Justice for Puck Bunnies

Chapter One

Izzy

“Yeah, like that,” Brad moans. His gritty voice bounces off the tiled walls of the bar’s grimy bathroom. It smells like piss and mildew, but maybe that’s a turn on for the bitch kneeling in front of him.

“You like that, baby?” Livvy asks.

“Yeah, I like that.”

Slurping and sucking noises continue. I can’t see them. They’re “hidden” in the handicap stall, as if that’s somehow going to keep people from hearing them or seeing her on her knees in her cheap, see-through leggings.

There’s a fucking two-foot gap between the floor and the partition walls.

Livvy’s used to being nasty, so crawling around on the floor of a public bathroom must be right at home to her.

Stop it, Izzy. Stop.It’s not Livvy’s fault that Brad’s a manwhore.

Well, it’s a little her fault. Her lips didn’t accidentally end up on his dick. He isn’t sucking himself off.

Brad Cameron, the newly minted captain of the Addevale Cannons, releases yet another long groan.

When I rushed in to check my hair and face before seeing him, a plethora of emotions washed over me.

Shock at finding them.

Anger that he betrayed me.

Sort of.

Sadness that my plan had fallen apart.

Then less shock because Livvy’s been chasing him as long as I have. She even stopped going by “Olivia” and started using “Livvy” coincidentally at the same time Brad began favoring me.

It was obvious even a year ago that Brad is going places. When Lemner announced his retirement, I immediately knew that management would select Brad to replace him as captain. He’s charismatic, handsome, and knows how to toe the line. He’ll look great on posters, and his last name—Cameron—is perfect for the back of the jerseys in the club shop.

Which made him perfect for my plans.

Livvy whimpers and slurps in a disgusting display of faux arousal. No one actually sounds like that. She should lay off the porn.

Most puck bunnies don’t care which player they get night-to-night. They want a few moments in the sun. Time with an athlete to sate their curiosity and wilder impulses. Something to say they’ve done it and gain a few orgasms. Maybe a few baubles. Maybe a few nice dinners.

Ain’t nothin’ wrong with that.

There’s nothing quite like the rush from seeing a game, the surge of being the one they go home with, and then being lavished and ravished by an alpha riding the high of a win.

Eventually, they realize the guys are replaceable, see you as the same, and the sheen wears off. I don’t bother to learn the girls’ names until they’ve stuck around for a bit.

And then there are the elites—people like me who know there’s a prize to be had if you can pick his pocket and steal his coveted wife card.

The Cannons are one of the best teams in the league. Even Addevale’s minor club recruits to the national teams more than others in the league. Some of the best scouts and trainers call the city home.

Scoring a Cannon is a golden ticket. Scoring the captain? A moonshot.

“That’s it, Iz . . . Livvy . . .” Brad moans. “Right there, a little harder. Yeah, like that.”

Bile rises in my throat. I really thought we were headed somewhere. My roommate’s getting engaged soon, which means I’ll need a new couch to surf. Brad had been open to the idea of having “my fine piece of ass” around twenty-four-seven.

As an omega, I have so few choices. Most of us are involuntarily submitted to the Administration. That means being forced by the Admin into the selection or worse.

My family managed to keep my name out of the rolls in the hope I can find my own way or choose to submit if I want to.

Brad knew about and enjoyed our “compatibility” but had been keeping it quiet for me. Or more likely, he didn’t want me talking about forming a pack. I can’t trust anyone else to know or risk my security.

As an omega with a questionable job history, no pedigree, and no resources, I have nothing to offer other than my A/B/O designation. If I find someone high status, someone I choose and know I can rely on to protect me from the Admin, then I can finally declare and stop the suppressants. I’ll have to keep a man happy, but a guy like Brad is easy to please.

At least, that’s what I’d thought.

Now, as Livvy shifts her weight on her knees, I admit that I have nothing. I’ll probably end up in the auctions, hoping someone can pay off my college loans for the degree I moved here to complete but couldn’t afford to finish.

My heats are getting harder and harder to avoid.

A popping noise is followed by a giggle. “You like that Brad-y, baby?”

“Yeah, keep going.”

Livvy pitches her voice high and girlish. “Am I better than her?” she asks.

“Yeah, baby, that’s right.”

“How much better am I?”

“Stop talking and finish me off,” he mutters.

Gag.We weren’t formally dating, but also we weren’t not formally dating. I was his regular.

I wait for the exact moment I know is coming.

Brad’s heel starts to bounce. It gets a little faster.

“Yeah,” he mutters under his breath.

And . . . now . . .

Metal rings as I knock on the stall door.

“I hope she doesn’t give you chlamydia, Brad. You should ask Stanton about that,” I holler.

Brad chokes on his air. “Shit, shit... Izzy? It’s not what it looks like!”

“I can’t see you, but I can hear you and Livvy fine. Hope he picks you, girl,” I sneer and storm out of the bathroom.

As I stomp away, his words ring in my head.

It’s not what it looks like.Does he think I’m an idiot?

My mind whirls in a vortex of dangerous emotions. Each thought is a piece of shrapnel caught in the maelstrom shredding my good sense.

I want to burn the world to the ground until it matches the ash of a year’s work toward freedom.

The hallway dumps me into the larger space of the bar where guys still in their jerseys are peppered through the room. The team had a preseason event earlier, and most of them came to Fluke’s after to blow off some steam.

So of course I came. Brad didn’t need to tell me to come. He knew I’d be here for him. I always am.

Was.

Fuck him.

I spot the closest navy-and-white jerseys, along the wall immediately to my right by the food window, and decide that the “burning it all down” starts right now.

* * *

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.

Without thinking, I embrace her and lift her closer because fuck if she doesn’t feel good against me. She’s soft and strong, and I have to fight to keep my hands in check. All I see is gently tanned skin, mauve eyelids, and hair every shade of brown in the spectrum.

But when she pulls away, I curse.

Because that’s Isabelle fucking Sutton.

If Brad sees me kissing his girl, he’s going to hate me even more than he already does.

Before I can panic, she pivots and grabs Vin by his jersey. Purple nails sink into navy-and-white fabric as she fists it and wrenches him to her.

His eyes go wide in this hilarious expression of shock before we realize what’s about to happen.

Like with me, she wraps her arms around his neck and plants one on him. He half-resists, too, but eventually the kiss deepens and they slowly take each other in.

She steps away a bit more grounded, but it only makes it easy for her to move into Mason’s open, waiting arms.

The two go at it in this chaotic dance that quickly escalates to her jumping up on him and him catching her legs around his waist.

“IZZY, WHAT THE FUCK?” Brad roars.

Shit.

Brad storms out of the hallway that leads to the bathrooms. One of the bunnies trails along behind him. His jersey is stuck in the teeth of his jeans zipper and the girl’s hair and makeup are a mess. It’s not hard to guess what was happening.

“GET OFF MY GIRL, LITTLE LEAGUE,” he adds as his feet rattle the floorboards.

Every person in the room quiets and turns to watch.

Izzy and Mason are still sexually attacking each other. Vin elbows him, but he only shoves the smaller, younger beta out of the way.

Fucking damn it.

With my hands up in a calming gesture, I step into Brad’s path to keep him from knocking out my newbie.

“Let’s take a minute, cap,” I say to placate him.

“Your face is covered in her lipstick, Wyatt. You’re already on thin ice.”

Izzy rears on us and finally separates herself from my player.

“You can fuck right off into the sun, Brad,” she announces.

Smeared, swollen lips twist as she spits his name. The thought of this woman wailing slaps onto him crack apart the stress of the moment. It’s kind of adorable watching her get all worked up, and I have to tamp down the smile.

“Everybody calm down,” I say, adding some authority to my tone.

“I’M PERFECTLY CALM,” Brad booms, and the entire bar—including the four of us—erupts in laughter. Brad glances at the collected gazes and clenches his jaw, but his anger has taken control and doesn’t care about the spectacle.

“Someone want to explain what’s going on?” Mason asks languidly.

Guy looks just fucked from one kiss.

“The girl is Brad’s,” I explain.

He curses, but it’s overridden by Izzy jumping in.

“Was. I was Brad’s girl. Now I’m no one’s.”

Ooooohsfrom the crowd.

“Like hell you are!” Brad bellows.

“You should’ve thought about that before hiding your dick in Olivia’s mouth.”

The bar gasps.

“We aren’t exclusive,” he replies feebly.

“Oh, no? Then it shouldn’t matter who I kiss. Wanna take me home, newbie?” she asks Mason and pats him on the chest.

The bar whispers like gossipy school kids.

And Mason, to his credit, only stands there, too stunned to respond.

“Like hell you are!” Brad hollers again.

He’s never had much of a way with words. The guy’s all smile and the occasional charm. Why management wanted him to be captain is beyond me.

The big brute of an alpha tries to shoulder past me. Vin steps to my side to keep Brad back.

“You smell like my girl, beta,” he seethes. “I ought to make you bleed.”

“Vin’s your best goalie, captain,” I add.

“No need to worry,” Izzy proclaims. She plucks the permanent marker from the cup on the windowsill and fists Mason by his blond mop of hair.

The whole bar watches with rapt attention as she writes her number across Mason’s neck and plants a kiss beside it in faded mauve lipstick.

“Call me,” she purrs, slaps his cheek playfully, then struts through the crowd. I didn’t even realize she had a purse. She whirled through the three of us like a cartoon Tasmanian devil.

Tepid autumn wind sweeps into the bar as Isabelle fucking Sutton makes her grand exit. A hair flick and her round ass in perfectly fitted jeans is the last view any of us have of the bunny that very well could’ve just imploded our hockey season—or worse.

Damn.

Mason had better not fucking call her.