Page 69 of Falling for the Pucking Bad Boy

I'm seated in the stands of the Atlanta stadium; the crowd's buzz is a constant hum in my ears. My phone vibrates again in my pocket, another call I won't answer. It's been over a week of dodging my father's attempts to reach me. Each time the screen lights up with his name, I feel the pinch of guilt, but a stubborn resolve overshadows it. I need this time, this space.

I need what he’s unwilling to give—and that’s support.

My eyes track Wells on the ice. It’s a strange feeling, focusing on just him while the game whirls on. His movements are a language I've come to understand, one that spells determination and passion. He's in his element, a graceful force to be reckoned with, and he’s sexy as hell doing it.

Now and then, I catch him stealing glances my way. There's a secret kind of thrill in knowing his eyes search for mine, even amid the chaos of fans and the roar that won’t die down.

Ignoring Dad's calls might be the wrong play, but I can't pull myself out of this life I'm starting to build with Wells. Being here, feeling the crowd's collective breath, hearing the slice of skates on ice—I'm a part of something vibrant and beautifully unpredictable.

My fingers grip the edge of my seat with each near-miss and shot on goal. I cheer along with the strangers around me, united for these moments by the game, by the rush of potential victory lingering in each pass Wells makes. I ride the waves of tension and release, my heart thundering, and life outside this arena feels distant, almost inconsequential.

Another vibration in my pocket snaps me out of focus and irritates me. It's ridiculous, this staunch disapproval, this black-and-white world my father lives in where the heart has no say and life is a series of plays to be executed perfectly. How something as simple as love can be deemed inappropriate just because of a hockey rivalry is beyond me.

If anything, it’s giving the Montreal Blizzard more press. More headlines and more money rolling into the stands.

You’re welcome, guys.

Wells’s jersey flashes as he makes a sharp turn, a beacon in the whirlwind of motion, and it hits me—how can something that feels so right be viewed as something so wrong? How can watching the man I love do what he’s born to do possibly be a mistake?

I’d bet a million dollars that my father hasn’t considered how we are together. His reluctance to see it for what it is. It is a price I’m willing to pay, even though it gnaws at me still.

I’m not blind to the costs. It sucks. My dad and I have always been close, so I thought after a week or so, he’d lose the vendetta and come around.

I gave him too much credit.

As Wells skates across the ice, a living embodiment of grace and fierce determination, I can feel his concern for me even from this distance. He's attuned to my moods, often catching my eye with a silent question etched in his expression. The game is his focus, but still, a part of him remains with me, vigilant and protective. He doesn't want to be the cause of a rift between my father and me, a potential wedge that wasn't there before. Even though he says nothing aloud, I know he harbors the worry even when I tell him I’m more than fine. I'm sure where I stand—in the ranks of Wells's supporters, my loyalty is clear and unwavering for the whole world to see.

Wells checks another player against the boards. Watching him, I reaffirm my inner strength, knowing this storm is one for my father to weather alone.

I’m not changing my mind.

Especially now that Wells told me he loved me. A girl will not throw that away because her father is having a temper tantrum.

Not if she’s smart.

Even with my father's clamor of disapproval and the media's unrelenting spotlight that feasts on our so-called forbidden relationship, my resolve doesn't waver. As the game unfolds before me, punctuated by the crowd's roar and the bite of steel on ice, I have an unwavering certainty: I’m in this for the long haul.

This isn't a passing whimsical affair. It's the kind of commitment that's been missing in my life, from secret trips to the inevitable night at the bar. I understand the gravity of what we're up against- the spectacle it has become in the public eye, but that does nothing to deter my feelings for the man who just winked at me on the ice.

Lord, help me.

He’s going to continue to spin my world on its axis.

And I am down for this ride.

“Miss Sellers, may I have a word?”

I’m surprised I hear my name through the roaring crowd as I see a blonde trading places with a middle-aged man sitting there drinking his beer and enjoying the game. He looks annoyed.

Quirking a brow, she plops into the seat next to me. Her attire is a dead giveaway that she’s not a fan.

A tight blue dress hugs her lean body, and her makeup is overly done for something like this.

She’s a reporter.

“Can I help you?” I solicit flatly, daring her with my eyes to carry on what she thought she would accomplish here.

“I wanted to ask you how you were doing?” she replies. “Especially after the public display last week with your father.”

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