Page 54 of Puck Your Bunny

Car doors slam out in the driveway.

I crawl toward the window, keeping my head low. I reach up and peel back the tiniest corner of the blackout curtain.

Kel’s black truck is angled across the driveway, blocking the reporters' SUVs. The doors fly open. Kel, Wally, and Simon push through the crowd. They shove past the cameras and the microphones. Kel shoulder-checks a cameraman, sending the guy stumbling into the bushes.

My heart hammers. They’re going to get fined.

The pounding on the door starts again. Two fast knocks, one slow. Our signal.

I scramble to my feet, my legs feeling like jelly. I reach for the deadbolt. My fingers fumble with the cold metal.

"Vayda, open up!" Kel’s voice booms through the wood.

I turn the lock. The door flies open as I grab the handle.

The three of them spill into the entryway, bringing the hot summer air and the frantic noise of the street with them. Kel slams the door shut and twists the bolt into place. He leans his back against the wood, his chest heaving, his face twisted into a mask of rage.

Wally and Simon move toward the living room. Simon drops to his knees by Brendan’s chair, checking the fit of the headphones. Wally stands in the center of the room, his eyes scanning the dark space until they land on me.

He crosses the floor in silence and hauls me into his arms. I breathe in his scent of bergamot and sweat, and the tears spill over.

Outside, the chanting gets louder. They’re calling for the star players and their widow to come outside.

"We're here. We are staying right here." Wally presses his face into my hair, holding me tight.

The house feels smaller now. The locked door keeps the crowd on the porch, but we're trapped inside this cage together.

Chapter 18

The pounding on the front door rattles the picture frames on the wall. Cameras keep flashing through the cracks in the blackout curtains, lighting up the living room walls. It sounds like a total riot outside. Over a dozen people stand out there screaming over each other, demanding a statement and yelling garbage through the glass. The sweet scent of her lavender sours with panic, making the room hard to breathe in.

Wally stands by the entryway with his massive arms wrapped around Vayda. He tucks her face into his chest to block out the screaming from the porch. She grips his shirt, shaking and crying. She thinks she ruined us. She believes that garbage article from The Sin Bin Insider.

I’m so pissed I clench my jaw. Everything in me wants to rip the front door open and go off on those vultures.

I walk over to Brendan. His wheelchair sits parked in the middle of the room next to a tray table with his water cup. His hands twitch in his lap, and he hums without a pause. The noise from the yard is way too much for him. I crouch down, adjust his noise-canceling headphones to make sure they seal tight over his ears, and force a smile.

Brendan blinks at me. His humming slows down, and he leans his head back against the headrest.

Kel paces the hallway. He rolls his broad shoulders and cracks his jaw, clenching and unclenching his fists. He smells like raw aggression right now. He marches toward the front door and reaches for the deadbolt.

I step in front of him, shoving a hand against his chest to push him back.

"I'm going to smash their cameras." Kel glares at the thick wood.

"That's what they want." I keep my hand flat against his chest. "You hit someone out there, the League will suspend you. They will just spin the footage and make us look like violent thugs going after innocent journalists."

"They called her a puck bunny." Kel steps into my space. "They called her a cradle robber. I'll break their jaws."

"We need a plan." Wally meets my eyes over Vayda's head. His voice stays scary calm. "PR wants us to stay quiet so they can put out some sanitized press release tomorrow morning."

"I'm getting the local police here to clear the grass." Wally pulls his cell phone from his pocket. He taps the screen three times and lifts the device to his ear.

The idea of letting corporate suits defend our family makes me sick. PR statements always look weak, like we are apologizing. The media out there will just chop up whatever we write and twist it for the tabloids anyway. They want us hiding. They want Vayda feeling ashamed.

"Screw PR." I pull my phone out of my jeans pocket. "We handle this right now."

Wally watches me and raises an eyebrow. He talks to the dispatch operator in a low murmur, giving them the address.