Page 62 of Falling for the Pucking Bad Boy

There's no separating me from the narrative now—Rory, the coach’s daughter, is caught in a storm of controversy while the game rages on. I watch Wells get high-fived, but never once does he steal a glance at me.

And I know it’s to save my ass from my father, who has been watching him like a hawk.

However, I’m craving one of his glances like a next high.

“Why don’t you eye-fuck him some more, Rory, and see if he pays attention.” My jaw clenches at the sound of Brandon’s voice, and I wish there were some way to telepathically tell Wells to check him in the board the next time he hits the ice. “Did you at least get some secrets?” He sits beside me, taunting my patience, and I wish he’d buzz off and focus on his game. “Something that was, at least, helpful?” he asks sarcastically.

I slowly turn my head toward him, my eyes throwing daggers. “Don’t you have a game to lose?”

His face turns murderous. “Lose? Are you so dick-whipped that you forgot who’s the better team?”

“Did you get hit in the head too many times today?”

He smirks, suddenly undeterred. "Oh, come on," he needles further, leaning in as if sharing confidences in a plan we made up together. "You’re in the perfect position to help us out. A little pillow talk, some strategy slips—"

"Shut up,” I cut him off with a hiss, my voice low and dangerous. "I'm here to support my dad, not to be your mole. So back off and get away from me.”

Brandon holds up his hands in mock surrender, but his cocky smile never leaves his face. "Sure, sure. I mean…you wouldn’t want a story to go around that you’re using Wells or anything for us. That’d be bad.”

That sounds like a threat.

I glance toward my father, who’s absorbed in the game but still maintains peripheral vigilance over Wells’ actions.

“That’d sound really bad for this team, don’t you think? Oh, I see; you can’t win without cheating?” I remark with a cocky laugh.

“I think you better shut your mouth, Ror Ror, because you’re not doing yourself any favors?”

“And what are you going to do about it?”

“You remember what we did to Cyrus Archer, right?”

Another threat, and it hangs heavy in the air.

“That sounds like a good story that the media would eat up,” I begin to fish my cell phone out of my pocket. “Would you mind saying that again?”

Brandon tightens, coiled like a spring—a hint of uncertainty flashes across his face. He’s clearly not used to being called out or having his bluffs challenged. He rises from the bench, taking his threats with him, and walks away without another word—ones he abruptly realizes he doesn't want on record.

With a small, victorious smile tugging the corner of my lips, the game is winding down now, the last desperate plays unfolding on the ice.

Out of habit, I check my phone for messages on my social media and see a trending storyline.

About me.

Trouble in Parad-ice? Daughter of rival coach and playboy Judson Wells have ignored each other all game.

The article speculates wildly about our secret being leaked and how much pressure it’s put on us, suggesting that we’ve probably broken up over it.

It's just a story trying to get likes and comments.

Public speculation doesn't have to dictate our love. Whether we acknowledge it or not, fight it or embrace it—our story isn't theirs to tell.

No one knows what lies underneath my overly baggy t-shirt. That I’ve already speculated the crap stories that were going to take place sitting on this side of the arena. Sitting with Dad and the Blizzard was the perfect set-up for them to say there were problems with Wells and me. The idea that I would be here, supporting my dad like I always do, isn’t going to trend. Because common sense and genuine loyalty don't draw in viewers like the contrived chaos, they're so eager to sell.

It’ll flop.

The Jumbotron lands on me again as Wells helps block a goal.

This is going to piss Dad off to no end.

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