Page 1 of Falling for the Pucking Bad Boy

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CHAPTER ONE

WELLS

Oh, Charles Gagnon.

The biggest douchebag in the league since Maverick Austin, who had his team cheat a decade ago by sending some chick in to grab their defense strategies. They won the playoffs, but their dream was short-lived when security footage was discovered.

And, while Charles may not be a cheater strategically, he’s a cheap shot, a dickhead, and even one of the most talked-about players in the NHL.

But that’s not the entire reason I’m here in this bar.

You see, I knew tonight was going to be a bloodbath. It always is when we play our rivals—the Montreal Snowflakes, I mean Blizzard—and I was expecting some shit to go down.

I just didn’t expect him to take out my other defenseman and buddy, Cyrus, by breaking his damn leg.

And it wasn’t an accident, so let’s stop right there before we start going down that path. Charlie Gagnon isn’t a moron in the sense that he doesn’t know a thing about hockey or that he wasn’t aware of where to position Cyrus to make it happen. We’ve been putting heat on them all year and sending shots back and forth to kick them out of the playoffs.

They need every win against us.

And we technically don’t, even though we want them anyway.

Our rivalry is the worst in the league. It makes for great sales, is one of the highest-viewed games of the year, and our deep-seated hatred for each other is undeniable.

You either like us or you hate us.

There is no in-between.

The same goes for the Snowflakes.

Brawls start at games even when fans start running their mouths and taunting other fans.

It’s a shitshow.

Let’s just say a lot of security is present.

Yet, now, I’m going to break Charles’ ego and rile his ass up a little for tomorrow’s bloody battle. Because when I get my hands on him, he will be eating his teeth the whole night.

It was cute that he thought we were going to let this slide. I never took him as obvious before, so this shouldn’t be a surprise to him.

“We’re gonna get our asses kicked out of here, Wells.”

I take the bar stool next to Elliot, our team's right winger and the best forward on the East Coast.

I sit and take in what Elliot says but mainly try to allow my presence to reach Charles, wherever he is.

“As long as I don’t throw a punch, we should be fine,” I retort, noticing the neon signs flickering and flashing behind the bar and casting a kaleidoscopic pattern onto the polished wooden bar top. “Don’t worry about it.”

“We all know that you’re probably going to throw a punch, Wells,” he counters. “Just get me drunk enough for whatever is about to go down.”

I smirk because he knows me so well. “Why are you here then?”

I’m known to start a scene. There isn’t a place or a function where I can’t cause trouble somewhere or someway, and usually, it contains a female with a nice ass.

“Because Reid wasn’t going to leave Hollyn to go with you,” he replies evenly. “And Graham would’ve told you hell no. Byron would’ve brought his hockey stick and started breaking shit, and Cyrus—”

“Has a broken leg because that shithead Charles decided to play like a tool.” I crane my head over to my buddy of three years. “You wanna tell me you’re not mad?”

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