Page 70 of Falling for the Pucking Bad Boy

Awesome.

I resist the urge to roll my eyes, annoyance flaring inside me because this is terrible decorum. But since when do reporters have respect for anything but the story? I’m here to watch Wells play, not to be ambushed by someone looking to make headlines out of my personal life.

“Do I know you?” I press, throwing the ball right back into her court.

She smiles at me and shakes her head. “Not directly. My name is Bianca Miller. I’m from the—”

“Don’t tell me the name of a blog or news outlet,” I scoffed. “Because this isn’t the time.”

“I promise I won’t take up much of your time. I know you’d like to watch your new man play.”

I straighten my posture and set my face into an expression of bored indifference. “You’re wasting your time.”

“I beg to differ. It’s not every day a woman makes Judson Wells settle down. What was your secret?”

She shoves her phone in my face, probably hoping for a quote or any morsel I might carelessly drop, but I'm not in the mood to feed her story. Especially not with Wells on the ice below, gliding into a power play, looking every inch the professional and sexy athlete I know him to be.

"I'm here to watch the game," I say firmly, my attention flicking back to the spectacle below.

The reporter, not one to be so easily deterred, leans in, her perfume a contrast to the scent of popcorn and excitement in the air. "But the public's eager to know—"

"Then they can watch the game," I cut her off, my voice laced with ice. There's a sharpness to my tone, one I've learned from years of navigating my father's business world.

It signals the end of this conversation.

“Miss Sellers—”

“Ma’am, please don’t make me call security,” I threaten, feeling her gaze on me. “Because I’ll snap that all over my blog and show the world how pushy women aren’t a good look.”

She hesitates, lip gloss catching the light as her mouth opens to mount another offense, and I raise an eyebrow, daring her.

She holds her ground for a moment more, but the look I give her is one dipped in Sellers steel, unbending and unwavering. The crowd erupts into another deafening cheer, pushing against us like a wave, breaking her resolve.

"Fine," she utters, at last, the word as clipped as her retreat. "Enjoy the game, Miss Sellers."

With a stiff nod, she gathers herself and melts into the crowd of fans, leaving me with a strange blend of victory and annoyance. I exhale, long and slow, and refocus my attention on Wells.

I understand this is my life now, and it’ll eventually die down, but I’d love to drop-kick that woman anyway.

Maybe I will in my next article.

24

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

WELLS

The idle of the engine fills the silence as we sit in the back of the car we’re in, parked just outside the stadium where the Montreal Blizzard is about to play. I glance at Rory, who has been a statue since we pulled up, staring through the tinted windows at the arena like it's some fortress we're about to storm.

A bye week could've been spent on a beach or holed up in some cozy cabin, preferably naked, but here we are in Pittsburgh with my attempt to break the ice between her and her father.

“Why are we here?”

Her question is already suspicious, and the death grip on my hand already suggests that she knows where her father’s team will be tonight. I should’ve told her sooner, but I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to get her in the car.

“Baby—”

“I can’t see him,” she cuts in, glaring at the building like it’s the one that doesn’t approve of our relationship. “This isn’t the place, Wells.”

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