3. CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER THREE
3
The atmosphere in the stadium is electric tonight, crackling with tension and rivalry as the Montreal Blizzard face off against the New Brunswick Wolverines in game two of their bloodbath.
This game is the highlight of the year, the one everyone talks about, especially since the rivalry between our teams is practically legendary because my father acts like a maniac.
Being the head coach for the Blizzard, it’s his job to bring home victory. And I can’t imagine the pressure he’s under. However, a little subtlety could go a long way because the Wolverines are eating up his negative energy and using it against him. His frustration is palpable as we're down a goal, and there isn’t much time on the clock.
I sit on the team’s bench, casually watching the game unfold. My attention keeps drifting to two players: Wells and Charles Gagnon. Charles is our star defenseman, skilled but aggressive with his not-so-friendly demeanor, both on and off the ice.
I wouldn’t mind seeing him slammed into the boards a few more times, but I try to keep the thoughts out of my head because it’s bad karma.
As the game intensifies, Wells and Charles engage in a fierce battle, their rivalry mirroring our teams. I can't help but admire Wells’s body in his uniform and his calmness during the game.
Not once has he lost his shit. He plays like it’s his job, and the win is his goal.
My dad's behavior has always driven me crazy. He acts unprofessional—in my eyes—constantly yelling and barking orders as if that's going to magically turn the game around. Deep down, I know he's scared that we’ll lose to our archrivals, and that fear makes him lash out even more. It’s possible that his job could be on the line, but he would never tell me that.
All of this stress also does not help his blood pressure at all.
The clock buzzes its two-minute warning, and the Wolverines take a timeout. Wells skates past our section, glances over, and then snaps his neck back to do a double-take when he catches sight of me.
Shit.
I can’t help but freeze. I’m sitting in the Blizzard’s box with the players, but he doesn’t seem to put two and two together. His expression shifts into a sexy little smirk that sends a tingle down my spine.
It also triggers memories of last night.
I obviously kept my true identity a secret for several reasons. One was to keep Wells from an all-out battle of fists with Charles. Two, I didn’t think his knowing who I was related to would do me any favors.
And I wouldn’t be here, in the box, if it weren’t for my father’s excessive whining about supporting him.
But I love hockey—I always have. I’d rather sit with the fans where the air isn’t so thick with tension, but that’s neither here nor there.
I watch Wells smoothly continue back into the game, and no one from Dad’s team seems to notice our small transaction.
It’s not every day that a player like Wells acknowledges your presence in a crowded stadium during a heated game. That man is trouble with a capital T, and he knows it.
However, he spared me without making too much of it. I couldn’t be more thankful that the game is still going. I may have to still hear my father’s voice with his constant barrage of instructions and frustrations echoing in my ears, but it’s better than the alternative.
With the clock down to seconds, Elliot Fox—the Wolverine’s right-wing forward—breaks through the Blizzard’s defense with the puck. The crowd goes insane with anxiety, and as Elliot slaps it toward the net, it’s blocked by our goalie.
The game ends.
We lost, which means I will stay far away from the locker room.
I rise from the bench and gather my trash so I can quickly exit before my father goes in on all his players when something thumps against the plexiglass.
Glancing up, Wells stands there with his black gloves resting on the surface, an orange post-it underneath them, but I can’t stop looking at those emerald eyes full of unadulterated mischief.
Someone yells out his name, but he doesn’t move.
Neither do I.
He damn sure put two and two together now.
I quickly glanced at the note, which he somehow managed to get at the end of the game, and scribbled his phone number.
I feel the weight of the entire Blizzard team's eyes on me. It's as if they all think I've already done something wrong just by being noticed by Wells.
But if they only knew what else I’ve been doing with the New Brunswick Wolverine’s defenseman, it’d be a scandal.
My cheeks flush with embarrassment, but deep down, I can't deny the thrill of the forbidden.
I shake my head at him, not because I don’t want his number, but because he shouldn’t be here. Every Blizzard player’s pride is pricked from the loss, and the last thing they will want to see is him around here.
Such an asshole.
“Get outta’ here, Wells,” Brandon Letters barks out at him as he approaches the bench. He’s Charles’s little butt buddy. He’s always following Charles around and sticking up for him. Many times, he even takes the rap for Charles’ actions.
Wells winks at me, then cranes his head and blows out a kiss to Brandon.
Meanwhile, I feel my father approach with a scowl and untamed temper.
“What the hell was that?” he clips, pulling up to my side as he stares at the note on the other side of the glass. “That stupid ass kid—”
“You need to calm down, Dad,” I scold, glancing over at him and the red flush of stress and high blood pressure illuminating his face. “You’re going to give yourself a heart attack out here.”
“That’s part of the game, Rory,” he clips back. “The thrill and—”
“Heart attacks are part of the game now?” I retort with furrowed brows. “Because if that’s the case, I don’t want you doing this anymore.”
My father’s expression twists as if I told him Santa Claus isn’t real. “You don’t want me to—now, listen here, Rory, I’ll have you know—”
“I’m already down a mother, Dad. Do you want to make me an orphan?”
He frowns, and his face begins to soften after a few seconds. “This is a big deal. I have upper management on my ass about the Blizzard pullin’ in wins—”
“You have been?” I reply evenly, which is what I was afraid of. All this league wants to do—this team—is make money, and they don’t realize that they are killing my dad in the process. They’ve probably been subtly threatening him with a younger coach. Someone hungry and willing to do anything to get them to win. “But at what cost to your health and your players?”
“I have to be hard on them,” he retorts. “Either that or they’re not going to take anything seriously.”
I nod in acknowledgment. “I understand, but where’s the line? You bring this home. You eat, sleep, and dream about it. I know you like the job, but it’s infringing on all aspects of your life! And I’m beginning to wonder if that’s because of all this pressure you’re under because something else is happening.”
“Like what?”
I lift my shoulders. “I dunno, you tell me. What are they hounding you with now?”
Dad scowls. “What would you advise me to do, honey? Quit?”
As if there would be worse things.
However, I don’t need him suffering a brain aneurysm because upper management is throwing the heat on them. They’re not going to be the ones to take care of him. They’ll replace him quicker than he’s diagnosed, and it would break my father’s heart.
Just like fucking the Wolverine’s defenseman.
“I would move,” I reply, watching his expression turn murderous, not in the sense that it’s for me but more so my comment. “Plenty of other teams are run with a better work-life balance. This is getting to be too much, and I don’t like it. It worries me, Dad.”
He shakes his head at me, obviously in denial. “It’s not as bad as all that.” You just told me, in so many words, that it was. “And stay away from Judson Wells. That boy is not who I want my daughter associating with.”
Shocker.
“What’s wrong with him?”
My father’s glare makes it clear that he isn’t buying my innocent act. It doesn’t take a brain scientist to know I’m more educated on hockey than most females, especially since my father is a damn head coach of one of the most popular teams in the NHL.
“He’s messing with me, and he must know who you are,” he replies evenly. “The last thing I need is for that to go public.”
That would be a pickle.
They would pin it on my dad and say it was a conflict of interest. Management would also probably spin it to say that Dad isn’t winning any games so that my lover, fuckboy, whatever you want to call Wells, wins his Stanley Cup. I’m in the media game. I know how it can be spun and easily digested by the public.
And the last thing I want my dad to do is freak out to the high heavens. Literally.
“Don’t worry about him, Dad. I won’t be here tomorrow, and he’ll have no one to harass.”
Dad’s anger disappears and turns into disappointment. “You won’t?”
I shake my head. “Work.”
“You work remotely.”
“I have to go into the office.” I don’t tell him why and leave it at that.
I don’t need to go into the office other than to keep my father’s temper down, and I wouldn’t mind seeing my co-workers, either.
And I bet Wells will try this again tomorrow night.
I won’t take his number since I won't be there, so I guess it’ll remain on the glass until someone takes it down.
“Alright then,” Dad mutters. “I guess it’s for the best.”
I jerk my head for him to get on his way so he can call it a night. “Go do your thing, and I’ll call you tomorrow. No yelling.”
He rolls his eyes but pulls me in for a hug, and I promise never to be within Wells’s eyesight again.
For my father’s sake.