Page 61 of Falling for the Pucking Bad Boy

My phone rings, and Wells’ name displays on my screen.

“Hey,” I greet softly, inhaling another wallop of oxygen because, as much as I know this will pass, it’s still stressful.

“Are you really okay?” he asks, worry laced in his tone. “Are you—”

“I’m good. He’ll get over it.”

“Rory, I’m sorry. I don’t know how they found out. I don’t know—”

“It’s okay,” I mutter. “It was going to happen eventually, anyway, right? Whether that be now or later.”

“I know, but—”

“Please don’t stress out about this. I’m fine. I promise.”

We let the silence sit for a moment, a pause from our running minds, and neither of us was sure what would come next.

"Rory," he says, his voice steadying like he’s found his footing again. "Whatever happens, I'm here for you. I’m not leaving you alone in this.”

"I know," I whisper back.

“I’m crazy about you.”

My lips curve upward. “I know.”

“We’ll get through this.”

“I know that, too.”

“I’ll call you later, baby.”

“You better.”

20

CHAPTER TWENTY

RORY

I'm perched on the edge of my designated seat, the Montreal Blizzard to one side, the New Brunswick Wolverines on the other—only tonight, it's not just the ice; it’s a battleground of epic proportions now that the news is out about Wells and me.

Dad pressed me to be here, to be seen bleeding blue and white and make a spectacle of loyalty for all to witness. But my brain was already crossing enemy lines, and my focus was always latched onto Wells.

The eyes of the Blizzard players slide over me during the game. Their silent treatment is as loud as the fans' roars, but I’d have to give a shit to care. Wells is out there, suiting up in black and gold, and my pulse keeps up in time with his strides on the ice, betraying my true alliance that my father thinks will work.

Cameras scan the crowd like always, but they always seem to land on me. I’ve seen my face on the Jumbotron a handful of times already and have a mixture of cheers, and boos sent my way.

But every time Wells is shown, most of the crowd goes crazy.

I’m starting to think I’m getting booed by every female here.

Wells is poetry in motion, anticipation in every flex of muscle as he navigates through his opponents. I am mesmerized as he receives a pass, his body coiled, ready to spring toward the goalie. He dodges a defender with a beautiful and graceful sidestep, the crowd erupting as he closes in. The Blizzard’s goaltender squares off against him, the last line of defense when Wells pulls right, the puck slipping off his stick, and he hurls it toward the net.

He scores.

The crowd loses its mind, and I feel another set of heavy eyes on me from the cameras. On the bench, the Blizzard are statues, stern and stone-faced, except for their eyes, which track the play with a predatory focus.

They’re pissed.

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