Page 31 of Falling for the Pucking Bad Boy

She narrows her eyes, but there are no negative feelings behind them. “You think this is going to happen again?”

“I do,” I reply confidently. “I got you intrigued, baby. And I want nothing more than to be right here with you.”

“Why?”

She's got that look in her eyes—like a challenge being laid out on the ice, ready to be taken up.

I take a moment, letting a silence build, like the tension of a pre-game locker room minus the heavy rallying of male voices and grunts.

"Why?" I echo back, my voice low and even, teasing out the anticipation. "Because you're the most interesting person I've met in a long time. Because you’re not charmed by my hockey persona or what I could give you.”

I snag a fry from the box and offer her a peace offering, and a promise rolled into one.

I watch as the corners of her mouth tilt upward again, and the silver screen's glow dances across her features. "Interesting, huh?" she says, her tone airy, almost disbelieving. “You make it sound like I’m a painting in an art gallery.”

I chuckle and ignore her off-handed comment to get to the real stuff. “Interesting, mysterious... and kind of intimidating with that hockey pedigree of yours."

She bites into the fry.

"Well," Rory starts. “As long as you keep bribing me with food, you might just keep me around."

Her words are playful, yet I catch a shimmer of truth in her eyes.

"Deal. But just so you know," I lean in closer, closing the gap, “it's not just about keeping you around." I let my hand brush against hers, a moment of daring contact that I soak in and lavish. "It's about getting to know the real you, the hidden you, when you're in the stands or dodging your dad's playbook at home. I bet he tried to keep his leash on you—a tight one.”

Her hand lingers against mine, not pulling away. “And you think I stayed on it?”

I smirk because, of course, she didn’t.

There’s a rebellious streak in Rory. She might be conscious of her father’s thoughts about her being with me, but that’s only because I'm THE WORST person she could be with right now.

Coach Sellers breathed, lived, and dreamed hockey just as much as me, if not more, and for longer. There is no sugarcoating what is going on right now.

We’re forbidden as fuck, but I wanted her way before I knew her name or whose daughter she was.

“I’m flattered that you’re doing this with me,” I mutter. “I’m not taking it for granted. I know how nervous you are.”

“He has a lot on his plate.”

“I bet he does.”

“And I don’t want to mess it up for him.”

“I know you don’t.”

“So, this has to stay low-key. Or I can’t do it.”

I’m not a huge fan of that answer.

I feel cheap about it.

I've played under numerous constraints—physical limits, rules of the game, coaches’ strategies—yet this feels different. It's not a play or a temporary setback; it's a stifling box that Rory's world is pressing on us, and I'm trying to size up whether I can fit without losing parts of myself.

But I won’t lose this with her.

Even if I have to pretend she doesn’t exist to others.

To me, she does.

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