Page 81 of Falling for the Pucking Bad Boy

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CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

WELLS

Two months later…

The muffled echo of the crowd's final cheers still rings in my ears long after the Stanley Cup is hoisted, the champagne sprayed, and the locker room celebration fades into memory. I've got another championship etched into my resume and a mission that's been burning a hole in my pocket for over two months.

And now, I’m standing in Coach Sellers’s kitchen in Montreal, helping him box up the rest of his stuff to his new home in New Brunswick. Coach Sellers leans back against his counter, taking a swig from his beer and being the very picture of nonchalance.

That beer in his hand? It's as much a prop as a nod to my past party days, a silent jab reminding me I've got a grown-up game to play here.

I take a sip of the water he gave me without asking and clear my throat. "Coach," I say, trying to wear my most leisurely smile. "About Rory and me..."

“No.”

My brows clash together. “No, what?”

“Whatever you’re about to add to that sentence, the answer is no.”

Bullshit.

I knew this wasn’t going to be easy.

Hell, I knew it would be one of the hardest things I would do. But I’m not taking no for a fucking answer, am I?

"No?" I echo, trying to keep my voice steady, the muscles in my jaw working to chew back the tidal wave of impatience.

"Yeah, no." Coach's voice is as flat as his sense of humor. As a group, my team loves to fuck around with each other.

He’s not a fan.

However, he also needs to get used to the fact that we’re not a bunch of players who play with a stick up our asses like his previous team.

I lean my elbows on his dining room table, giving myself a full view of the man who's been the iron gate to this all happening.

"Look, I didn't come here to play games," I say, meeting that gaze head-on. "You know I'm serious about her. And here I am, asking for your blessing like a man because that's what Rory deserves."

His brows clash with a look of disapproval. “My permission for what?”

My God, this guy.

It’s like pulling teeth to converse with him, and I’m starting to think it’s just his personality.

And I thought I was all hockey all the time.

“I want to marry—”

"You think winning a shiny piece of metal gives you a free pass?" Coach Sellers's voice has a new hard edge, but it's not shut-down angry—it's challenge-issued.

I can work with this.

"No," I respond, shaking my head with a calm I barely feel. "I think loving your daughter, respecting your rules, and coming here face-to-face gives me, at least, a shot at that pass. I've proved I'm different from the guy who partied too hard.

“By asking me to marry her?” I open my lips, but he beats me with, “I don’t think so.”

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