Page 82 of Falling for the Pucking Bad Boy

Son of a bitch.

“Why?”

Coach cocks his head to the side. “Why? Did you want me to list all the reasons—”

“Yes.”

He stares at me for a moment, then places down his beer. “You’re not good enough for her.”

“Who is?”

“And I don’t know you yet.”

“I’ve had dinner with you every Friday night for over two months. What else do you want to know?”

“I don’t want my daughter to go through marriage alone while you’re on the ice for the next five years of your contract with New Brunswick. It’s hard.”

"And why would I make her go through it alone?" I counter, holding his gaze with a level of sincerity I hope is breaking through the ice. "I'm not asking Rory to do this without knowing the challenges. We've talked about it. She knows what my career entails, and we’re a team, Coach. Just like on the ice, no one wins alone."

He’s silent again and assessing. It's his move, and I've laid out the best play I have to get his approval because, without it, it leaves a bunch of shit in my way.

"Look, Coach," I say, voice firm. "I'm not saying it's going to be easy. But I love her. Enough to ensure we find a way to handle the stress, the travel, everything. Together. And if that means off-season marriage counseling or scheduling every second, I’m off the ice to be with her, then that's what I'll do."

His eyes, still locked with mine, seem to soften just a fraction. "You think you've got all the answers, don't you, Wells?"

“If I don’t have them, I’ll find them. I'm not claiming to be perfect, but I'm ready to be the best for her."

Coach's gaze holds steady on mine a moment longer before drifting away, a tell that maybe my words are getting through. He picks up his beer again but doesn't drink it; he rolls the cold bottle between his hands. It's a silent admission that this battle isn't one he can win by sheer will.

"I suppose it's not up to me, in the end," he finally concedes, and while it's not an out-and-out blessing, there's a truce in his tone that wasn't there before. "But so, help me, Wells, if you let her down…I’m good at making people’s lives a living hell. And your ass is in my hands at all times.”

I don't know how I feel about that analogy, but alright.

"I won't, Coach. You have my word."

For a long moment, the only sound in the kitchen is the fridge's hum. Then he nods once, sharply, more to himself than to me.

"All right," he says, setting his beer on the counter with finality. "Go on, then."

“I have your blessing?”

“You have my permission to ask.”

“With your blessing?”

His eyes narrow. “Do I look like the fuckin’ Pope to you, boy?”

With those sharp words, I'm released—not just from the tension of his kitchen and our stalemate over beers, but into a future I've been itching to jump into since the day I knew Rory was the one.

“Thanks, Coach. I look forward—”

“I wouldn’t just yet.” He pushes off the counter and hovers over the dining room table. “I’m not making it easy for you.”

I wouldn’t expect anything different.

“Then I’ll go start my plan then,” I divulge, rising from my chair. “I’ll have her tell you the news before it’s released to the public.”

“How about you keep a secret? Forever.”

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