4. CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FOUR
4
The locker room buzzes with victory as my team shouts back and forth amongst each other. Their laughter and high-fives echo off the walls because crushing the Blizzard is almost better than getting laid.
Almost.
Peeling off my sweaty jersey, cool air hits my skin as I get up to my locker. Cyrus immediately interrogates me.
"So, spill the beans.”
I knew my little stunt would cause some questions, especially when it wasn’t on our side of the benches. "What beans? I'm just being friendly."
The boys exchange knowing glances, and Elliot pipes in, "So friendly…Friendly enough to slip a girl your digits during the game?"
Ah, Rory.
That fiery brunette in the stands had caught my eye, and I couldn't resist the chance to stir up a little trouble.
"Just a little harmless fun, guys,” I drone. “Nothing serious."
“Nothing serious, as in she’s the coach’s daughter to our rival team? That kind of not serious? Or the kind where you give our coach a heart attack?”
I glance over at Elliott, and I know he recognizes her as the girl I left with at the bar last night. “I didn’t know she was Coach Sellers’s daughter. Did you?”
“No,” Elliott confirms. “However, now that you do, let’s cool it, eh?”
Yeah, that still doesn’t sit well with me.
I can still feel myself inside that woman. Her moans still play ceremoniously in my ears, and I never want them to be droned out.
However, there’s a fine line here.
I know I get myself into some shit weekly, and the last thing I want to do is stress my team out when we’re going for the Cup.
"Watch it, Wells. Rory's off-limits. We don't need any drama with the Blizzard," our captain and the voice of reason, Graham Sinclair, chimes in sternly.
Now, I fucked up.
I’m on everyone’s radar with this chick, and I should be pissed that she never told me who she was.
However, I suppose I wasn’t entitled to that information.
Or was I?
I don’t know the ethical code for shit like that, but I probably still would’ve fucked her as hard as I did last night.
Maybe even harder so her dad could feel it.
“I’m not gonna marry her,” I say to everyone. “Relax.”
Graham isn't having it. He shoots me a warning look that says everything I need to know, along with the words, "Don't push it. I’m not dealing with it.”
Then he pivots and walks out of the locker room, obviously pissed and overwhelmed.
“Lay off, Wells,” Elliott tacks on. “You had your fun.”
I did.
And I want more.
And why should I be subjected to rules over who I mess with?
“Alright, boys,” I hear Coach say in the locker room. “Get some sleep tonight. Let’s sweep ‘em one more game, and then we’re heading out to California.”
I finish changing, tossing a fresh shirt, and grabbing my bag as the guys disperse. The victory adrenaline still pumps through my veins, and I'm itching for some post-game celebration.
“Wells, a word.”
Shit.
Coach’s words whip up my spine, and I’ve crossed a line he’s seen. Usually, he’ll overlook my bullshit and not give me hell for the headlines I cause, but this one, he’s never going to let lie.
The game had been intense, with a clash of rivals on the ice and emotions running high. As the final whistle blew and the celebrations or commiserations began, I couldn't shake off what I had seen earlier. Rory was standing there with that innocent little expression that she didn’t think she would get caught.
“What the hell was that out there?”
Coach is a middle-aged man. His build is a bit heavier, giving him a solid and imposing presence. His gray hair is neatly trimmed, framing a face that carries the marks of experience and wisdom. A thick mustache adorns his upper lip, adding to the air of authority that surrounds him.
“Nothing, Coach,” I reply flatly. “Just saw a fan.”
He lifts a brow. His eyes, though kind, hold a depth of knowledge and determination. They are a warm brown, but now they speak no-nonsense and that I better get my whole fucking life together.
“A fan,” he repeats. “For whom?”
I lift my shoulders because I’m not doing a good job here. “It was nothing, Coach. We had a moment, I fucked around—”
“You’re always fucking around, Wells,” he clips out. “But this time, you’ve gone too far. I don’t need any more attention on us regarding the Blizzard. We already got enough with the conspiracy on Cyrus’s broken leg.”
My brows knit. “It’s not a conspiracy. They broke his fuckin’ leg.”
“And that’s something we’ll deal with. On the ice. Not off it. We've got a good thing going, and I won't let you mess it up with your mind games."
I wouldn’t say I like it, but I accept his words for what they are.
“Fine, Coach. I’ll lay off.”
“All the way,” he grounds out. “Back off before things escalate. We've got a doubleheader coming up, and I won't allow any unnecessary drama to affect our performance."
“Understood.”
“Good.” He stares at me for a second longer before giving me a light slap on the shoulder. “Good game tonight. Bring that along with you tomorrow, and then on to Cali. We’re going to need it.”
“Yes, sir.”
I get it. I do. The rivalry between our teams is fierce, and the last thing we need is personal drama clouding the ice. But damn it, Rory isn't just some distraction. She’s… feeling like an addiction.
I want more.
I couldn't shake off the memories of last night if I tried. She’s perfection in every sense of the word.
And I’m not one to follow the rules.
I break them.
But Coach's warning hangs over me like a storm cloud. Pursuing anything with Rory would be a scandal waiting to happen, a distraction that could cost us more than just a game.
Reluctantly, I accept the reality of the situation. I can't risk jeopardizing the team's chances- not for a fleeting fuck.
So, I swallow my frustration and bury how I feel about it, knowing that duty to the team comes first.
But deep down, a part of me yearns for the freedom to explore what could have been with Rory. I long for a world where rivalry and expectations didn't dictate our every move, where we could be two people drawn to each other without the weight of our teams on our shoulders. Who was I fucking kidding…this was hockey and real life, not some fucking fairytale.
Instead, it will be one of those what-if scenarios.
I do what I want when I want.
Consequences be damned and all that.
And this one is going to suck.
I hope she comes to the game tomorrow night.