Page 12 of The Bad Boy Rule

Grabbing my skating bag off the floor, I toss it on my shoulder and head out the door to the rink.

I hate that I’m no longer looking forward to today. That asshole Saint, better known asSatanas he should’ve been named, is tainting something that I’ve been so excited for. I’ve been counting down the days until I could be back on the ice, and now I’ve got a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach, and it is entirely his fault.

The whole walk to the rink, I give myself a pep talk, reminding myself that I’m lucky to be here, and I should be grateful that I have the time, even if I have to share it with someone who makes me want to commit a crime.

I’m going to focus on the plan that I put together to achieve my goals, and the rest is white noise.

No distractions.

When I finally get to the entrance of the rink, I take a deep, hopefully calming breath as I wrench the door open and step inside, glancing down at my watch.

I’m actually a few minutes early. And the best part?

Inside is blissfullysilent.

Which means that I’ve managed to make it here before he did.

My lip curves into a grin as I make my way over to the bleachers and set my bag down, open it, and pull out my skates. It doesn’t take me long to get them on and laced tightly. I unzip the fitted jacket I wore over my top and set it next to my bag so I can stretch.

Standing, I walk to the boards and lift one leg to rest my skate on top, folding forward to make sure my hamstrings are properly stretched. They’re always so tight, it helps me to spend extra time working them out. The last thing I want is to get injured because I didn’t take enough time to stretch.

“Come to watch me practice?” a deep, gravelly voice sounds from somewhere behind me. “Cute. You didn’t strike me as a bunny, but then again… “

A surprised gasp escapes the back of my throat as I drop my leg and whip around so quickly that my head momentarily spins.

My gaze narrows when I see Saint leaning against the boards, wearing a cocky grin, elbow propped along the top, staring at me.

God, I hate him.

I barely know him, and yet I hate every single thing I’ve learned about him.

I cross my arms over my chest, squaring my shoulders. “Trust me, the less time I have to spend being graced by your presence, the better.”

“Ah, now, that’s rude. Not what I expected out of OU’sgolden girl.”

“Well, we’ve already established that you don’t know me, so you know what they say about assuming. Makes an ass out of you… Seems like it’s a habit for you? I guess just another one of your sparkling personality traits.”

His grin widens, and it momentarily catches me off guard, disarming the confidence I’ve been clinging to. I swallow hard, ignoring the flutter in my stomach.

The OU hockey hoodie he’s wearing is old, the letters on the front faded and peeling, as if he’s washed it a thousand times. It stretches across his chest, the worn material curved around the muscles of his biceps.

Much like last time, he’s wearing a pair of loose sweatpants, his hockey bag resting casually on his shoulders. But today, his hair isn’t wet; it’s floppy and falling into his eyes, and there’s a thick, dark shadow of a beard along his jaw, traveling down the slope of his neck.

It would probably look unkempt on someone else, but on him, it just fits the rugged, sharp-around-the-edges vibe. His sharp, intense eyes hold mine as if he’s trying to get a read on me, the same way I’m glaring back at him.

Fine.MaaaaaybeI can see why he’s got girls throwing themselves at his feet.

He’s… hot.

Completely objectively speaking.

But I’m pretty sure I’ve heard somewhere that Satan was the most attractive, charming angel there was when he fell from the heavens, so this checks.

“Reputationisimportant,” he replies smugly. “You’d know, right? Ms. Perfect, 4.0, valedictorian, Social Club socialite. I’m in the presence of Orleans royalty.”

“Ah, asking around about me? That’s cute that I left such a big impression.”

For a beat, he’s quiet, and my smirk widens, splitting my face with a victorious smile.

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