Page 40 of Falling for the Pucking Bad Boy

The fuck?

I reach for his phone immediately, but he yanks the damn thing away like it’s his most prized possession, and I’m seconds away from breaking his damn arm.

"Don't start, Preston,” I hear Reid drone, sounding bored and uninterested. “Or I won’t stop him when he busts your lip.”

The motherfucker ignores him and smiles at me. I tell you what, it won’t be his lip I go for first.

It’s going to be his balls.

Preston steals another glance at his phone. "Big dude, tattoos, one of those smiles that makes even me a bit jealous."

Rage and jealousy claw their way up my gut, threatening to spill over in a torrent of words or even something more primal.

And I’m about to beat Preston’s ass if he doesn’t let me see.

“Do you wanna die tonight, Carillo?” I leer through clenched teeth. “Because I’ll do it right the fuck here.”

“You're on a social detox, my friend. And you have to respect her privacy.”

This son of a bitch.

“How about I respect your right to have your head implanted in a locker?” I grind out, clenching my readied fists into tight balls.

He tsks at me as if I can’t do it and haven’t done it before. I could do a cheap shot when he isn’t looking, but I aim to do it while he is. “And here I was about to let you see it out of bro-code.”

Elliott's hand comes down on my shoulder, a silent counsel to restrain myself. "He's riling you up, Judson. And you're letting him."

Preston's laughter confirms Elliott's warning, but it does little to quell the storm brewing within me. I shake Elliott's hand off and step back, breathing heavily because I’m about to lose it.

It doesn’t change a thing. I got this.

But it does, and I don’t.

It changes my image of her, possibly finding happiness in someone else's arms, someone who's not me. It changes the tightrope I've been walking on since Vegas—it frays, shakes, and threatens to snap it from under my feet.

I snatch my jacket from my locker, slinging it on with more force than necessary. "I'll see it for my fucking self."

“How?” Elliots asks. “She blocked you, dude.”

“I mean, she’s going to be at some sort of party tomorrow night,” Preston alludes placidly. “If you wanna see—” This time, I snatch his phone out of his grasp at lightning speed and hold it for dear life.

And there she is.

A photo of Rory, her smile lighting up my world like the flash of a goal light, but she's not alone. There's some guy with a smirk I've come to loathe, even without knowing him. His arm is slung around her with a familiarity that sends a jolt of possessiveness through me. The smirk plastered on his face, I know it well.

Cocky, self-assured—that pretty smile a challenge etched in his GQ model features.

I’d kill his ass on the ice and off. Jealousy rears its ugly head, and the emotion is foreign to me.

I used to be that guy—no, I am that guy, but this is new territory. It’s not the healthy competitiveness in the rink; it’s messier. I’ve never bothered with jealousy before. I was too busy being the object of envy, not the one doing it.

And I’m not a fan of this new feeling.

I didn’t mind before that Rory wasn’t the biggest Wolverine fan, but now I want her to be. I want my number on the back of her jersey, like a brand that belongs to me and only me.

But Rory isn’t just anyone. She’s the game-changer. The rule-breaker. She’s the one who matters.

Clenching my jaw, I forcibly relax my fingers, unwilling to give anyone the satisfaction of seeing me truly rattled. I hand the phone back with a scowl to Preston, feeling the weight of his gaze on me as I try to deflect.

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