9. CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER NINE
9
In the cool spring air, I park the black-out SUV in a cozy spot towards the back of the drive-in theater. I open the moonroof to look at all the stars. It's the classic setup—big screen, open sky, and whispers of other moviegoers melding into the night air—the perfect place to keep things low-key for Rory and me.
From the corner of my eye, I steal glances at her. She's relaxed against the plush leather seat, a striking calm with tendrils of anxiety coursing through her muscles.
Shoulder-length cocoa hair falls perfectly around her jawline, sharp yet soft. There's something exotic about her, and I watch her light green eyes catching the flickers from the screen, mirroring the scenes we've both drowned out.
You couldn’t mistake the sexual tension in the air.
It’s been weeks since that first night we met. A torturous fantasy that I’ve replayed in my head repeatedly because it was that fucking mind-blowing.
I handed over the bags of take-out burgers and fries from our earlier stop to give her something to do with her hands.
The SUV feels more of our kind of place because we’re away from gawking eyes, and when we’re alone, we seem to become more ourselves.
Not that I mind being in the public eye. It’s where I tend to be anyway.
"You good with a comedy?" I ask, even though it’s too late. The damn thing had already started, but I figured it’d be the most low-key option since I knew she’d be on edge.
“It’s perfect,” she replies, and I hand her the ketchup.
We find a rhythm not long after. Her soft laughter mixing with the murmur of engines settling into their spots. It's contagious, easing the tension and centering us back into each other’s company.
She relaxes more as the movie goes on, finally, and I steal more glances.
She's beautiful—the beautiful that doesn't shout but settles over you. It’s undeniable, like the crescendo of a game-winning cheer. Her laughter cuts through the sounds of the movie, more gripping than any scripted line, and I catch my laugh mirroring it. The challenges—her father's ire and my team's razzing—feel distant when we’re within arm’s length.
It’s like it can’t touch us.
However, that’s a naive piece of me speaking. This shit is dangerous and chaotic and will cause tons of media presence if it gets out. Rory will be under fire for sleeping with her father’s rival team, and I’ll be known as the dude who wanted to see how far I could push the line.
And I definitely will not learn my lesson when it comes to her.
Not a chance in hell.
We're a storyline the sports channels would eat up and mold into more views and updates. Yet here we are, making our own highlights reel and not allowing anyone else to see it.
I’d do this a million times if it meant I get to be this close to her.
The truth is, taking things slow is different from my usual play, but Rory's worth the strategy shift. She's the kind of gamble you make when the final buzzer’s about to sound, and you have nothing to lose.
"I've been wanting to try this place out," I confide.” I saw the ads during the game highlights every time I’m in Chicago.”
“Didn’t want to go by yourself?”
“I don’t mind coming here alone, but I enjoy my company.”
She smiles but doesn’t glance over at me. “I would hope so,” she replies. “I only caught a plane and had a forty-minute delay for this.”
“No pressure,” I jeer, taking another bite of my burger. “However, I plan on making it worth your while.”
“Do you?” She steals a glance at me, then those light green orbs glaring with seduction and faux innocence. “I have high standards.”
“You might think you do, but I fucked you in my hotel suite, and you liked it just fine.” She blushes furiously at the reminder but doesn’t avert her gaze. “I’m obsessed with that memory.”
Her lips coil into a pretty little smile. “Obsessed?”
“Famished.”
“All over that?”
“All over that and wanting more,” I reply honestly. “You’ve been a constant on my mind, Snowflake. I can’t shake you off.”
“Even with…everything?”
I know she's thinking about the high stakes; that thought is never far—a shadow lingering outside our tinted windows. Her father's expectations, my team's wisecracks—bring ‘em on, honestly. I’m always the crack of a joke and the punchline. I take shit from my guys daily. It won’t be anything new. Because despite the chaos, this feels right—us, the movie, the stolen glances. I can handle slapshots from all angles, but missing this shot with Rory isn’t one I’m willing to take.
I’m in it to win.
I reach for another French fry, and Rory slaps my hand lightly. “Hey, don’t eat them all.”
Quirking a brow, I glance over at her. “Did I find your weak spot?”
“You found one of my favorite foods,” she retorts with a wry smile.
“Good to know. So, the next time I want you to come see me, all I have to do is have a giant plate ready for you then?”
She narrows her eyes, but there are no negative feelings behind them. “You think this is going to happen again?”
“I do,” I reply confidently. “I got you intrigued, baby. And I want nothing more than to be right here with you.”
“Why?”
She's got that look in her eyes—like a challenge being laid out on the ice, ready to be taken up.
I take a moment, letting a silence build, like the tension of a pre-game locker room minus the heavy rallying of male voices and grunts.
"Why?" I echo back, my voice low and even, teasing out the anticipation. "Because you're the most interesting person I've met in a long time. Because you’re not charmed by my hockey persona or what I could give you.”
I snag a fry from the box and offer her a peace offering, and a promise rolled into one.
I watch as the corners of her mouth tilt upward again, and the silver screen's glow dances across her features. "Interesting, huh?" she says, her tone airy, almost disbelieving. “You make it sound like I’m a painting in an art gallery.”
I chuckle and ignore her off-handed comment to get to the real stuff. “Interesting, mysterious... and kind of intimidating with that hockey pedigree of yours."
She bites into the fry.
"Well," Rory starts. “As long as you keep bribing me with food, you might just keep me around."
Her words are playful, yet I catch a shimmer of truth in her eyes.
"Deal. But just so you know," I lean in closer, closing the gap, “it's not just about keeping you around." I let my hand brush against hers, a moment of daring contact that I soak in and lavish. "It's about getting to know the real you, the hidden you, when you're in the stands or dodging your dad's playbook at home. I bet he tried to keep his leash on you—a tight one.”
Her hand lingers against mine, not pulling away. “And you think I stayed on it?”
I smirk because, of course, she didn’t.
There’s a rebellious streak in Rory. She might be conscious of her father’s thoughts about her being with me, but that’s only because I'm THE WORST person she could be with right now.
Coach Sellers breathed, lived, and dreamed hockey just as much as me, if not more, and for longer. There is no sugarcoating what is going on right now.
We’re forbidden as fuck, but I wanted her way before I knew her name or whose daughter she was.
“I’m flattered that you’re doing this with me,” I mutter. “I’m not taking it for granted. I know how nervous you are.”
“He has a lot on his plate.”
“I bet he does.”
“And I don’t want to mess it up for him.”
“I know you don’t.”
“So, this has to stay low-key. Or I can’t do it.”
I’m not a huge fan of that answer.
I feel cheap about it.
I've played under numerous constraints—physical limits, rules of the game, coaches’ strategies—yet this feels different. It's not a play or a temporary setback; it's a stifling box that Rory's world is pressing on us, and I'm trying to size up whether I can fit without losing parts of myself.
But I won’t lose this with her.
Even if I have to pretend she doesn’t exist to others.
To me, she does.
“Low-key it is.”
Her brows collapse a bit. “Are you sure?”
“Yeah,” I reply with firmness to my tone. “This is going to happen again, Rory. Because there's a lot more to both of us than a hockey game rivalry and whatever this is…" I gesture around the dim interior of the SUV, “I’ll take it all. And, for as long as you want to keep this a secret, I’m down.”
Rory's gaze holds mine, thoughtful, maybe even hopeful. "I'll hold you to that.”
And in that bubble, for those hours, rivalries and rules fade into the background—into a blur of focus that centers solely around her: Rory, with her light laughter and guarded heart—the rival coach’s daughter. The girl who's got me playing this game off the ice now, and damn if I don't want to win it just as much.
"Good. Because I'm counting on you, or this isn’t going to work."
I hold her gaze, feeling the stakes rise higher than in any playoff game's final seconds. I shift a bit closer, collecting the bags and wrappers spread out between us. I toss the trash into the bin outside our car. I catch a glimpse of Rory popping a mint into her mouth as I lean back into the car. I smile at her, and she offers me one. I laugh and shake my head no. She shoves it back at me and says, “Are you sure? There were a lot of onions on those burgers.”
“Damn, well, if you insist.” We both laugh, and I hope this means what I think it does.
This moment is all about timing—about reading her signals like it’s my damn job—literally.
"I think this will happen again because—for me—once isn't enough. Especially not with you," I murmur, the words soft but carrying weight.
Our eyes lock, and I notice a subtle drop in her guard as if she's slowly pulling back the curtains to reveal more of herself. Her breath catches a silent invitation. The screen's flickering light provides just enough illumination to highlight the contours of her face, casting a play of light and shadow that adds to the magic of the moment.
Leaning closer, I lower my voice to just above a whisper. "Rory, if I'm stepping over the line, just tell me to fuck off, okay? But I don't think I can wait until next time to do this..."
Without waiting for an answer, I close the distance between us—a slow, gentle coaxing. My hand finds the side of her face, my thumb grazing her cheek as I tilt my head. Her eyes flutter closed, and that's all the confirmation I need.
Our lips meet in a soft collision, careful and calculated, like the exact opposite of the first time. Our initial meeting was fast and needy, greedy, and uncalculated. But, in the here and now, I need Rory to understand I’m serious.
About this—whatever that is—and us.
Rory responds, her hesitation melting away like ice under spring sunshine, and her lips are fire against mine. Her hand rests on my chest, a light touch that slams my heart against my ribs. It's tentative, exploring—two people testing the strength of the boundaries set by other people’s standards.
The kiss deepens, unhurried, as if time has been benched for us to savor this moment. In the quiet cocoon of my car, everything else fades out—the movie soundtrack, the crunch of gravel under tires, and even the rustling of the occupants in the cars around us.
There's just us, and the warmth passing between us says there will definitely be a next time.
Pulling away—reluctantly—there's an audible breath, a release as if we've both conceded a point in the same move. Her eyes meet mine again, and I see the crack in the hesitation I’ve been waiting for.
"You're full of surprises, Wells," she whispers with a small smile.
"Yeah," I reply, my smile broad and unguarded. "And if you think that was something, just wait until our next date."
“Where do we go after this?”
“I take you home like a gentleman, which I’m not, but will be for you.”
She hums, not buying into that comment one fucking bit. “If that’s what you want.”
“It’s not what I want but what I need. I keep stealing moments like this, and I might get a little obsessive.”
“You?” Rory quirks a brow. “I highly doubt that one, Killer.”
“Let’s not test the theory, yeah? Unless you want to see the result, I’m here for it.”
“I’ve seen this movie,” she replies, then turns her head. “Why don’t we go to my hotel and order room service.”
“You’re hungry again?”
“I’m always hungry.” Her eyes fall to my lips seductively, and I am about to pop a tent in my jeans.
I’m starving for her again. I’ve never felt like this for another woman. How much I want to date this chick and keep her around is practically mental.
I’m too young for a mid-life crisis, so I’m not sure what this is, but I need to find out.
“You don’t have to ask me twice, Snowflake.” I’m about to buckle my seatbelt when her fingers touch my forearm, and she gains my attention again.
“I changed my mind. Push your seat back.”
Fuck.
I’m about to question it, but Rory’s a big girl.
Rory's gaze never leaves mine, a silent pact between us burning fiercer than the neon lights outside. She bites her lip—a quiet, unspoken challenge—and shifts her position without breaking eye contact.
Rory moves with purpose—her hand slides from my forearm, planting firmly on my shoulder for leverage. Deliberately, with a grace that's all her own, she swings one leg over my thighs, her movements unhurried, giving me the chance to protest—but I won't. Not when every cell in my body is cheering her on to keep going and give me everything I’ve imagined since the first night we met.
She straddles me, and the world seems to tilt on its axis. My hands instinctively find her hips, grounding her and me as the space in my lap becomes her new seat.
Her weight anchors me in the moment, and our electric attraction is undeniable.
“Rory,” I start my voice a growl of anticipation. “I will fuck you here.”
“That’s what I was hoping for.” Then, her lips crash against mine with renewed vigor. The kiss ignites my body, crossing the line we both know is still drawn. Rory’s hands explore, tracing lines down my chest and over my heart, branding me with each touch.
I respond with my hands roaming upwards, shaping the curve of her spine, marveling at the softness of her skin beneath her shirt.
It’s reckless, it’s heated, and it's unlike anything I’ve ever felt before. Rory has already climbed onto more than just my lap—she's maneuvered straight into the core of me, setting up camp where I’d least expected it.
“Take off those leggings, or I’m ripping them off,” I ground out, impatience taking over me now because I can’t wait another second to be inside her.
“I brought extra clothes.”
Done.
Gripping onto the fabric of her leggings, I tear at the seams, leaving her in a pair of lace panties.
This shit is real.
I need her to know that and to keep me as an option.