20. CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY
20
I'm perched on the edge of my designated seat, the Montreal Blizzard to one side, the New Brunswick Wolverines on the other—only tonight, it's not just the ice; it’s a battleground of epic proportions now that the news is out about Wells and me.
Dad pressed me to be here, to be seen bleeding blue and white and make a spectacle of loyalty for all to witness. But my brain was already crossing enemy lines, and my focus was always latched onto Wells.
The eyes of the Blizzard players slide over me during the game. Their silent treatment is as loud as the fans' roars, but I’d have to give a shit to care. Wells is out there, suiting up in black and gold, and my pulse keeps up in time with his strides on the ice, betraying my true alliance that my father thinks will work.
Cameras scan the crowd like always, but they always seem to land on me. I’ve seen my face on the Jumbotron a handful of times already and have a mixture of cheers, and boos sent my way.
But every time Wells is shown, most of the crowd goes crazy.
I’m starting to think I’m getting booed by every female here.
Wells is poetry in motion, anticipation in every flex of muscle as he navigates through his opponents. I am mesmerized as he receives a pass, his body coiled, ready to spring toward the goalie. He dodges a defender with a beautiful and graceful sidestep, the crowd erupting as he closes in. The Blizzard’s goaltender squares off against him, the last line of defense when Wells pulls right, the puck slipping off his stick, and he hurls it toward the net.
He scores.
The crowd loses its mind, and I feel another set of heavy eyes on me from the cameras. On the bench, the Blizzard are statues, stern and stone-faced, except for their eyes, which track the play with a predatory focus.
They’re pissed.
There's no separating me from the narrative now—Rory, the coach’s daughter, is caught in a storm of controversy while the game rages on. I watch Wells get high-fived, but never once does he steal a glance at me.
And I know it’s to save my ass from my father, who has been watching him like a hawk.
However, I’m craving one of his glances like a next high.
“Why don’t you eye-fuck him some more, Rory, and see if he pays attention.” My jaw clenches at the sound of Brandon’s voice, and I wish there were some way to telepathically tell Wells to check him in the board the next time he hits the ice. “Did you at least get some secrets?” He sits beside me, taunting my patience, and I wish he’d buzz off and focus on his game. “Something that was, at least, helpful?” he asks sarcastically.
I slowly turn my head toward him, my eyes throwing daggers. “Don’t you have a game to lose?”
His face turns murderous. “Lose? Are you so dick-whipped that you forgot who’s the better team?”
“Did you get hit in the head too many times today?”
He smirks, suddenly undeterred. "Oh, come on," he needles further, leaning in as if sharing confidences in a plan we made up together. "You’re in the perfect position to help us out. A little pillow talk, some strategy slips—"
"Shut up,” I cut him off with a hiss, my voice low and dangerous. "I'm here to support my dad, not to be your mole. So back off and get away from me.”
Brandon holds up his hands in mock surrender, but his cocky smile never leaves his face. "Sure, sure. I mean…you wouldn’t want a story to go around that you’re using Wells or anything for us. That’d be bad.”
That sounds like a threat.
I glance toward my father, who’s absorbed in the game but still maintains peripheral vigilance over Wells’ actions.
“That’d sound really bad for this team, don’t you think? Oh, I see; you can’t win without cheating?” I remark with a cocky laugh.
“I think you better shut your mouth, Ror Ror, because you’re not doing yourself any favors?”
“And what are you going to do about it?”
“You remember what we did to Cyrus Archer, right?”
Another threat, and it hangs heavy in the air.
“That sounds like a good story that the media would eat up,” I begin to fish my cell phone out of my pocket. “Would you mind saying that again?”
Brandon tightens, coiled like a spring—a hint of uncertainty flashes across his face. He’s clearly not used to being called out or having his bluffs challenged. He rises from the bench, taking his threats with him, and walks away without another word—ones he abruptly realizes he doesn't want on record.
With a small, victorious smile tugging the corner of my lips, the game is winding down now, the last desperate plays unfolding on the ice.
Out of habit, I check my phone for messages on my social media and see a trending storyline.
About me.
Trouble in Parad-ice? Daughter of rival coach and playboy Judson Wells have ignored each other all game.
The article speculates wildly about our secret being leaked and how much pressure it’s put on us, suggesting that we’ve probably broken up over it.
It's just a story trying to get likes and comments.
Public speculation doesn't have to dictate our love. Whether we acknowledge it or not, fight it or embrace it—our story isn't theirs to tell.
No one knows what lies underneath my overly baggy t-shirt. That I’ve already speculated the crap stories that were going to take place sitting on this side of the arena. Sitting with Dad and the Blizzard was the perfect set-up for them to say there were problems with Wells and me. The idea that I would be here, supporting my dad like I always do, isn’t going to trend. Because common sense and genuine loyalty don't draw in viewers like the contrived chaos, they're so eager to sell.
It’ll flop.
The Jumbotron lands on me again as Wells helps block a goal.
This is going to piss Dad off to no end.
However, I’m ready to kill the narrative of our relationship being so weak that we can’t handle the publicity.
I push myself off the bench, feeling every eye in the stands drawing towards me like I’m about to pull some crazy stunt, and I suppose I am. The Blizzard shirt has been my armor all night, a cover, a decoy, but beneath it, there’s truth pressed against my skin.
The air is electric, charged with anticipation as I stride up to the glass. My fingers catch the hem of my shirt. A sharp, decisive tug and it’s gone, the symbol of one loyalty surrendered to reveal another.
The cameras find me the instant the fabric is clear from my head, and my heart hammers. Underneath, Wells’s jersey clings to me, his name bold and unapologetic across my back.
The stadium feels like it sucks in a collective breath.
And then sheer chaos erupts from the arena. The wild disbelief of cheers all swirl into a storm of noise. But I'm at the eye of it, calm and dead center as I stand there with Wells’s name for all to see.
Out on the ice, Wells pivots, trying to catch the play the whole stadium seems to be reacting to. Reid elbows him in the ribs, then nods in my direction. The world collides with his gaze when his eyes finally snap to me.
And it's all there.
My answer is loud and clear; no words are needed—my statement to every whisper and wondering thought written tonight. In defiance of the rumors, in challenge to every sidelong glance, I own our story in the most public way possible.
I own him and vice versa.
Tonight, I’m team Wells all the way. Judging by the commotion flying off these arena walls, so is everyone else, whether they like it or not.
I can’t help the grin that spreads across my face watching him. There's pride and something close to relief as Wells begins to skate towards me slowly.
I did it.
No turning back now—oops.
I've chosen my side, and it's with him. It's bold, impulsive, maybe, but it feels like victory.
So, what’s our next play, Wells?
His strides are confident, with each push of his skates against the ice drowning out the noise, the game, and the world.
He meets me at the glass, our divider, and connection simultaneously. Eyes locked on mine, he lifts his gloved hand and presses it to the barrier between us.
The cheers around us swell, and fans react not just to the game anymore but to us. This moment is as real as anything that's happened on the ice.
I press my hand against the cold glass, mirroring him before I wink.
He smiles and points at me, then makes his gloves into a makeshift heart, claiming for the whole arena that I’m his.
And he’s mine.
Despite the glass, it's as close to perfect as I can imagine.
He skates back into the game and to his team, and I stand, still brimming with the adrenaline of our decision made public. The jersey on my back suddenly feels like a target from the guys next to and behind me, but I don’t care.
I just gave my middle finger to the world to try me again.
Wells and I are together—period, end of story.
I’d love for the media to come back from that.