Sincerely, The Puck Bunny (Totally Pucked #2)(5)

“Oh god, you three are ridiculous,” Graham mutters, flopping backward against the couch and groaning. “Briggs, are you seriously telling me that you give a shit what this random girl has to say about you on the internet?”

I narrow my eyes at him as my jaw clenches on its own accord. “I mean, it’s fucking annoying. Look, I’ve been trying really hard to get my shit together and it sucks that because of this… girl, the entire world still sees everything I do in a negative light.”

“See? Do it,” Hudson encourages me.

Asher nods. “Yeah, tell her how you feel. You’ll probably feel better getting it off your chest.”

I grit my teeth together painfully. Fuck it, not like she’s probably even going to read it, and hell, even if she does, maybe she’ll leave me the hell alone.

I click the button, then type my email address in and a message.

“Dear Puck Bunny,

Catchy name by the way. Briggs Wilson here. I saw your post recently about the size of my hockey stick and how I’m overcompensating for other things. And by things, you mean my dick.”

I show Hudson the phone screen and he chuckles.

Continuing, I type, “I’m just writing to let you know that I don’t need to overcompensate for anything, and if you want… I can prove it. Name the time and place, and you’ve got a date.”

As soon as I type the message out, I realize how absolutely stupid it would be to actually send it. Why give this girl more ammo against me? She obviously has some kind of pent-up aggression when it comes to me.



* * *



“Whatever, it does feel a little better to type it out.” I shrug and delete the email before I can hit send. It pisses me off that she constantly puts me in the spotlight, even compared to the other fuck heads in the NHL, my fuckups are always front and center. Even the good things that I do, coaching the Mighty Pucks, doing charity events, volunteering when I have free time… she takes it and manipulates it into something else. Why can’t something I do actually be good instead of payment for the past? Or that public relations forced me to do it, or that my spot on the team is jeopardized if I didn’t.

Every time I’ve gotten into a fight or had some type of newsworthy fuckup, she’s been the first one to post it. Granted, I did hand her the content wrapped in a bright red bow, but damn. The worst moments of my life have happened with a spotlight shining directly on me so the world can see me fall. At one point, I said fuck it, I stopped caring. I did whatever I could to numb the pain, media coverage be damned.

It just makes me fucking angry that she’s sullying my reputation even further with her stupid articles. And that’s what led me here. Holding on to my career by a thread, everyone thinking I’m a bad investment, my friends threatening to beat the shit out of me if I don't get my act together. People say they understand that I’m hurt, but they don’t really understand. No one does because they’re not living it.

“I guess it’s a good thing you didn’t send it, but I would’ve paid money to see the look on her face when she read it,” Hudson declares.

I shrug. “Yeah… but it’s not worth the blowback, and with her… she’s always got something to say. I’m just gonna stop reading the shit.”

“I’m out, my Sunday night hook-up just texted.” Graham stands from the couch and tosses the controller on the coffee table.

Not surprising in the least. Yeah, he’s a good-looking guy, but it’s the charm that does it. He’s got a girl for every day of the week, and honestly, I don't know how he keeps up with all of them or even has the time to do so. My head hurts just fucking thinking about it.

“Sarah, right?” Asher asks.

“Nope, she’s Tuesday,” Graham responds.

I roll my eyes. This fucking kid. “Later.” I pick up my empty beer bottle and walk into the kitchen, then toss it into the trash. Sundays are guys’ nights during the off-season. We drink beer, watch highlights, and just chill. Being gone six months out the year makes you appreciate the little time you do have at home, so we generally stay in unless we go out to the bar.

“Briggs, you heard from Reed?” Hudson mentions my best friend, who’s also usually here, but he’s been MIA lately.

“Yeah, he said he was busy, but he’d come by later tonight maybe.”

By busy, I’m sure he means with a bunny, only his presence has been sparse lately. Only around for mandatory shit. I make a mental note to call him out on it the next time I talk to him.

Picking my phone back up, I realize that it’s still on silent, and I have a dozen text messages from Conrad, my agent. Hell, there’s six within the past three minutes.

Conrad: Don’t turn on the tv.

My brow furrows in confusion as I type a quick response.

Me: Vague. Why?

The dots at the bottom pop up as he types.

Conrad: I’ll be there in less than five minutes.

Meaning… he was already on his way. Alright then.

“Uh, Briggs.” I look up at Asher, who's looking at his phone with a look of shock on his face. Hudson gets up and walks over to him, then looks at me, eyes wide.

Okay, what the hell is happening?

“What?”

Then a knock sounds on my front door. Heavy and hard. It must be Conrad. Shit, he wasn’t joking when he said he was on the way. I walk over to the door and swing it open. Before I can even speak, he’s pushing past me, briefcase in hand, rambling away on the earpiece in his ear.