Page 39 of Falling for the Pucking Bad Boy

As for me, I'll be the headline that never was. The girl who almost fell for it all. Blocking him is more than just a digital action; it's reclaiming my space, my peace—myself.

And he can go fuck himself.

12

CHAPTER TWELVE

WELLS

Islam my locker closed, frustration simmering just beneath the surface, and I’m seconds away from losing my shit.

Again.

I took it out on everyone on the opposing team tonight.

Hey, I’m nicknamed Killer for a reason.

It's been a week—a week of cold silence, unanswered texts, and the digital brick wall that is now Rory's blocked profile. The team knows it; hell, even the trainers throw me looks that tread the line between pity, and I told you so, and you should’ve known better.

I swipe at my phone again, and it’s fucking useless. I don’t know why I think she’ll text or call. She’s obviously pissed about the Vegas headlines, and I don’t blame her. But she didn’t give me a chance to explain.

Was I drunk? Yes.

Did I have too much fun? I don’t remember.

Did I sleep with anyone? Absolutely not.

That night in Vegas—it's a blur, a tape with too many rewinds and pauses, distorting the playback. When the cold light of morning had filtered through the hotel curtains, my head throbbed in time with my pulse. The first thing I reached for was my phone.

"Good morning," I had typed, a message doomed to hang forever in the digital void. But by then, the headlines had blared louder than my hangover, and Rory had already shut me out.

I swipe at nothing now; it's a pathetic attempt to connect. I know I screwed up. The images from the club tell a story that's hard to dispute—a symphony of sins I can't remember composing. Some chicks I should’ve told to fuck off because I was taken, but that would’ve strung a whole other sort of headline that Rory wasn’t ready for yet.

I had an image, sure, but it didn’t mean I had to act on it.

Yet, despite the damning footage, one truth remains clear: I did not sleep with anyone that night. The morning after was heavy with regret and too much tequila, but not the weight of that particular guilt.

However, she didn't give me the chance to tell her that I didn’t do anything or kiss her ass. It doesn't help that the team's stance is unanimous—unforgivingly pragmatic because of who she is and all the reasons why I shouldn’t be fucking with her in the first place.

They don’t care.

They think I’ll get over it, and that will be it. The girl who doesn’t want anything to do with me, which is something I’m not used to.

“Let her cool down,” Elliott mutters at my side as I thrust my arms through my fresh t-shirt. “You owe her that.”

“For how long?” I leer through my clenched jaw. “I didn’t—she knows I didn’t fuck anyone.”

“Does she?” I don’t have to look at him to see the skepticism on his face.

Since when do I not fuck a girl who’s willing to give it up?

Never.

I fuck everything.

I turn to him sharply, my glare intended to skewer. But I meet only his calm disbelief—mirroring the world's skepticism. I don't need a mirror to know what he's seeing, what they're all seeing right now: a playboy, reckless and unaccountable.

Preston Carillo, one of our defensemen, saunters over with a grin that tells me he has a joke or a jab coming. "Hey, Wells, you hear about the new guy on Rory's Instagram?"

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