Page 38 of Good Pucking Luck

“Have you been doing anything different lately?” another reporter asks him.

“I work hard. I’ve always worked hard, and I’ve always been the best, but I think I’ve found myself some good pucking luck.” He smirks and winks at the camera, and I almost swallow my tongue. My heart slams against my chest, and the corners of my lips pull up into a grin of my own. I tell myself to stop smiling because none of this means anything. And I don’t want it to mean anything, but for a reason I can’t explain, I feel like I’m the one who won the game tonight.

My face feeling hot, I shut down my computer and pack up my things. When I get into the elevator, my phone buzzes, and though I’d like to be able to ignore it, there’s no chance I can.

With quick hands I tug it out of my pocket, knowing whom it will be.

Rylan: Did you watch me play?

Me: No.

Rylan: Liar.

Me: Only the last period!

Shit. Why did I admit that?

Rylan: You’re so fucking cute.

Me: Stop saying that.

The elevator dings, and I get out.

Rylan: Why would I do that? It’s fun telling you how much I want you.

My cheeks heat. Ugh. What is it with this guy?

Me: I don’t believe you.

Ican’tbelieve him.

Rylan: I know, cutie, but it’s true. I’m gonna spend the next six months showing you how fucking irresistible you truly are and that anyone who doesn’t see it is an idiot.

I stare at the screen, unsure how to even reply to that, while my stomach gets all fluttery.

Me: Anyway…good game. You’re heading to Florida?

Rylan: You looked up my schedule.

Me: Just so I could see when we’d have sex next.

Lie, lie, lie.

Rylan: Yep, Florida. That’s why I messaged. We’re heading to the airport now. But funny how you think we have to wait until I’m home to have some fun together. I’ll text you tomorrow.

I gulp. What is he…what the fuck is he talking about?

Me: Wait. What? Tell me what you mean!

But of course, he doesn’t answer.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Rylan

“At some pointtonight, I’ll need you to head out for a bit so I can video call Hayes to jerk off,” I tell Mads, who’s lying in the second bed in our Florida hotel room. We arrived late last night and spent most of the day conditioning, going over film, and resting. We’ll do much of the same tomorrow before the game that evening, then head to Nashville.

He turns his head my direction. “I would ask if you’re shitting me, but I know you better than that.” I’d filled him in about who Hayes is after the night Hayes had come to my house. It was a shock to say the least, but Mads had rolled with it.

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