Page 78 of Falling for the Pucking Bad Boy

“Aren’t you supposed to be cooling down?”

The fuck?

Craning my head over my shoulder, and sure as shit, there he is. He's all decked out in black and gold with a New Brunswick hat on as if he’s been on the team forever.

Upper management here didn’t waste any time giving him Wolverine’s gear.

“Just saying hello to my girl, Coach,” I convey quickly.

His eyes remain on me; I assume he wants to see his daughter.

With a silent sigh, I move away and give him access to Rory.

“Hey, Dad.”

Coach Sellers doesn't waste a beat, stepping forward with the kind of command that instantly reminds me why my heart had an impromptu meeting with my throat earlier.

"Wells," he begins, and even now, with his title as 'Dad' within earshot, there's no mistaking the coach in him. "Next time, try showering before hugging the fan base. This isn't a peewee league."

Despite the comment, I can’t help but think of how he’s new here and already throwing around his power. My gut reaction is to throw a defense and tell him she doesn't mind—hell, Rory wouldn’t mind me taking her against this wall right now, but that would only speed up my death sentence.

And he's wearing that hat, that jacket, and he's not just her dad now; he's part of the team. My team.

"Understood, Coach," I reply, my tone carefully neutral because rocking the boat is the last thing I want when he's holding the oars to the following weeks of the season.

"Dad, you're overdoing it.”

Coach Sellers's gaze flicks to Rory, and there's a softening there that I don't believe anyone else would have caught. But having been on the ice, where subtleties mean the difference between victory and defeat, I see it. “Am I? The team's image is as important as its performance.”

“Babe, remember New Brunswick doesn’t allow any press back here until all the players are ready. The last thing they need is a naked ass on camera.” I remind her.

“Is that so?” His focus slices to me. “Is that because of you?”

Surprisingly no.

“Byron, actually,” I reply. “Last year was mine. But it was a full frontal—” Rory’s hand pops me in the gut, alluding to me not to finish that sentence. I chuckle under my breath, trying not to be too amused by the situation. "I'll keep a towel on hand for next time, Coach, promise."

“Keep it on when you have dinner with me and my daughter,” he deadpans, then looks back to Rory. “Tomorrow?”

“You have a game tomorrow,” she reminds him.

“Wells can wake up before noon to eat, can’t he?”

I lift an eyebrow in mock offense, the corner of my lips threatening to betray me with a smile. "I can manage that, Coach."

He doesn't smile, but the edge in his eyes seems to dull. "Good," he says, tilting his head toward Rory. Then he adds, "We'll have a talk. A proper one."

“Which won’t turn into a grill session,” she inserts flatly.

"No promises," he states before he dismisses himself with a nod.

Turning to Rory, I let out a half-joking, resigned sigh. "Looks like your dad just scheduled my wake-up call."

“Looks like I might need to have another talk with him about what he thought he was stepping into.”

“He’ll be good here.”

Her light green eyes flick up at me. “Not for you. He’ll have you so worn out, you won’t remember who I am.”

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