Page 27 of Pucking Forbidden

Finally, I spot her. She’s just stepped through the heavy wooden entrance, bathed in the soft glow of the entryway light. She’s wearing a simple, ribbed cream-colored sweater that hugs her small frame perfectly, paired with dark jeans and small boots that add maybe an inch to her five-foot-one height. Her shoulder-length brown hair is down, falling in soft, glossy waves with those golden highlights catching the neon beer signs. Staring at her, it feels like lightning shoots through me. My cock twitches. I grit my teeth to try and force my body back under control.

She’s scanning the crowd, looking a bit uncertain, but the second her deep chocolate eyes find mine, she freezes. I don't break eye contact. I smile and wink at her. A beautiful, deep crimson flush floods her cheeks, creeping up the delicate column of her neck. She bites her lower lip, looking down for a fraction of a second, entirely flustered, maybe a bit nervous. God, she’s gorgeous when she blushes.

The guy sitting at the door checking IDs arches a brow. “Can I see your ID?”

I hurry over, stepping into the space between Hadley and the bouncer. I put a hand on the guy’s shoulder.

“Hey, Marcus,” I say, keeping my voice low but steady.

Marcus looks up, his stern bouncer-face momentarily tightening before his eyes widen with instant recognition. We practically live in this place; the staff knows the core team by name, and we know them.

“Oh, Wilder. Hey, man,” Marcus says, his posture instantly relaxing. He glances from my hand on his shoulder, down to Hadley, who is watching us with wide, slightly panicked eyes.

“She’s with me,” I tell him, holding his gaze with a look that communicates exactly how non-negotiable this is. “She’s Coach Sullivan’s granddaughter. Just having dinner with the team.”

Marcus’s eyes widen just a fraction more at the mention of the Coach, nodding quickly as he steps back to clear the doorway. “Say no more, man. You guys have a good night.”

“Thanks,” she murmurs, quickly moving past him. I give the guy a nod and turn to guide her inside.

“Sorry about that,” I tell her. “Forgot you’re just a baby.”

She shoots me some side-eye and grumbles, “I’m well over the drinking age in England. I could probably drink you all under the table.”

I snort and shake my head. “I’m twice your size, sweetheart. It’s physically impossible for you to drink me under anything.”

She grins and shrugs. “Yeah, you’re right. Total bluff. I’ve never drank before. Anyway, I’ll stick with ginger ale tonight. Don’t want to press my luck.”

“I’ll get you one. You go on and join the others.” I wave my hand toward the back tables everyone else has gathered around. Hadley hesitates a moment before nodding.

“Okay, thank you.” I watch as she moves toward the others. Once the girls engulf her, I turn to the bar to order her ginger ale and get myself a beer.

When I join the group, Hadley is sitting at the table with the girls, but as they chatter away, she stays quieter. She’s smiling and laughing when appropriate, but is watchful, not fully participating as she sits and takes everything in.

“Here you go.” I set her ginger ale in front of her. She looks up at me with a grateful smile.

“Appreciate it,” she says.

I give her a nod and slip away to join the guys, who are starting up a game of darts nearby.

“She good?” Jayce asks, not even looking up as he slides a cold bottle of Coors Light across the scarred wood of the high-top table.

I catch the condensation-slicked glass with my palm, leaning my shoulder against the brick wall next to him. I twist the cap off with a sharp, practiced snap, forcing my features into a carefully blank mask. I glance over at him with a heavy frown. “Who?”

Jayce snorts, finally lifting his head. His bright blue eyes are sharp, gleaming with amusement under the low-hanging amber lights of the bar. With his lean, fast build, easy smile, and blonde hair pushed back, he looks every bit the relaxed California surfer guy his fans adore.

“Don’t play dumb, Wild. It doesn't suit a guy your size,” he chuckles, taking a slow sip of his beer. He tilts his chin toward the corner booth where Hadley is currently surrounded by the girls, her cheeks still sporting that faint, pretty pink flush from earlier. “The way you practically flew across the entryway to intercept Marcus. You looked like you were trying to prevent a breakaway in game seven.”

I glare at him, but there’s no real heat in it. I can’t hide from Jayce.

Out of everyone on the Night Hawks, Jayce is who I let my guard down around the most. On a team where most of the guys grew up with secure, comfortable safety nets, Jayce and I shouldn't make sense on paper. His family owns Parker Global. He’s got generational money, and he has to wear a neatly gelled-back, perfectly tailored version of himself whenever he visits his high-society relatives. Still, he’s the first one to call me out on my bullshit, and the only guy on the squad who doesn't tread lightly around my moods or my past. When my OCD tendencies flare up in the locker room, and I start meticulously re-taping my sticks for the third time in a row, the other guys give me space. Jayce just throws a roll of tape at my head and tells me to hurry the hell up. He’s my closest friend on this team because he sees right through the defensive walls I spent a lifetime building, and he doesn't treat me like I'm broken for having them.

I glance back to Hadley. She’s sipping her ginger ale.

“She’s fine,” I murmur, forcing my eyes away from her.

Jayce hums. “She looks like she’s figuring it out.”

“She’s more than capable of taking care of herself,” I reply with a shrug.