Page 77 of Falling for the Pucking Bad Boy

I just hope he doesn’t become the third wheel in my relationship with my damn boyfriend.

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CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

WELLS

The second Elliot mentions Rory’s out in the hall, it's like someone's flipped a switch inside me—and now all I can think about is her body and my lips all over it.

The buzz from the win is still there but fades into the background. All the post-game chatter, the high-fives—it all becomes white noise because my ass becomes tunnel-visioned the moment Rory enters my headspace.

I’m still decked out in my sweaty gear, jersey sticking to me like a second skin, pads and all. But I don't care about that, and it doesn't even cross my mind to shed the layers. All that matters is her, seeing her and pressing her against the nearest wall to have some way with her.

I make my way out of the locker room, my strides eating up the distance. I can hardly keep the grin off my face. My heart's doing its post-victory lap as I round the corner, and there she is.

Just standing there, a smile blooming on her face that lights up the whole damn hallway.

And in my fucking jersey again.

That shit will never get old.

And my cock will never get the memo to stop standing to attention every time she’s wearing it.

"Hey," is all I manage, my voice a little rough around the edges.

We close the gap in a few quick steps, and then I pull her in and sandwich her against the wall.

“You know what this does to me, Snowflake,” I mutter over her lips. “I can’t take it.”

“Did you want me to start wearing Cyrus’s? He said he’d give me one—”

“I will kill him if he gives you one,” I ground out. “He knows better.”

She smiles with both her eyes and lips. “I think that’s against the law.”

The sound of my teammates spills out from behind me, still in the locker room fucking around, but it fades away when she's this close. Her presence is more potent than any crowd in any game I've ever played.

“I’ll figure something out.” I lean in to finally kiss her when her palm lands on my chest and wards me off.

“You knew about my father.”

Kind of.

It was a surprise when Coach Sellers strode into the locker room behind me. His eyes immediately cut to me, and I thought it was some sick joke.

But when it was announced that he was the new assistant coach, I almost shit my pants.

“Not until today,” I reply. “I think he’s going to try to have me killed.”

“I think our relationship took another turn,” she emits almost comically. “I think we’re screwed.”

“I’m hoping it’s not that bad. He does have to remain somewhat professional—”

“Wells,” a male voice carps out from behind me, setting my body rigid, but I don’t move from my spot.

Sounds familiar.

Sounds like Coach Sellers.

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