Page 47 of Puck Your Bunny

"The age gap is just a convenient excuse." Simon's tone sounds flat through the speakers. "The real issue is guilt. She feels like she's betraying her old Alphas by moving on. Throw in the bond rejection sickness, and her brain must be spinning. She knows she has to sleep with us to keep the fever from killing us."

Will she ever love us? Are we just a survival tactic for her right now?I stare at the red taillights ahead of us.We can love her enough for all of us. We are different men. We must prove we're worth loving, too.

"We put in the work. We keep showing up until she realizes we are here for good." Simon's voice fills the cab before the line goes quiet.

Coach Sampson runs us through defensive drills for three hours before making us run line sprints across the ice. My legs feel like lead by the time Coach keeps Simon and Wally behind to review penalty kill footage.

"Go ahead and take off. Simon and I will drive the SUV back as soon as we finish with Coach." Wally pulls his practice jersey over his head.

"See you guys this afternoon." I bump my fist against his shoulder.

After a fast shower and changing into my street clothes, I grab my keys from my locker. I pull my baseball cap low and head out to my truck, glad to have my own wheels so I can drive straight to the local hardware store to start my project.

Being a pro player in this city means dealing with hockey fans everywhere, even surrounded by contractors and tools. I pull a flatbed cart down the aisles, grabbing premium outdoor-grade pressure-treated pine to hold up against the weather. I load the cart up with the stacked lumber, boxes of exterior screws, metaljoist brackets, a bucket of deep amber wood stain, a gallon of clear outdoor sealant, a bottle of deck cleaner, two wide paintbrushes, and a package of blue concrete screws.

"Kel Lars?" An older guy in a grease-stained canvas apron stops his cart at the end of the aisle, staring under the brim of my cap before his eyes drop to the pile of pine boards on my flatbed.

"Yeah, that's me." I pull my cap down a fraction, keeping my hand on the handle of the flatbed.

"Great shift the other night, man. I'm Jerry." The contractor steps closer and grips my hand with a calloused palm. "You guys need to lock down that neutral zone next week. The Bears are going to choke your wingers if you let them set up the trap."

"Good to meet you." I match his firm squeeze, offering a brief nod. "Our line spent all morning reviewing their neutral zone trap. We have a plan to dump and chase more to bypass their center."

"Good. Force their defensemen to turn." Jerry smiles, looking down my flatbed before tapping a stack of the pine boards with a knuckle. "You building a deck with all this pressure-treated?"

"A wheelchair ramp for a front porch. I want it to look clean, so I grabbed some stain and sealant, too." I adjust my grip on the handle of the cart.

"Good choice on the pine. You're going to want some deck cleaner to wash off the treatment chemicals and mill glaze, though. It opens the wood pores so the stain sinks in." Jerry points toward the paint aisle down the way.

"I have the deck cleaner right here in my cart. I'll wash the boards first." I nod, appreciating the trade advice.

"Smart man. Go kick some ass next week." Jerry gives my shoulder a firm tap and wheels his cart down the aisle.

I push my flatbed toward the checkout lanes at the front of the store. Forklifts beep in the distance, and the smell of fresh timber follows me to the registers. I steer into an open lane.Leaving the thick stack of lumber on the flatbed cart, I set just the smaller items, the bucket of stain, the deck cleaner, and the boxes of screws, onto the conveyor belt.

"Nice win against the Rooks. Kick some ass in the playoffs, Lars." The cashier, an older man with a Reapers lanyard around his neck, scans the smaller items on the belt.

"Count on it." I pull my wallet out of my back pocket as he grabs a wireless scanning wand from the side of the register. He walks around the counter to scan the barcodes printed on the ends of the pine boards on my flatbed.

I tap my card against the terminal screen. The machine beeps, confirming the payment. He tears the slip of paper from the printer and slides my receipt across the counter. I grab the slip, wheel the flatbed out to the parking lot, and toss the supplies into the bed of my truck before driving back to the house.

The afternoon sun bakes the driveway. I back the truck all the way up and unload the supplies in the front yard, carrying the lumber over to the porch.

The solid wooden door of the shed creaks open. The workspace smells like sawdust and old memories. Hale built a solid wooden workbench along the back wall, complete with a mounted miter saw. I grab a measuring tape, the power drill, and a leather tool belt. The guy took damn good care of his shop. I respect that. I plan to put it to use for his family today.

Walking out onto the front porch, I run my hand along one of the thick white support columns. The concrete slab is solid, and the structure holds firm under my boots. The new wood for the ramp will need a wash with deck cleaner and a fresh coat of stain and sealant to match the paint. I can handle the prep work down in the yard. I measure the drop from the concrete steps down to the concrete path, calculating the slope to form a smooth, gentle incline.

Stepping into the shed, I measure and cut several pieces of treated timber to construct a level landing platform box. This box will sit directly over the existing steps to bring the landing flush with the doorway. I carry the framed box out to the porch steps and set it in place over the concrete steps. Using a hammer drill, I bore deep holes through the bottom plates of the wooden box and down into the concrete below. I drive the blue concrete screws through the timber and deep into the masonry, anchoring the landing box so it stands rock-solid.

Next, I cut the long stringer joists for the ramp incline. I lay a four-foot level across the bottom of the wood and draw a straight line, slicing the angle with the circular saw so the ramp transitions perfectly flush with the concrete path. Back at the porch, I set the top of the joists against my anchored platform box. I use galvanized metal hanger brackets and drive thick hex-head structural screws through the steel to lock the joists into the frame, ensuring they can handle the weight of the ramp.

I clamp thick 4x4 upright posts to the outer joist frames. I use a power drill to bore clean holes through both the timber and the joists, driving steel carriage bolts through the holes to lock them in place with washers and nuts. These posts will support the handrails and stabilize the entire frame against the ground.

Sweat drips down my back and pools in my collar. I pull my t-shirt over my head, toss it onto a patio chair, and get back to work. My shoulders burn with the effort. Building this ramp satisfies the craving to protect and provide for her.

Around noon, the front door opens. Vayda steps out onto the concrete porch. She holds a paper plate with a thick turkey sandwich and a cold bottle of water.

"You're working fast." Vayda walks down the steps, her gaze tracking my progress.