Page 50 of Falling for the Pucking Bad Boy

"Girl, the best things in life are complicated. But they're worth it. You're worth it."

“But is this worth it?”

“Do you think it’s worth it? Does he make you happy?”

Yes.

I bob my head, and she smiles wider at me.

"Good. Now, let's focus on what you're going to wear because babyyyy…” Something evil glimmers in her eyes, and I know exactly what she wants to do. She wants to torture Wells. “I have a dress that he will die over.”

“I’m not trying to assassinate the man.”

“You should. He’ll never be caught with a group of girls again.”

I run a hand down my face because Chloe doesn’t need a gun.

She has heels.

16

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

WELLS

The crowd's roar still rings as I strip off my hockey gear. The weight of the protective pads falls away, but the heaviness of anticipation quickly takes place. I can still taste victory from tonight’s game with Boston, but I’d be lying if I said my thoughts are entirely on the win.

No, they are on Rory.

She's here in Boston to see me, and I can’t get my shit off quick enough.

“What’s the rush, friend?” I hear Cyrus muse as I pass him in a hurry. “You look like you’re late for something.”

“A date with your mom, asshole,” I bark back, leaving him behind in the locker room.

I shower quickly, impatiently almost, as if the hot water could wash away the time between now and when I'll see her.

Throwing on jeans and a button-down when I’m done, I barely look in the mirror to see what I look like before making my way out of the arena. The boys clap with shit about where I’m going and what hot date—other than Cyrus’s mom—I have, but I ignore them. The usual post-game exhaustion is nowhere to be found, replaced by a buzz that makes me feel like I could skate another three periods if it meant seeing her sooner.

The cool Boston evening air hits me as I exit the players' entrance, and there she is, waiting.

My heart doesn't just skip a beat; it slams into the boards with the force of a body check. Taking a deep breath, I prepare for the best part of my night—something better than any goal I've scored.

Her.

Our eyes meet, and that’s all the confirmation I need that she’s in this. That I’m not imagining this shit.

Her black leather jacket is the kind of classic piece you know she threw on without a second thought, but it works because she looks hot and badass. The black leggings are her go-to, easy to move in—and easy to take off—and a pair of tall black leather boots.

Her hair is doing its own thing, loose and free, maybe with a few strands playfully out of place from the breeze.

Her smile’s the real deal breaker, though—the kind that could probably get half the guys in Boston tripping over their feet to get to her.

But tonight, that smile is for me.

“You’re lookin’ good, baby,” I greet, soaking her in at a snail’s pace. “Are you my ride?”

“I’m not sure,” she replies with a wider quirk on her lips. “I was hopin’ you’d be mine, though.”

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