Page 51 of Puck Your Bunny

Call me the second you see this.https://www.thesinbin...

My pulse ticks up a notch. Kristy saves back-to-back texts like this for critical emergencies. My thumb hovers over the screen for a split second before I tap the link.

The page opens, loading a massive banner for The Sin Bin Insider, a notorious hockey gossip site. A high-resolution photo dominates the top of the page. It shows Wally, Kel, and Simon leaving a downtown restaurant two days ago, laughing and looking relaxed.

Right below it sits a grainy, zoomed-in photo of me. It looks like it was taken from across the street while I checked the mail yesterday morning. I wear a ratty oversized t-shirt and sweatpants. My hair sits shoved into a messy bun. I look exhausted under the bright morning sun.

The headline screams in bold, black letters:THE REAPERS' SECRET BAGGAGE: ARE THE STAR PLAYERS BEING DRAGGED DOWN BY A WIDOWED OMEGA?

The bold letters punch the air right out of my lungs. My stomach drops. The kitchen spins, blurring the edges of thecabinets and the refrigerator. I sink to the floor, sliding down until my back hits the lower cabinet doors. I pull my knees up to steady my shaking hands and scroll.

The Canval Reapers rely on Wally Nelson, Kel Lars, and Simon Clark to carry the team to the cup this year. They are the hottest, most promising Alphas in the league. But our insiders confirm the star trio spends all their free time playing house with a secret, older Omega. And she comes with a whole lot of baggage.

My throat goes dry. I read the words, but my brain fights to process the invasion of my life displayed on the glowing screen.

Sources confirm the Omega in question is Vayda Moore. Hockey fans remember her Alphas. She was bonded to Hale Langdon, the veteran center for the Coldwater Rooks who died in a car crash almost four years ago. The crash killed Langdon, his Alpha brother Emmett Pierce, and left Vayda's surviving Alpha, Brendan Moore, confined to a wheelchair with severe cognitive delays.

They used Brendan's name. They put his medical condition right there on the internet for millions of people to read and dissect. Nausea rolls through my gut. I grip the phone tighter, forcing myself to keep scrolling. My eyes drag over the rest of the trainwreck.

The article goes on, detailing a timeline of their visits. It lists the days they showed up at my house, the grocery bags they carried inside, and the photo of Kel loading pine into his truck. The writer mocks him for wasting valuable training hours playing carpenter and building a ramp over my steps instead of preparing for the championship. They watched us. Someone sat on this street and documented our lives.

Rather than focusing on the looming Alpha Cup finals, these three prime Alphas spend their training hours shacked up with a burnt-out widow. At almost a decade older than the startrio, Vayda robs the cradle. Neighbors report seeing Lars out in the front yard with a saw and a drill, wasting precious energy building a custom wooden structure over her porch steps instead of resting for the game. Is this a case of a bitter, washed-up Omega using three wealthy hockey players to fund her tragic life and care for her injured partner?

Tears sting my eyes. The words blur into a toxic, humiliating smear. The writer breaks down their recent game stats, desperate to find a slump to blame on me. They highlight a missed pass from Simon and a penalty Kel took, linking every minor error on the ice to the exhaustion of playing house.

An anonymous league insider stated: 'They need to cut the cord to save their promising careers before they even hit their full prime. She holds them back.'

They think I'm a pathetic, broken burden draining the life out of three guys who have the world at their fingertips. The exact fears I screamed at Wally, Kel, and Simon weeks ago are now plastered across the internet, validated by strangers and sports analysts. They took the private, fragile bond we’ve started to build and twisted it into something gross and parasitic.

I swipe my thumb down the screen, pulling up the comment section. It reads like a bloodbath.

HockeyFan99:What a gold digger. Langdon must’ve left her with nothing, so now she traps the Reapers' top line? Disgusting.

PuckBunny22:They are way too hot and successful to play home nurse to a crippled guy and a washed-up widow.

ReapersNation:We need them focused on the playoffs. They belong on the ice, but they waste their days playing charity workers for some sad old woman.

IceKing88: She just wants a free ride. Lock up your wallets, boys.

The comments make me sick. They judge our lives from the outside. I fought the guys for weeks. I tried to shove them outthe door to protect them from my mess. They chose to step up. Kel decided to build that custom wheelchair ramp for Brendan. Simon insisted on cooking our meals. Wally mapped out their off days to learn the manual transfer techniques and help me lift Brendan between Vinny's scheduled shifts. They demanded a place in my chaotic life.

The article paints me as a manipulative tramp, but the guys tore down my walls with their bare hands. The world just sees a tragic, ruined woman dragging down three shining stars.

The phone slips from my sweat-slicked fingers. It clatters onto the floor, the screen still lit up with the hateful words.

I dig my fingernails into my knees until my knuckles turn white. This is what I warned them about. I tried to push them away. I tried to build walls to protect my family, and they tore them all down to get to me. Now the entire world is looking inside, picking apart the pieces of my crumbling life and blaming me for ruining theirs.

The phone sits on the floor next to my sneakers, buzzing with a fresh wave of Chatter notifications.How did they find my account?I use a fake name. My chest tightens as bile rises in my throat.

A low hum vibrates from the living room. Brendan senses my distress. His lunch is late.

I push myself off the tile, grabbing the edge of the granite counter to steady my shaking legs. The panic clawing at my throat takes a back seat. Brendan needs his lunch. I kick the buzzing phone under the overhang of the cabinets, getting it out of my sight.

I grab the bowl of thickened potato soup and a rubber-coated spoon from the counter. I force my shoulders down and paste a calm expression onto my face. I walk out of the kitchen and head down the hallway.

Brendan sits in the center of the living room. The television plays a documentary about deep-sea marine life. The blue light from the screen reflects in his bright eyes. He slaps his hand against the padded armrest, engaged with the footage of the coral reef.

I pull a wooden dining chair over and sit in front of him.