Page 10 of Falling for the Pucking Bad Boy

I quickly glanced at the note, which he somehow managed to get at the end of the game, and scribbled his phone number.

I feel the weight of the entire Blizzard team's eyes on me. It's as if they all think I've already done something wrong just by being noticed by Wells.

But if they only knew what else I’ve been doing with the New Brunswick Wolverine’s defenseman, it’d be a scandal.

My cheeks flush with embarrassment, but deep down, I can't deny the thrill of the forbidden.

I shake my head at him, not because I don’t want his number, but because he shouldn’t be here. Every Blizzard player’s pride is pricked from the loss, and the last thing they will want to see is him around here.

Such an asshole.

“Get outta’ here, Wells,” Brandon Letters barks out at him as he approaches the bench. He’s Charles’s little butt buddy. He’s always following Charles around and sticking up for him. Many times, he even takes the rap for Charles’ actions.

Wells winks at me, then cranes his head and blows out a kiss to Brandon.

Meanwhile, I feel my father approach with a scowl and untamed temper.

“What the hell was that?” he clips, pulling up to my side as he stares at the note on the other side of the glass. “That stupid ass kid—”

“You need to calm down, Dad,” I scold, glancing over at him and the red flush of stress and high blood pressure illuminating his face. “You’re going to give yourself a heart attack out here.”

“That’s part of the game, Rory,” he clips back. “The thrill and—”

“Heart attacks are part of the game now?” I retort with furrowed brows. “Because if that’s the case, I don’t want you doing this anymore.”

My father’s expression twists as if I told him Santa Claus isn’t real. “You don’t want me to—now, listen here, Rory, I’ll have you know—”

“I’m already down a mother, Dad. Do you want to make me an orphan?”

He frowns, and his face begins to soften after a few seconds. “This is a big deal. I have upper management on my ass about the Blizzard pullin’ in wins—”

“You have been?” I reply evenly, which is what I was afraid of. All this league wants to do—this team—is make money, and they don’t realize that they are killing my dad in the process. They’ve probably been subtly threatening him with a younger coach. Someone hungry and willing to do anything to get them to win. “But at what cost to your health and your players?”

“I have to be hard on them,” he retorts. “Either that or they’re not going to take anything seriously.”

I nod in acknowledgment. “I understand, but where’s the line? You bring this home. You eat, sleep, and dream about it. I know you like the job, but it’s infringing on all aspects of your life! And I’m beginning to wonder if that’s because of all this pressure you’re under because something else is happening.”

“Like what?”

I lift my shoulders. “I dunno, you tell me. What are they hounding you with now?”

Dad scowls. “What would you advise me to do, honey? Quit?”

As if there would be worse things.

However, I don’t need him suffering a brain aneurysm because upper management is throwing the heat on them. They’re not going to be the ones to take care of him. They’ll replace him quicker than he’s diagnosed, and it would break my father’s heart.

Just like fucking the Wolverine’s defenseman.

“I would move,” I reply, watching his expression turn murderous, not in the sense that it’s for me but more so my comment. “Plenty of other teams are run with a better work-life balance. This is getting to be too much, and I don’t like it. It worries me, Dad.”

He shakes his head at me, obviously in denial. “It’s not as bad as all that.” You just told me, in so many words, that it was. “And stay away from Judson Wells. That boy is not who I want my daughter associating with.”

Shocker.

“What’s wrong with him?”

My father’s glare makes it clear that he isn’t buying my innocent act. It doesn’t take a brain scientist to know I’m more educated on hockey than most females, especially since my father is a damn head coach of one of the most popular teams in the NHL.

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