Page 63 of Falling for the Pucking Bad Boy

However, I’m ready to kill the narrative of our relationship being so weak that we can’t handle the publicity.

I push myself off the bench, feeling every eye in the stands drawing towards me like I’m about to pull some crazy stunt, and I suppose I am. The Blizzard shirt has been my armor all night, a cover, a decoy, but beneath it, there’s truth pressed against my skin.

The air is electric, charged with anticipation as I stride up to the glass. My fingers catch the hem of my shirt. A sharp, decisive tug and it’s gone, the symbol of one loyalty surrendered to reveal another.

The cameras find me the instant the fabric is clear from my head, and my heart hammers. Underneath, Wells’s jersey clings to me, his name bold and unapologetic across my back.

The stadium feels like it sucks in a collective breath.

And then sheer chaos erupts from the arena. The wild disbelief of cheers all swirl into a storm of noise. But I'm at the eye of it, calm and dead center as I stand there with Wells’s name for all to see.

Out on the ice, Wells pivots, trying to catch the play the whole stadium seems to be reacting to. Reid elbows him in the ribs, then nods in my direction. The world collides with his gaze when his eyes finally snap to me.

And it's all there.

My answer is loud and clear; no words are needed—my statement to every whisper and wondering thought written tonight. In defiance of the rumors, in challenge to every sidelong glance, I own our story in the most public way possible.

I own him and vice versa.

Tonight, I’m team Wells all the way. Judging by the commotion flying off these arena walls, so is everyone else, whether they like it or not.

I can’t help the grin that spreads across my face watching him. There's pride and something close to relief as Wells begins to skate towards me slowly.

I did it.

No turning back now—oops.

I've chosen my side, and it's with him. It's bold, impulsive, maybe, but it feels like victory.

So, what’s our next play, Wells?

His strides are confident, with each push of his skates against the ice drowning out the noise, the game, and the world.

He meets me at the glass, our divider, and connection simultaneously. Eyes locked on mine, he lifts his gloved hand and presses it to the barrier between us.

The cheers around us swell, and fans react not just to the game anymore but to us. This moment is as real as anything that's happened on the ice.

I press my hand against the cold glass, mirroring him before I wink.

He smiles and points at me, then makes his gloves into a makeshift heart, claiming for the whole arena that I’m his.

And he’s mine.

Despite the glass, it's as close to perfect as I can imagine.

He skates back into the game and to his team, and I stand, still brimming with the adrenaline of our decision made public. The jersey on my back suddenly feels like a target from the guys next to and behind me, but I don’t care.

I just gave my middle finger to the world to try me again.

Wells and I are together—period, end of story.

I’d love for the media to come back from that.

21

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

WELLS

---