Page 66 of Falling for the Pucking Bad Boy

She’s mine.

And I’m hers.

And I’m never letting her go.

Within seconds, Rory finally gives me a reprieve and screams my name as she comes. It triggers mine as I bow over her. The intensity is higher than a hockey victory, and I’d take this over sweating my ass off with a bunch of testosterone idiots choking me out any day.

I fall into a heap at Rory’s side and pull her into me.

I’m speechless and content with just being here.

Being with her.

All the details can be hashed out later.

I’m in love with her, and I want her to know.

22

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

WELLS

I'm lying on my back, watching Rory, half-draped in my jersey, as she continues to pace the room.

Her father called, and I don’t need to hear the words because her body is tense, and she’s clutching the phone like she’s ready to strangle it to death. Not my idea of a morning after a whole night of sex, but leave it to her old man to cock block me.

"Dad, please... listen—"

My gut pulls tight to have to watch this. I respect her dad, sure, but this is utter bullshit that he’s not seeing the other side. Rory is a grown-ass woman, and this will blow over once another headline creeps its way into the public eye about some other silly-ass thing.

I throw back the covers, my feet hitting the floor as I stand. Walking up to her, I hesitate for a second, then wrap my arm around her waist. She leans into me a bit, and I feel the subtle shift, the shared weight of her world. She's strong, but even the strongest players need backup to ensure they’re not completely blindsided.

“I’m not doing that,” she says, becoming rigid again and stepping out of my hold. “That’s too bad.”

I really hate this.

I feel useless—a spectator in a game where her father sets the rules. He’s a legend, but to Rory, he must feel like the opposition in this hotel room. Parents don’t always have to agree with their children, but I’m not a mass murderer. Rory could’ve picked a worse guy to date.

I don’t have that many faults, right? I mean, besides being known as a man-whore.

“You’re not being reasonable,” Rory clips out, gaining my attention again. “This isn’t the end of the world, Dad.”

The furrow between her brows deepens. Her stance tells a tale of years spent trying to please or keep him out of the limelight so that she could measure up to an ideal that wasn't hers.

She’s going against that for me.

I don’t know what to do. Should I love her more or corner her dad and tell him to lay off?

“You don’t get to decide who that is for me,” Rory’s voice cracks, but it’s full of conviction.

I step forward again, my support non-negotiable, but I hold back from touching her again, giving her space to breathe and to battle. She's fierce and unyielding, and the pride in my chest for this woman is overwhelming.

“Then quit,” she leers. “If this is such a big deal—Dad—” The slump of her shoulders is a visual echo of the call’s end, a conversation finished but far from resolved.

Rory’s eyes meet mine, and it’s like looking into the heart of the storm. She is determined, scared, and defiant, and I know I’d weather any storm for her.

“Well, that went as expected,” she says, her attempt at humor falling flat.

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