Page 32 of Falling for the Pucking Bad Boy

“Low-key it is.”

Her brows collapse a bit. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah,” I reply with firmness to my tone. “This is going to happen again, Rory. Because there's a lot more to both of us than a hockey game rivalry and whatever this is…" I gesture around the dim interior of the SUV, “I’ll take it all. And, for as long as you want to keep this a secret, I’m down.”

Rory's gaze holds mine, thoughtful, maybe even hopeful. "I'll hold you to that.”

And in that bubble, for those hours, rivalries and rules fade into the background—into a blur of focus that centers solely around her: Rory, with her light laughter and guarded heart—the rival coach’s daughter. The girl who's got me playing this game off the ice now, and damn if I don't want to win it just as much.

"Good. Because I'm counting on you, or this isn’t going to work."

I hold her gaze, feeling the stakes rise higher than in any playoff game's final seconds. I shift a bit closer, collecting the bags and wrappers spread out between us. I toss the trash into the bin outside our car. I catch a glimpse of Rory popping a mint into her mouth as I lean back into the car. I smile at her, and she offers me one. I laugh and shake my head no. She shoves it back at me and says, “Are you sure? There were a lot of onions on those burgers.”

“Damn, well, if you insist.” We both laugh, and I hope this means what I think it does.

This moment is all about timing—about reading her signals like it’s my damn job—literally.

"I think this will happen again because—for me—once isn't enough. Especially not with you," I murmur, the words soft but carrying weight.

Our eyes lock, and I notice a subtle drop in her guard as if she's slowly pulling back the curtains to reveal more of herself. Her breath catches a silent invitation. The screen's flickering light provides just enough illumination to highlight the contours of her face, casting a play of light and shadow that adds to the magic of the moment.

Leaning closer, I lower my voice to just above a whisper. "Rory, if I'm stepping over the line, just tell me to fuck off, okay? But I don't think I can wait until next time to do this..."

Without waiting for an answer, I close the distance between us—a slow, gentle coaxing. My hand finds the side of her face, my thumb grazing her cheek as I tilt my head. Her eyes flutter closed, and that's all the confirmation I need.

Our lips meet in a soft collision, careful and calculated, like the exact opposite of the first time. Our initial meeting was fast and needy, greedy, and uncalculated. But, in the here and now, I need Rory to understand I’m serious.

About this—whatever that is—and us.

Rory responds, her hesitation melting away like ice under spring sunshine, and her lips are fire against mine. Her hand rests on my chest, a light touch that slams my heart against my ribs. It's tentative, exploring—two people testing the strength of the boundaries set by other people’s standards.

The kiss deepens, unhurried, as if time has been benched for us to savor this moment. In the quiet cocoon of my car, everything else fades out—the movie soundtrack, the crunch of gravel under tires, and even the rustling of the occupants in the cars around us.

There's just us, and the warmth passing between us says there will definitely be a next time.

Pulling away—reluctantly—there's an audible breath, a release as if we've both conceded a point in the same move. Her eyes meet mine again, and I see the crack in the hesitation I’ve been waiting for.

"You're full of surprises, Wells," she whispers with a small smile.

"Yeah," I reply, my smile broad and unguarded. "And if you think that was something, just wait until our next date."

“Where do we go after this?”

“I take you home like a gentleman, which I’m not, but will be for you.”

She hums, not buying into that comment one fucking bit. “If that’s what you want.”

“It’s not what I want but what I need. I keep stealing moments like this, and I might get a little obsessive.”

“You?” Rory quirks a brow. “I highly doubt that one, Killer.”

“Let’s not test the theory, yeah? Unless you want to see the result, I’m here for it.”

“I’ve seen this movie,” she replies, then turns her head. “Why don’t we go to my hotel and order room service.”

“You’re hungry again?”

“I’m always hungry.” Her eyes fall to my lips seductively, and I am about to pop a tent in my jeans.

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