Page 117 of Pucking Forbidden

People like me don’t usually get to keep things this good. Not permanently. The universe usually demands a tax for happiness, and mine is always overdue.

I squeeze my eyes shut for a brief second, trying to push the toxic thoughts away. Before I can disappear any further into the dark labyrinth of my own head, a small, warm hand slips into mine.

I blink, looking down. Hadley grins and slides out of the booth, holding my hand. She tugs on my fingers, pointing toward the crowded dance floor.

“Come on, big guy,” she purrs. “You’ve been brooding for exactly three minutes. You owe me a dance.”

A helpless laugh escapes my throat. I shake my head, but I don’t resist. I let her pull me out of the booth. Tonight, I just want to wrap my arms around her waist and hold onto her as tightly as I can.

The pale morning sun cuts through the curtains and falls over my eyes, dragging me out of sleep. Blinking, I frown, momentarily disoriented, but then remember I’m at Hadley’s place. I carefully reach for my phone to check the time and am stunned to see that it’s 7:30. Damn. It’s crazy how easily I can sleep in late when I’m with Hadley.

Hadley is still fast asleep against my chest, her face buried in the crook of my neck. Her breathing is a warm puff of air against my collarbone. One of her legs is hooked over my thighs beneath the comforter.

For a few quiet minutes, I just lie in the stillness, letting myself absorb the luxury of the moment. Things finally feel settled again after the chaotic nightmare of the last few weeks. The shadow of the Chicago contract is gone. The team knows about Hadley and me openly, rather than just suspects, and they didn't blink. Most importantly, Hadley trusts me again.

Careful not to wake her, I slip out of bed, pulling on a grey sweatshirt and jeans to run down to the truck to grab my extra gear bag from last night so I can get my deodorant and toothbrush. The morning mountain air is crisp, biting at my face as I push open the heavy glass exit doors of the apartment complex and walk out into the quiet side guest parking lot.

I reach my truck, unlocking the tailgate, when the crunch of gravel has me instinctively looking over my shoulder.

Standing five feet away, dressed in a sharp, pristine charcoal overcoat, is a man I vaguely recognize. His hair is slicked back, and his pointed nose and chin kind of make him look a bit like a rat. It takes a moment to click, but then I realize that’s Stetson, one of Coach Williams’s assistants from the Ironclad front office.

What the fuck is he doing here?

“Uhhh…can I help you?” I ask.

The assistant doesn't answer right away. He just looks at me, his beady eyes dark behind his glasses, before reaching into his breast pocket. His expression is devoid of any human warmth as he pulls out a thick, white envelope and reaches inside. He slides a stack of glossy, high-resolution photographs and holds them up for me to see.

The blood drains from my face.

The first photo is from this past weekend. A crystal-clear shot of me kissing Hadley outside the coffee shop downtown, her hands tangled in my shirt. The next is of us coming out of her building, laughing, my arm wrapped around her waist. The third is from last night. It’s the two of us standing outside the arena exit, wrapped up in each other in the dim light of the parking lot.

The assistant keeps his eyes locked onto mine, his voice smooth and entirely professional as he speaks. “Coach Williams wanted me to deliver these personally, Mr. Wilder. We’ve been keeping a very close eye on your relocation status. We know exactly who the girl is.”

My heart hits my ribs like a sledgehammer. The panic is a sudden, blinding white noise in my skull, but it’s nothing compared to the rage. Have they been following Hadley around? Stalking her? I ball my hands into fists and fight not to lash out and beat the shit out of this motherfucker.

“She’s Hadley Sullivan,” the man continues calmly, sliding the photos back into the envelope. “Coach Sullivan’s granddaughter. She’s twenty-one. A college student. Deeply connected to the internal hierarchy of the Night Hawks organization.”

He steps closer, the smell of his expensive cologne mixing with the exhaust of the morning traffic. “You’ve been around the league long enough to know how this spins, Mr. Wilder. If these photos find their way to the local and national media outlets on Monday morning, it’s not just a personal matter. It becomes a massive scandal. A veteran player taking advantage of the head coach’s young granddaughter? The press will tear the Night Hawks apart, claiming conflict of interest and no doubt suspicions of favoritism. You’re sitting at the top of the Western Conference right now, Julian. Think about the sponsors. The corporate endorsements. The press conferences. The entire team’s focus will be obliterated before the Winter Classic.”

“Shut your mouth,” I growl, taking a menacing step forward, my fists clenching so hard the skin over my knuckles feels ready to split. Every primal, violent instinct within me is screaming to wrap my hands around his throat and smash his face into the pavement. “If you touch her, if you put her name in the mouth of any reporter, I will personally ensure you never walk again.”

The assistant doesn't even flinch.

“Threatening me won't do you any good,” he replies smoothly. “Let’s be entirely honest about who loses the most here. It’s Miss Sullivan. You know what the media can do to a twenty-one-year-old woman attached to a professional sports scandal. They will tear her reputation to shreds. They’ll call her an opportunist, a distraction, an item of locker-room politics. Her face will be on every sports blog in the country before her finals week. Do you really want to put her through that?”

The words hit me like a physical blow, knocking the breath out of my lungs.

Goddamn it. If this story breaks with the sickening, predatory angle this bastard is threatening to spin, it will ruin her before she even gets the chance to start her life. It will destroy her relationship with her grandfather. It will drag Carson, Owen, Jayce, Jensen, Zander, Theo, and every other guy in that locker room straight into a public relations nightmare.

And financially? A scandal like this could mean a conduct-unbecoming contract termination. My career could be over in twenty-four hours. No team would touch me. The money I need for my future and to care for Mrs. Clay…it would all vanish. Everyone I care about loses.

My chest heaves, my breath rattling through my teeth as the trap snaps shut around my neck. What the fuck am I supposed to do here?

“What do you want?” I choke out, the words tasting like ash in my mouth.

The assistant smiles…a tiny, satisfied twitch of his lips. “There is still a very simple, very lucrative solution, Mr. Wilder. The Ironclads organization still wants you on our blue line. We value your grit. There is a live press conference scheduled in Chicago tomorrow afternoon at two o'clock. You will fly out tonight, you will sit at that table, and you will announce that you have accepted an offer for a mid-season trade back to your hometown for personal reasons. The paperwork is already drafted.”

He taps the white envelope against his palm. “The moment you sign that contract, these files are permanently deleted from our servers. The girl stays safe. The Night Hawks stay clean. You protect everyone.”