Page 33 of Puck Your Bunny

Brendan shifts his hand on the armrest. His fingers uncurl. He reaches out toward Kel.

Kel scoots a fraction closer. He holds his large hand open. Brendan drops his curled fingers right into Kel's palm. A soft, contented hum vibrates in Brendan's chest.

My heart hammers against my ribs. I push up from my crouch and sit on the edge of the sofa. I pull Brendan's bowl into my lap. I scoop a small amount of the pureed chili onto the spoon and hold it up to his mouth. Brendan parts his lips. He takes the bite. I wait for him to swallow. I grab a napkin and wipe a stray drop from his chin.

Kel takes his bowl from the coffee table. He eats his own food while tracking my movements.

"How long does a meal take?" Kel scoops a bite of his chili.

"Thirty to forty minutes." I take a quick bite from my bowl while Brendan chews. "Sometimes longer if he feels tired. He needs round-the-clock care, Kel. Feeding, bathing, therapy, turning him to prevent bedsores. I do all of it. My life revolves around his schedule."

Kel meets my gaze. He swallows his food. "Wally got a copy of the nursing schedule from Kristy."

I freeze with the spoon halfway to Brendan's mouth. "She gave him my schedule?"

"We want to know the gaps." Kel sets his empty bowl on the coffee table. "We want to learn the routine. We can step in whenVinny leaves. We can take caregiver classes. We can learn how to prep his food."

"You are star athletes." I feed Brendan the next bite. "You travel. You have practices and games."

"The season ends in a few months." Kel rests his arms on his knees. "We plan to retire after the playoffs."

My stomach drops. "You can't do that. You can't throw your careers away for this."

"We have enough money to live ten lifetimes." Kel shrugs. "Hockey is just a job. You are our mate. Brendan is part of your Alphas. That makes him our responsibility, too."

I stare at him. The urge to yell fights with the exhausted relief pooling in my chest. He sees the worst parts of my daily grind; the tedious reality of caring for a disabled man, and he offers to learn the ropes. He accepts Brendan just the way he is.

I take another bite of my chili. The food tastes like ash on my tongue. I feed Brendan his next spoonful. We fall into a quiet rhythm. Kel stays on the floor.

"The old fence posts were dust, Bren." Kel scoops another bite of chili. "I ripped them all out today and set the new frame. We are putting in thick, pressure-treated lumber for the panels tomorrow. Six feet tall. It will keep the wind off the patio."

Brendan makes a low, rumbling noise in his chest. His bright blue eyes track Kel's hand as he gestures with his spoon.

Kel talks to him like a friend sharing a beer on the weekend. He maintains eye contact and includes Brendan in the conversation. I talk to Brendan all day long, but visitors tend to stare at the floor or avoid him out of discomfort. Vinny and Dave keep their conversations focused on his medical care and therapy. Kel is the first outsider in years to pull up a chair and treat Brendan like a regular guy.

The suffocating loneliness of the last few years eases a fraction. A warm spark of hope ignites in my chest. I watch Brendan relaxunder Kel's calm presence. Maybe this impossible situation can work. I scrape the bottom of Brendan's bowl, holding onto that hope, even as the paranoid part of my brain waits for the other shoe to drop.

Chapter 12

Ipush the cart down the bright grocery store aisle. The place smells like artisan bread and overpriced greens. Soccer moms in expensive yoga pants block the walkways. I dodge around them and check my phone screen. Wally pulled a massive favor getting this list from Kristy. It outlines every safe food Brendan tolerates and every brand Vayda prefers.

Using a delivery app feels like a massive cop-out. Paying some random teenager to pick out bruised fruit is a bullshit move. I need to grab the best produce with my own hands. I need a valid excuse to show up at her front door. Showing up empty-handed frames me as an obsessive stalker pushing my way back in. Arriving with a trunk full of food gives me a rock-solid reason to stand on her porch.

I park the cart in the produce section. I scan the piled pyramids of fruit. Kristy made a point about mangoes. Brendan loves them. They offer a straight shot to his good side. I spend ten minutes sorting through the bins. I squeeze the skins, checking for perfect ripeness. I fill a plastic bag with the best ones.

I steer the cart toward the coffee aisle. Two teenagers rocking Canval Reapers jerseys spot me near the end-cap. They jog over, holding out their phones.

"Simon Clark? Can we get a picture?" One kid shoves his phone forward.

I force a smile and nod. I pose for a photo with each of them and give them a quick fist bump. Some days I crave a quiet trip to the store without the flashing cameras. I push the thought aside. I take the attention in stride.

It comes with the territory when I’m part of one of the best NAHL teams in the league. We’ve been in the playoffs for four years straight. Last year we almost got the cup and lost to the Bears. An underdog story none of us thought would happen after their humiliating losing streak.

I turn back to the shelves. I grab four bags of the dark roast Vayda likes. The price tag is ridiculous. I toss them into the cart anyway. I grab fresh vegetables, high-protein snacks, and a dozen other items to fill her empty pantry. She needs calories. She needs real fuel to recover from that brutal Heat.

I hit the checkout lane and tap my phone against the reader. I lug the stuffed paper bags out to the parking lot. A warm spring breeze hits my face. A dry winter kept the dirt soft enough for Kel to rip out those rotting fence posts yesterday, saving us a massive headache. I pop the hood of my black Porsche and load the groceries into the frunk.

I drop into the leather driver's seat and fire up the engine. The sports car roars to life. I pull out of the lot and cruise towardher neighborhood. My brain runs through a dozen different scenarios. I practice opening lines to keep her from slamming the door in my face. We promised to give her space, but leaving her alone to suffer through that daily grind feels like a terrible strategy. She needs to see us showing up and putting in the work.