels like cheating on the Wyatt Pack to hit send.

Bah. Instead of going nuclear, I wander the house for things to add to the guys’ accounts. They’re out all day today, which leaves me totally unsupervised.

As I pass through room after room, I tidy up as I go. I’m not really cleaning so much as fidgeting for the greater good. I use Trick’s canned air to dust the variety of trophies in his office.

And then genius strikes.

Pulling up his account, I take a long shot of the built-in bookshelves filled with awards, memorabilia, and all manner of hockey lore and legend.

The lighting isn’t ideal. I throw open the curtains to allow the daylight to stream in and focus in on one item in particular.

A glass box surrounds a hockey puck with a faded silver signature along the edge. A quick online search explains that Lenny Grakowski was a prolific defensemen in the eighties and nineties. There’s no plaque on the display, so I have no idea why this puck is important other than that Trick put it in the box.

I still snap off a few pictures of it and throw them all up on Trick’s socials. Instead of a traditional caption, I add a few interesting facts about Grakowski and post it up. I also engage with Vin’s and Mason’s accounts so he’ll get more of their posts when he’s scrolling his feed.

Not that I’ve ever seen him on the feed, but it’s an option at least.

For Mason, I do a good ole’ fashioned text block and add his last season’s stats in the minors. Most of his feed is ab-heavy thirst traps—which, fair. But if he wants to reform his image, he needs to pretend like he’s more than man meat.

With Vin, though, I take a different approach. Instead of going full promo mode, I snap a picture of his hockey bag in the laundry room. I add a sepia filter and vignette to it and caption it, A Day in the Life. I then go around snagging a few more of the small messes the guys leave behind.

Satisfied that I’ve earned my salary, I lounge on my very favorite couch and scroll my timelines.

I have a solid hour before meeting Jolie for dinner.

And I’m all dressed up in a way that cannot leave the house.

The full-length mirror in Mason’s room is meticulously clean. Not a speck or streak to be seen.

That’s perfect because I face away from it, cross my legs at the ankles, and bend all the way forward. I fall against his bed twice, but with a bit of balance, I position the phone precisely in front of the naughty bits and let the timer do the rest.

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