Page 18 of Falling for the Pucking Bad Boy

Yet here he is, finding another way to reach out.

I shoot him a quizzical look, mouthing what are you doing here?”

His grin widens, and he gestures for me to come outside the benches. I immediately shake my head, indicating that I'm not interested, but he persists, holding the note there, and it’s only seconds before we’re discovered.

“What the hell?”

I follow Charles’s voice, speaking the same inner monologue as me, and find the immediate glower plastered on his face toward Wells.

Meanwhile, he hasn’t removed his gaze from me. His muscular frame is evident beneath his black New Brunswick Wolverines tee, symbolizing his team’s allegiance. His cap, worn backward, adds a touch of laid-back style to his overall demeanor, contrasting with the adrenaline-fueled atmosphere of the game.

And I’m shook as all hell.

“Rory.” I cut my immediate glower to Charles because he will not speak to me like that. “What's Wells doing here?" he asks, his tone laced with suspicion.

I shrug, trying to play it off casually. "No idea. Maybe he’s lost."

I know he is here for me despite my blocking and indicating that I want nothing to do with him.

For my father’s sake.

Meanwhile, I would play this scenario out all day if I had it my way. Wells is too damn sexy not to have fun with, and I’ve always found my way into trouble.

"Did you invite him or something?"

“Why would I invite him?”

He pins me with a glare of his own and steers his attention back to Wells, who has finally given him the time of day.

And then Wells waves at him.

“This motherfuck—”

“Gagnon, get on the ice,” my father yells behind us. “We don’t have time for this.”

"He's probably spying on us," Marshall suggests, earning nods of agreement from the others. “Simple asshole.”

Amazing.

Wells has managed to stir up chaos without stepping onto the ice. The fact that the Blizzard teammates are getting involved only adds to the tension brewing behind the bench.

“Focus,” my father leers. “Ignore him.”

I send Wells a pleading look to get out, which he quickly picks up on and points at his number.

I shake my head, and he perks up a brow.

He’s not leaving until I write it down.

Plucking my phone out, I feel the immediate glower of the Blizzard players on me.

“What are you doing?” Marshall barks out, approaching my side, but I stop him when I snap my head over.

“Do you want him to leave?” I clip out. “Because that’s what I’m doing.”

“Don’t call him Rory,” he warns me as if he has any right. “This is so not going to happen. Charles isn’t—”

“I don’t give a shit what Charles wants.”

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