Page 15 of The Bad Boy Rule

SEVEN

LENNON

He’s goading me. Pushing me until I snap, and I’m falling right into it before I can even stop myself. “Fine.”

Just when I thought that I couldn’t hate Saint Devereaux any more than I already do, he does something stupid likeopen his mouth, and inevitably, I hate him more.

It’s like he has this incessant, effortless way of getting under my skin and driving me to the point of insanity without saying very much at all.

It’s enough.

In just the few times that I’ve been around him, he’s managed to get a reaction out of me more than anyone ever has. And I have absolutely no idea why. Why I’m so easy to rile when in his presence. Why I feel like a different person, one who just reacts without thinking the second he starts in.

It’s absolutely infuriating.

Maisie wasn’t wrong. Facts are facts—he is very… easy to look at.

But he’s such a dick that I can’t even stand to share the same air as him for the one hour, twice a week, that we’re forced to.

Truly, I don’t know how I’m going to manage this for the rest of the semester, let alone the year.

I know I shouldn’t let him bother me as much as I do, but every single time I give myself a pep talk and tell myself that I’m not going to let him provoke me, it still manages to happen.

I’m a ticking time bomb when it comes to him, and he just so happens to be the only one with the match.

God, Lennon, what are you doing?

You literally just told him that you didn’t have time to waste, and here you are, agreeing to some stupid childish thing he’s said simply to provoke you, all because you can’t bear to let him have the pleasure of winning.

Without another word, he turns, then skates back toward the empty net on his side of the rink. And against my better judgment, I follow behind him. It’s impossible not to notice how easily he moves across the ice.

Graceful, almost, in a way that you wouldn’t normally expect a hockey player to be. They’re agile and powerful but not generally so… fluid.

Once he’s in front of the net, he turns to face me. His gaze holds mine as he taps his stick along the ice in rapid succession once, twice, three times.

My brow furrows. “Uh, what was that?”

“What do you mean what was that?”

“I mean that…stickthing that you just did where you tapped it on the ice three times.”

Saint shrugs. “Superstition. Now…” He uses the end of his stick to send the puck flying toward me, where it glides to a stop against the blade of my skate. “Let’s up the ante. If you get a puck past me, I’ll stay on my side of the ice, and I won’t say a word to you.”

I cross my arms over my chest, cocking an eyebrow. “Oh, it’sthateasy to shut you up? Get a single measly puck by you?”

“Easy as that.” He chuckles lowly, the sound entirely too… hot.

“Right. And what happens ifyouwin?”

“If I win, you tell me why you’re trying so hard to get back to skating.”

The scoff tumbles past my lips before I even realize it. “I’m not telling you that.”

“Why? Did I hit a soft spot?”

“No, because it’s none of your business,” I retort, clenching my teeth together, my jaw tensing at the question that I’m not ready to answer. “How do you even know that I haven’t been figure skating?”

His deep, raspy laugh floats through the air, the sound echoing around as it bounces off the boards. “Because I’ve played hockey my entire life—I know someone who’s comfortable on the ice versus someone who’s not. Clearly, you’ve done it before. Just seems like you’re out of practice. And if I win, I want to knowwhy.”

---