I hear her scoff behind me. Don’t care.
I step away from them and start scanning the crowd again. This party’s full throttle, fake boobs and tequila flying in every direction, and it feels like a fucking loop.
And where the hell is Dominic? Shouldn’t your best friend be glued to you at parties?
I shoulder through two devils and a guy dressed as Ken—full sequin vest, nipples out—before spotting one of our defensemen near the beer pong table, holding court like he owns the place.
“Matt!” I call out, pulling my mask halfway up again.
He turns, grinning. “There he is. Was starting to think Ghostface finally got himself arrested.”
“Where’s Dom?” I ask, eyes still scanning the chaos.
“Pretty sure I saw him heading upstairs with Jessica Rabbit.” Matt’s smirk widens. “Red dress, red hair, an ass that needs its own zip code.”
“Great.” I scoff and pull the mask back into place. “Thought the captain doesn’t abandon the ship.”
“Apparently, the ship’s in good hands.” Matt shrugs.
I shake my head, mouth twitching under the mask. He could’ve shot me a text—I would've brought the tequila.
I pat Matt on the shoulder and walk around him. I drift through the crowd like smoke, letting the music press against me, sticky and loud and fucking meaningless. Everywhere I look, there’s something fake—fake hair, fake lips, fake laughs and cheers. And every single one of them is trying to catch my eye.
It’s not that I can’t pull. That’s never been the issue. It’s that I don’t fucking care anymore. Sex used to be fun, messy, filthy, and loud. A game I was always winning.
Now it’s a way to kill hours between practices and insomnia. It’s something I do when I don’t feel like sitting alone in a silent house and wondering why the fuck I’m not happy.
I tug the mask off again, letting it hang around my neck as I grab another drink from a passing tray.
Go home? And do what? Doom scroll on my phone while eating leftover protein pancakes? I’d rather be here. At least here, there’s noise.
I sigh, tilt the glass back, set it down on the tray, and slide my mask back on. I let my eyes sweep the room again. Not looking for anything in particular, just hoping something might make me feel something.
And when my eyes land on a figure near the main bar, I know I’ve found it.
A black, velvet bunny.
But not the type you expect. No half-naked ass cheeks, no bedazzled corset.
Her outfit’s got a bite. It’s sleek and dark, with jagged edges and a slit that teases just enough leg to make a man stupid.
But it’s her mask that caught my eye first.
Huge latex bunny ears that melt into a black face mask—tight, sculpted, covering half her face. It’s not sexy or cute. It’s fucking eerie in the hottest way.
And fuck me, if it isn’t doing something to me.
She’s not flirting or talking to anyone, she’s not looking for attention. She’s sipping her whiskey like she’s watching it all from above, mildly unimpressed.
I don’t even realize I’ve started moving toward her until I’m halfway there.
Because finally, something that doesn’t feel like autopilot.
I push through a Cleopatra and two glittered-up cowgirls who try to grab me. The closer I get to the goal, the quieter the space feels.
It’s like she’s carved out her own orbit, and I’m just some poor bastard caught in the pull.
She doesn’t look at me when I reach her, doesn’t acknowledge me. Just sips her drink slowly, like this party’s happening around her, not to her.
