Page 74 of Falling for the Pucking Bad Boy

“Seriously,” he replies. “We’ll talk more about this later.”

Rory rocks her head back and forth again. “No. This is not my problem anymore. You can either come to terms with it or not. There’s nothing else to speak about. I’ve made up my mind. It’s time to make up yours.”

The finality in Rory's voice leaves no room for argument, even from a man as stubborn as her father.

Coach Sellers’s jaw works silently, the gears of stubbornness and paternal concern grinding against the reality of his daughter's resolve. It's clear that conceding isn't in his playbook, but neither is losing his relationship with Rory.

His eyes flicker to me, then back to his daughter, and there’s an unspoken conversation in that brief locking of gazes. I stand firm, supporting without overshadowing, because this isn't my request to deliver—it's Rory's.

"Fine," he finally grunts, the word sounding like it's being dragged out of him. “I’ll let you know what I decide.”

“Fine,” Rory returns, lifting her chin. “Then I’ll talk to you later, Dad.”

Then she pivots toward the door and leaves me with her old man.

It's not where I want to be, but here we are.

"We're not your enemies, sir,” I state. “Maybe on the ice, but not off it. I love your daughter. I will take care of her and make her the happiest woman alive. My past doesn’t live here anymore. I hope, in time, you'll come to see that."

My parting words aren’t an olive branch, but they’re not a challenge either; they’re a simple statement of fact.

It's his loss if he doesn’t want to accept that.

But my ass isn’t going anywhere.

25

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

RORY

As I sit at another New Brunswick home game, the arena is alive with excited energy. But a singular force roots me to my seat amongst the chaos and chants.

Wells.

A presence that no one in this arena could ignore if they tried.

And I’m not trying at all.

I watch as he navigates through the opposing team. The boy acts like he was born with skates on, and, once in a while, our eyes meet across the white expanse, a silence amidst the noise. The corner of his mouth quirks up in a mischievous grin before he throws me a wink that sets my heart racing and the crowd louder than they were before as if it were for them.

There’s even a woman who yells out that she’ll take him for the ride of his life, and I can’t help but smile.

Poor thing.

The second period ends, and if the winks sent my way weren't audacious enough, Wells executes a half-ass pirouette. It's a move so out of place on the ice that it can only be an extravagant show meant for me.

I can't help the laugh that bubbles up in my chest as he skates over, padded glove pressed into the glass, and then I see it.

An orange Post-it note.

He leaves it plastered there and skates backward and away from the glass. I rise to get a closer look and see the scribble of his handwriting.

I win the next three games, and you say yes to anything I want.

Only Wells.

The woman next to me has also risen from her seat to look at what the note says, and I swear, my cheeks flush hot as I’m too frozen to stop her, but a part of me doesn’t want to.

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