Page 41 of The Bad Boy Rule

Saint: Please.

Lennon: God, I hate you so much.

Saint: Remember that saying about hate and lust…

Lennon: I wouldn’t sleep with you if you were the last person on earth so that is complete bullshit.

Saint: Mmmm. That’s a bet I’d fucking love to take, Golden Girl.

Lennon: *eye roll emoji* Will you PLEASE come to the charity gala.

Saint: I dunno. I’ll think about it.

Tossing my phone onto the shelf in my locker, I grab my stick before adjusting my dick in my pants.

“Who the hell are you texting grinning like that, Devereaux?” Bennett asks from behind me. When I turn to face him, he’s pulling on his goalie suit, wearing a smirk that mirrors mine.

Another one of my teammates, our center, Tyler walks by, slapping me on the ass with the end of his stick. I reach for him, ready to shove mine up his, when he jumps out of reach, waggling his thick, dark brows. “Yeah, Devereaux, who’s flavor of the week? She got a friend?”

“Fuck off. Both of you,” I mutter, narrowing my eyes at both of them. “Whoever I’m fucking, or not fucking, is none of your business.”

“C’mon, man, throw a dog a bone. Give us the deets,” Tyler says as he sits down next to Bennett to lace up his skates.

“You’re a fucking dog alright.”

He just smirks, elbowing Bennett in the ribs, which I know he barely fucking feels due to the obscene amount of padding he’s wearing. “I get as much ass as Bennett over here.”

These fucking clowns.

I don’t give a shit about who’s fucking whom.

Look, I don’t get into anyone’s personal life, and I’m sure as shit not getting involved in that. What he chooses to do with his dick is his business.

“Shut the fuck up, Gravois,” Bennett growls, shoving him so hard he tumbles off the bench to the floor, laughing so hard there might be a puddle of piss beneath him when he gets up. “For fuck’s sake, why is everyone so worried about my sex life.”

I shake my head as I make my way to the door, trying to ignore the dipshits I call teammates.

“Yo, wait, Devereaux,” Tyler calls. I turn to look back at him, brow arched. “You wanna go out for beers with us after practice? One last hurrah before the season starts.”

No one on the team knows about my home life, including Coach, and that’s how it’s going to stay. It’s bad enough that people in high school knew that I was piss-poor, always having secondhand hockey gear, shoes, clothes. Whatever I could get my hands on.

Now, I don’t give a fuck, not the way I used to, but I still don’t want people to look at me with pity. I’ve worked my ass off to be here, and the last thing I want is for my teammates to think any differently of me.

Most of the guys already know I’m not a drinker, just by picking it up during the times I have reluctantly agreed to go out with them. I’m not a big party person in general. Never been one for bars, or clubs, or generally anywhere there’s a lot of people in a tight space.

I feel trapped in situations like that, like the walls are closing in around me.

It’s not like I’m a very social person to begin with.

“Nah, I have some shit to take care of after practice. Thanks though,” I say, gaze swinging to Bennett as I give him a nod.

“C’mon, let’s hit the ice,” Bennett says to Tyler and me, brushing past us toward the locker room exit.

Say less.

TWENTY

SAINT

---