Page 52 of Falling for the Pucking Bad Boy

And, in a way, he hasn’t.

No one has ever had the balls to hang out with someone from the Montreal Blizzard, nor have we wanted to.

However, no Blizzard players or staff are as hot as Rory Sellers.

“Besides,” Cyrus continues. “Preston is concerned.”

My brow pinches. “What?”

“You talk about this girl, but we don’t know her,” Morgan states matter-of-factly. “We want to make sure she’s up to snuff before we allow—” I snap my neck to him, already tired of his bullshit and playing into this narrative.

“I don’t need your permission.”

He lifts a cocky brow at me. “Don’t you, though?”

No.

And my glare speaks for itself because never once have they given me shit for who I fuck or hang out with.

Of course, this is the first time they and I are involving our biggest rival.

“I don’t mind,” Rory cuts in before I can tell Morgan and everyone else to go fuck themselves. “Prepare to be bowled over by my exceptional ability to turn gutter balls into an art form."

Cyrus chuckles, and I don’t know what to think of this.

They will pepper her with questions and try to break her down. Get every little detail about what she’s trying to do here and how that will be for the team.

I feel sorry for them already.

17

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

RORY

The thunderous clash of pins fills the air, a symphony of strikes and spares that's surprisingly comforting. The team has rented out the bowling alley.

Wells is beside me one moment, gone the next, high-fiving teammates or fetching us drinks, but his hand in mine or on my lower back is a constant reminder that he is trying his best to show me that he’s all in.

He hasn't kissed me, hasn't brought his lips anywhere near mine, and that restraint is a tease that I’m going to make him pay for later because it’s driving me absolutely crazy.

The team is a wall of muscle and jokes. I expected cold shoulders or at least some skepticism when it came to me, but they've been nothing but inviting—genuinely good guys despite whatever reservations they might have about Wells and me. They cheer when I score a meager spare and groan when Wells knocks down pin after pin effortlessly.

I like them.

Looking at Wells, I see him laughing, his face alive with a boyish smirk that's downright infectious. My stomach flutters, but the good kind of flutter—the kind that makes you sing along to blaring love songs in the car. That’s Judson Wells.

Mellow, calm, and easy.

If you take out the rivalry crap.

“You kept the paparazzi away so that they didn’t see how bad you sucked, right?”

Wells narrows his eyes at me as he approaches from just taking his turn, but a playful smile plays along the corners of his lips. “I just got a spare, woman. And I’d like to note that I am beating you.”

“I’m not even trying.”

His whole face lifts, clearly not buying into that load of crap. “Oh yeah? Wanna make a wager on the next game?”

---