Page 23 of Falling for the Pucking Bad Boy

Showing up like I did in New York isn’t the worst thing I’ve ever done. I knew it’d stir the pot, and she’d sit with the team.

However, I get what she’s saying. Her father is hardcore, and I could see him flipping his lid at my presence.

Which he did.

I can only imagine the shit he gave Rory for my second round of trying to see her again, and it’s not going to work in my favor if I keep doing it.

And she hasn’t blocked my number yet, so there’s that.

I tighten the laces on my skates. This is not the time or place to be thinking about Rory. My team's season is moving at a blistering pace, and we're in the zone, finding our rhythm on the ice like never before.

Our goal is crystal clear, as it is for every team out there—to win the Stanley Cup. It's the culmination of years of hard work, dedication, and sacrifice. I owe it to my teammates to be focused and present and give my all on the ice every game.

We practice our butts off, pushing ourselves to the limit day in and day out. Each game is a battle, and we play like it's our last, leaving everything out on the ice. There are no breaks and no room for mistakes. Every time we step onto that rink, it's all about the win.

As I step out onto the ice, the crowd's roar and the adrenaline pumping through my veins fuel my determination. I block out everything else, including thoughts of Rory, and focus solely on the game ahead.

The puck drops, and we're off, skating with precision and purpose. The Thunderbolts put up a tough fight, but we're relentless, pushing forward with every ounce of energy we have. It's a fierce battle, a clash of titans, and I'm in my element, giving my all for my team.

Ultimately, we emerge victorious, the scoreboard reflecting our hard-earned win. The cheers of the crowd and the camaraderie of my teammates wash over me, a reminder of why I play this game—for the love of hockey and the thrill of victory.

As I skate off the ice, exhaustion mingling with exhilaration, I push aside thoughts of Rory again. It's all about the team, the next game, and ultimately, the pursuit of that elusive Stanley Cup.

But she breaks into that when I get to my locker and find her text message waiting for me.

RORY: You won.

WELLS: When can I fly you out?

RORY: I never agreed to that.

Little vixen snowflake.

I've been with my fair share of women; there’s no denying that. Flings and one-night stands blur into a hazy memory.

But Rory is different.

She's not just another conquest or another name on a list. She's someone who sticks with me, who occupies my thoughts long after one encounter.

And I can’t figure out why.

We're treading in dangerous water. Our lives are entwined in a web of competition and tension. But there's an undeniable chemistry between us, a pull that I can't resist.

She’s like me.

Her eyes spark with mischief, her laughter dances in the air, and her every word and glance challenges me.

She knows the risks, just as I do. The complications, the potential fallout. And yet, the temptation is too strong to ignore. It's like skating on thin ice, exhilarating and dangerous. It’s a thrill that I find myself drawn to over and over again.

WELLS: OK, three games then.

A voice of reason whispers in my mind—the Stanley Cup, my team, our goals. I can't afford to lose focus and jeopardize everything we've worked for.

RORY: You’re never going to stop, are you?

WELLS: Are you saying you don’t want to see me because of the shit hand we’ve been given? Or because you don’t like me.

She doesn’t answer immediately, so I continue to take off my gear and hang it up. We'll spend one more night here, and then we’ll be back on the road again.

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