Page 12 of Falling for the Pucking Bad Boy

“No,” Elliott confirms. “However, now that you do, let’s cool it, eh?”

Yeah, that still doesn’t sit well with me.

I can still feel myself inside that woman. Her moans still play ceremoniously in my ears, and I never want them to be droned out.

However, there’s a fine line here.

I know I get myself into some shit weekly, and the last thing I want to do is stress my team out when we’re going for the Cup.

"Watch it, Wells. Rory's off-limits. We don't need any drama with the Blizzard," our captain and the voice of reason, Graham Sinclair, chimes in sternly.

Now, I fucked up.

I’m on everyone’s radar with this chick, and I should be pissed that she never told me who she was.

However, I suppose I wasn’t entitled to that information.

Or was I?

I don’t know the ethical code for shit like that, but I probably still would’ve fucked her as hard as I did last night.

Maybe even harder so her dad could feel it.

“I’m not gonna marry her,” I say to everyone. “Relax.”

Graham isn't having it. He shoots me a warning look that says everything I need to know, along with the words, "Don't push it. I’m not dealing with it.”

Then he pivots and walks out of the locker room, obviously pissed and overwhelmed.

“Lay off, Wells,” Elliott tacks on. “You had your fun.”

I did.

And I want more.

And why should I be subjected to rules over who I mess with?

“Alright, boys,” I hear Coach say in the locker room. “Get some sleep tonight. Let’s sweep ‘em one more game, and then we’re heading out to California.”

I finish changing, tossing a fresh shirt, and grabbing my bag as the guys disperse. The victory adrenaline still pumps through my veins, and I'm itching for some post-game celebration.

“Wells, a word.”

Shit.

Coach’s words whip up my spine, and I’ve crossed a line he’s seen. Usually, he’ll overlook my bullshit and not give me hell for the headlines I cause, but this one, he’s never going to let lie.

The game had been intense, with a clash of rivals on the ice and emotions running high. As the final whistle blew and the celebrations or commiserations began, I couldn't shake off what I had seen earlier. Rory was standing there with that innocent little expression that she didn’t think she would get caught.

“What the hell was that out there?”

Coach is a middle-aged man. His build is a bit heavier, giving him a solid and imposing presence. His gray hair is neatly trimmed, framing a face that carries the marks of experience and wisdom. A thick mustache adorns his upper lip, adding to the air of authority that surrounds him.

“Nothing, Coach,” I reply flatly. “Just saw a fan.”

He lifts a brow. His eyes, though kind, hold a depth of knowledge and determination. They are a warm brown, but now they speak no-nonsense and that I better get my whole fucking life together.

“A fan,” he repeats. “For whom?”

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