Page 41 of Falling for the Pucking Bad Boy

"Doesn't mean anything.”

"Your funeral."

I jerk my head up to Preston. “Is it, though? Because I’m about to board a red-eye. You down?”

“No,” Elliot shoots out. “We gotta be in Washington tomorrow morning. Coach has us doing weights.”

I ignore him and keep my challenging gaze on Preston. “Well?”

“Well, I am the one who helped, aren’t I?”

No.

He fucking provoked me.

“Yeah, I’m down,” he finally says when I don’t confirm that he was anything or is anything but a pain in the ass.

“Y’all better be back before showtime,” Reid warns us, and I can feel his penetrating glare our way. “You’re not gonna be late.”

Shit, we’re going to be late as fuck.

Which means Coach might bench me. And I don’t have time to watch from the bench.

“Find out more information about that party,” I order. “We’re making a surprise appearance.”

“That’s going to cause media attention,” he warns. “And I thought you were keepin’ it low-key.”

Fuck low-key.

However, I know it’ll only piss Rory off more. I don’t need any more targets on my back.

“You know what a hat is, don’t you, Preston?”

He smirks at me and nods. “Alright, asshole. It looks like we’re party crashin’.”

My hand is already tapping out messages, looking up flights, coordinating how we might slip into that party unnoticed by anyone who might turn it into front-page news. We’ll go incognito, as much as two high-profile hockey players can. Hats pulled low, nondescript jackets, blending in like two more partygoers just there for the music and the drinks.

I’ll navigate around the media and dodge the public eye like I’m about to skip out on a check. What matters is getting to that party, standing in a space where I can see her, not through a screen or Preston’s teasing narrative, but in person, where I can read the truth in her eyes.

If she sees me, when she sees me—I’ll deal with that reaction when it comes.

One play at a time.

13

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

RORY

The din of the party buzzes around me, punctuated by the clink of glasses and the soft murmur of party-goers in deep conversation. I'm here for work—networking, schmoozing, whatever you want to call it. Marshall stands beside me, the epitome of cool, amid power suits and polished shoes. His inked arms and casual poise are at odds with the crowd. A writer with the look of a renegade, someone more at home on a Harley than in the hallowed halls of journalism.

He’s definitely gotten plenty of women over to our side of the room. They bat their eyelashes and ask stupid questions they know the answers to. At least, I would hope they know the answers since they’re in the writing business.

Our mission tonight was simple: recruit fresh talent, spark creativity, and spread the word about our online journal to those who crave something raw amidst the noise and wannabes.

Marshall leans in, his voice a low timbre, and if I didn’t know he had been dating a beautiful redhead for over a year, I would shoot my shot with him. “Remind me again, why the hell did you need me here?”

“Your looks,” I answer honestly and bring my wine glass to my lips to hide the smirk from being so damn obvious. “And because you’re the boss.”

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