Page 38 of Falling for the Pucking Bad Boy

The link sends me right to Instagram, where my room is filled with a Drake song that’s too damn loud for me to make out the words.

But it’s Drake because, of course, I know his sexy voice.

A body is dancing around, the center of attention, with a full bottle of liquor held up high in the air, and my heart doesn’t just sink.

It fucking nosedives and hits the cement below so hard that I gasp a bit from the impact.

NHL playboy Killer Wells caught in another threesome.

Who are they, and which (or do both) get a lucky one night with the sexy-ass lover boy next?

I can’t help but read the caption before movement catches my eye and a set of girls flock around him. Their bodies press close enough to blur individual lines and personal space while moving to the bass vibrating through my phone.

I see him laugh, even though I can’t hear it, but red-hot anger coils in me anyway. He doesn’t push them away. He doesn’t inch back. He doesn’t do anything.

You’re an idiot.

And here I was about to go for it with Wells.

This is a joke.

His words, sweet and confident inside his SUV last weekend, now reek of the cheap fragrance of deception.

I tap the screen, replaying the clip just to torture myself. Each second cements the realization of what it is.

He’s a playboy, and I’m not interested.

Period.

Oh, I could sit here and pretend. I could think about how he lied or tried to rope me into his bullshit about being together, but the truth has always been there.

I’m the daughter of the rival coach. What better way to screw them over than to screw the Coach’s daughter and knock the Blizzard right out of the playoffs.

Lord, it’s the oldest play in the book.

I didn’t dodge a bullet. I dodged a whole clip.

My fingers pull up his profile, thumb hovering over the three little dots that will give me the sanity I need. I bet he and his teammates have laughed about this whole setup. I bet he told them about the stupid drive-in movie and how we had sex in a rental.

I bet he said it was easy because, really, he didn’t have to put that much effort in. I wanted to do it.

All those words were perfectly put into place to make me think differently when it’s been there the whole time.

Judson Wells is a playboy. It’s on Google; you could look it up. It’s everywhere. It’s what he’s known for.

A killer on the ice and off.

He breaks hearts and minds and sends us women into emotional comas. All while he sets off for his next conquest.

Screw this.

The next moment, his smiling face is hidden behind a blocked message. It’s the easiest and the hardest thing I’ve ever done.

Easy because he’s just another moron.

And hard because now I have to face myself in the mirror daily and try not to judge myself.

Judson Wells, hockey giant, off-ice disaster.

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