Page 71 of Falling for the Pucking Bad Boy

It may not be.

However, I’m unsure of how to navigate this. It wasn’t every week that I met the parents of the girls I would pick up in random cities. This actually means something.

I lean in, close enough that she hears me over the driver clearing his throat up front like he's got a time clock in his head. "We're a team, remember? I'm with you, whatever happens in there.”

She finally turns her head, peering at the stadium again, then back at me. “Maybe I should do this alone.”

“Yeah, no,” I retort with a smirk. “You think I’ll let you into the lion's den alone? Furthermore, every hockey fan with a dick wants you now that you’re mine. I don’t share.”

“You’re ridiculous,” she drones with zero emotion. “This isn’t going to work.”

“Let me charm your father, and all will be well.”

“He doesn’t swing that way.”

I roll my eyes.

“Baby, just wait...he will love me.”

Rory sighs. “Fine, but it’s on my terms, alright?” There it is—a spark of relenting in her eyes, a softening around the edges. “We watch the game first, see how it goes.”

“Yeah, absolutely.” I feel like I’m negotiating a powerplay with more at stake than any game could hold. “We’re in this together.” I squeeze her hand as if I could transfer my conviction through our fingers laced together.

Rory exits the car, and I follow, the chill of the night wrapping around us.

“I’ve got your back,” I promise as I pull her in my arms. Tonight, it's not about hockey. It's about Rory and her dad, about mending fences.

“Yeah, I know.”

“And I’ll buy you all the snacks you want.”

She paces as I begin guiding us toward a secret entrance found by a few of my bodyguards. The last thing I need is for us to get stampeded when I’m trying to accomplish something here.

And this needs to go off without a hitch.

—

The final horn is still ringing in my ears, fans buzzin' around us, but Rory and me? We might as well have been in a different world.

The game? Yeah, Montreal pulled through, but we didn’t watch much. It's like we're the night's feature presentation, with every lens, phone, and pair of eyes fixated on us. The Jumbotron can't seem to get enough, flashing our faces for all to see, the crowd reacting excitedly every time.

And the announcer, well, that asshole made sure no one missed the memo that Rory Sellers and yours truly were gracing the arena with our presence.

As the seconds tick down, a new drama unfolds inside our suite. Security rolls in, all but laying down a red carpet for us to enter Rory's dad's office.

Talk about timing and a holier-than-thou move.

Rory seemed to see right through it as well, shaking her head to the linebacker in a suit with a fortress of ‘nope’ built around her and for a hot minute, I'm stumped.

We can’t keep dancing around this.

I have no problem meeting Coach Sellers and putting this to bed, but Rory really isn’t down for making amends.

She’s still pissed.

"Rory," I say, my voice a low undercurrent beneath the post-game chaos. “You don't have to say a word if you don't want to. Just...be there. Let's clear the air. For you. For us."

She's a hurricane of mixed emotions, I know. Her eyes flicker with irritation, but she knows it too.

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