Page 2 of Falling for the Pucking Bad Boy

“I’m pissed,” he agrees. “However, I’m not lookin’ to get suspended either. Coach will have our asses if this makes the press.”

“I’m not doing anything,” I reply innocently, glancing around the bar. “I’m just orderin’ a beer after the game with my bestie.” I pinch his cheek for good measure.

“It’s a load of bullshit,” Elliot mutters. “And he’ll know it. However, I’m all about making Charles Gagnon pay for what he did to our boy, so let’s have a beer and see how long it takes him to make a move.”

I wave the bartender down, some young dude with gauged ears and spiky hair, when he brings over two pink martinis…and places them in front of us.

“I didn’t order this.”

“Came from the dude in the corner,” he says dismissively, grabbing the cloth over his shoulder and wiping down the bar top. “He said Cosmos for the two bitches. Don’t shoot the messenger,” he held his hands up in surrender.

Welp.

So much for having to wait.

“Two shots of tequila,” Elliot states with a leer. “Make them doubles.”

The bartender nods, promptly plucking two shot glasses from behind the bar and quickly filling them. He’s busy; the place is packed, and he doesn’t have time to soften the blow of the delivered insult.

“I’m gonna go take a piss,” I vouch, sliding off my stool before Elliot reaches out to stop me.

“Don’t,” he warns. “Do not throw a fucking punch, Wells.”

“I won’t,” I promise. “However, if he tag teams me—”

“I’ll be watching. We’ll go down together on this, but we’re taking him with us.”

I smack his shoulder lightly. “Thatta boy. I’m gonna go say hello and thank him for the drinks.”

Grabbing both drinks that Charles so graciously bought for us, I make my way through the bustling hub of activity. Every inch of space is occupied as bartenders weave through the crowd with practiced ease, expertly balancing trays of drinks above their heads as they navigate through the sea of bodies.

I told Elliot I wasn’t going to throw a punch.

But I didn’t say that I wasn’t going to toss these drinks in his fucking face, either.

There’s only one corner that Charles could be in, and it’s all the way in the back, to the right—the left leads to the kitchen. I would’ve seen him while walking in because I’d been looking to throw down for over an hour.

My blood hasn’t stopped boiling.

Towering over bodies, I see him with a few familiar faces laughing like an asshole. I was already aware that this is where the Montreal Blizzard hangs out. My teammates and I have run into them a few times here, and since we're in Montreal, it makes sense they’d be here.

Clutching my drinks harder, I make a beeline for his table, and when I’m about to pass the threshold to a clearing where I’ll have full access to him, a small body shoots out in front of me and halts me right in my path.

I almost knock into her but catch myself quickly enough before I glance down to see the most stunning little piece of work I’ve seen in a long time.

And I mean a long time.

Shoulder-length cocoa hair with a perfectly edged jawline and the most exotic-looking, light green eyes I’ve ever fucking seen staring up at me.

She’s absolutely gorgeous.

No, she’s a goddess.

Her face comes right below my shoulders, which checks off one box of mine because I have a thing for short girls. I love how easy they are to move around and how they fit flawlessly in my arms.

And this one…I immediately want her and will do anything to get her there.

“Hi,” she breathes before her lips coil into an even sexier smile. “Sorry. Someone shouldn’t have let me out of the house tonight in heels.”

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