Page 47 of Wrong Pucking Jersey

“Afternoon, Mikayla,” Wyatt greets, but he’s already tugging Jayce’s arm.

“What the? Where the fuck are we going?” Jayce barks at the smiling man like he’s gone mad.

“I’m saving your ass like the brother I am,” Wyatt declares and pulls the man before he has a chance to fight back.

“You’re not my brother, dammit!” I hear Jayce snap while Wyatt laughs.

“Yeah, yeah. You’ll thank my ass. Trust me.”

They’re gone, which leaves Maddox.

I feel like this was what Father wanted all along, and I have a stronger feeling Maddox knew that, but he clearly doesn’t care about being the sacrificial lamb. His eyes have not peeled off me since I arrived.

Walking over to him, I give his sweaty, muscular body a hug.

“Eww. You smell like death,” I groan and lean back to show my disgust.

“Perfect smell of victory,” he smirks proudly.

“Or suffering,” I correct and pull away from him. “I’ll hug you properly when you shower.”

“I’ll be doing that at the hotel, Mkaykay.”

Oh… right.

“Right. You have to go,” I swear the disappointment in my voice is as clear as day.

“I’m not leaving the country,” Maddox quickly reminds me, reaching for my hand. He takes it ever so gently, those massive fingers of his wrapping around mine while his eyes don’t dare leave mine.

“I’m staying for a while. Have a bit of stuff to do here anyway with the guys.”

“You’ll… let me know otherwise, right?” I have to know for sure.

“I’d never leave you out of my plans, Mikayla.” He means every word. “I know we have to catch up, but can we do that once I’ve settled in? Not sure if my old apartment is going to be available for rent, so I may have to stay with my mom for a bit.”

His mom and stepdad, who he doesn’t like to acknowledge exist.

“Of course,” I urge and squeeze his hand. “But… if you’re not comfortable, you know…” I trail off because I’m forced to realize this is different from five years ago.

It’s not going to be that easy to casually invite him to stay over at our place.

Yesterday was an exception.

Glancing over at the man who calls the shots, Dad is watching our moment before his gaze intentionally lingers on our joined hands. He doesn’t say anything, but he acknowledges the obvious with that gaze.

Break her heart a second time, and you're a dead man.

“I’ll figure it out,” he assures me. “If I need help, I won’t hesitate to ask.”

“Okay.” I can agree with that.

“Now, I’m going to run,” he confesses and moves in a blur after kissing me firmly on the lips.

I gawk in reply and watch him sprint away before Father can say shit.

“O’RILEY” There’s Dad’s authoritative call, but the man is gone.

“Holy Puck, has he always been that fast?” No way did my Maddox from five years ago run like a damn Olympian.

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