Page 19 of The Rule Breaker (Colton U Playbook #1)

ISABELLA

T he arena’s quiet.

It’s always weird how fast it changes—one minute, the place is alive with the roar of the crowd, and the next, it’s just empty seats and echoes. The silence is almost too loud.

I stroll down the hallway, my sneakers scraping on the floor with each step. My eyes flick toward the rink through the plexiglass. The ice is all scratched up from the blades, patches of melted water—remnants of a game that should’ve been different. A game that they should’ve won.

My fingers tighten around the notebook I’ve been clutching since the first period. I spent the entire night tracking plays, analyzing movements, noting down stats my dad had asked for.

I let out a slow breath, glancing toward my dad’s office at the end of the hall. The door’s closed. The lights are off.

That’s weird.

He’s always in there after a game. Win or lose, he’s breaking down footage, running through plays, making notes, preparing for the next one.

My curiosity starts to itch, so I glance toward the locker rooms, and that’s when I hear a low groan.

I stop in my tracks, my brows furrowing. There’s no reason anyone should still be here. The guys all left a while ago, headed to grab drinks and forget about the loss. So why?—?

I nudge the door open just a little, trying not to make a sound. The room is mostly dark, lit only by the soft glow of the hallway. But even in the low light, I catch a glimpse of movement.

I push the door open a little wider, stepping inside.

“Dad?”

A low, teasing chuckle cuts through the dark. “Not your daddy.”

I roll my eyes, the tension in my shoulders easing slightly at the sound of his voice. I step further in, leaning against the lockers.

Ryan’s slumped on the bench, elbows braced against his knees. He’s peeled off all his gear, left with only his jersey and the tight compression shorts. Sweat clings to his skin, making the fabric stick. His hair’s a mess, sticking up like he’s run his hands through it a dozen times.

“You’re still here?” I ask. “I thought you’d be out with the guys.”

“Not really in the mood,” he mutters, his eyes staring blankly ahead.

I study him for a second, the way he’s hunched over, like he’s carrying the entire team’s defeat on his back. “You played well,” I say with a small smile, hoping to lift his spirits.

His jaw tightens, and he finally looks up at me, his eyes full of frustration. “Did you watch the same game?”

I frown, pushing off the lockers. “Ryan, you were out there busting your ass.”

He shakes his head. “Doesn’t matter. We still lost. And that’s on me.”

I step closer to him, pulling out my notebook from my bag, scanning the notes I wrote down during the game. “You had three shots on goal, won most of your faceoffs, and were solid on defense. Plus, you set up Austin’s goal.”

I offer the notebook to him, but he just stares at the pages for a second before running a hand through his messy hair again, letting out a scoff, a short, bitter laugh following it. “And yet, we still lost.”

“The team didn’t lose because of you,” I argue, narrowing my eyes at him.

He shakes his head, refusing to meet my gaze. “We were already down, and then I got fucking slammed into the boards. Spent a full minute trying to get my head straight. Feels like my fault.”

“Ryan, one play doesn’t decide the whole game.”

“Maybe not,” he mutters. “But I should’ve been better.”

I watch him for a long moment, his eyes fixed on some point on the floor, his jaw tight. He drags a hand through his hair. “I let my dad down,” he says, almost under his breath, like it hurts for him to admit it.

I pause, my brows pulling together. This isn’t the Ryan I’m used to—the guy who’s always cracking jokes, throwing out those smooth lines like nothing can touch him. Hearing him like this? It throws me off.

I step closer to him, watching the way he avoids my eyes, staring at the ground. “You don’t need to prove anything to him or anyone else here, Ryan.”

He looks up, his lips pulled into a frown. “I was supposed to do better. To make him proud.” His voice falters for a second, and I see that flicker of doubt. “But I didn’t. I never do. I still mess it all up. Every single time.”

God, hearing that makes my stomach twist.

“You push yourself too hard,” I say quietly, watching him.

Ryan exhales, tilting his head back against the locker with a thud. “Yeah, well. Somebody has to.”

We sit in silence for a moment, his labored breaths the only sound between us. Then, I catch him shifting his shoulder, and a wince pulls at his face as he lets out a low groan.

“You’re hurt,” I say, my brows pulling together.

He brushes it off, but it’s obvious that he’s in pain. “It’s nothing.”

I arch an eyebrow and cross my arms, not buying it for a second. “Ryan.”

He lets out a long, tired sigh. Slowly, he rolls his shoulder back, wincing as he does. “Took a bad hit. I’ll be fine.”

I frown, glancing down at him for a second before stepping closer, narrowing the gap between us. “Let me see.”

He gives me a look like he’s about to argue, but I’m not backing down. I’ve seen him take hits before, but there’s something about this one that doesn’t sit right with me.

Reluctantly, he shifts a bit, allowing me to get a better look at his shoulder. I step right between his legs, my heart skips at how close we are.

Ryan stays still as I press my fingers into his shoulder, feeling the stiff muscles beneath the fabric. He’s warm, too warm, and when I dig into the sore spot, he exhales sharply, his body tensing.

“Jesus,” I mutter, pressing a little harder. “You’re completely locked up.”

“It’s not that bad,” he mumbles, though his voice is tight.

I raise an eyebrow, pushing a little harder, ignoring his half-hearted protest. “Don’t lie. This is pretty bad. You’ve got a rock for a shoulder.”

He lets out a soft groan and the sound sends something hot curling through me, swirling in my stomach.

I don’t acknowledge it. I refuse to acknowledge it.

I clear my throat, focusing hard on the muscle beneath my fingers. He shifts slightly, and I’m suddenly way too aware of how close we are. His eyes are on me, dark and heavy, and I can feel the heat radiating off of him.

“Feel better?” I ask, trying to keep my voice steady, but my pulse is thumping in my ears, drowning out everything else.

“Yeah,” he says, his voice even rougher now, a little lower, and definitely not helping the weird energy zipping through the air. “Surprisingly.”

I swallow hard, my fingers lingering on his skin a moment longer than necessary, my brain screaming at me to step back, but I can’t move. His skin is warm beneath my fingertips, and I can feel the thrum of his heartbeat through his shirt.

The space between us feels like it’s shrinking by the second. His face is so close, I can feel the faintest brush of his breath against my skin. His hands are light on my hips, just enough to keep me in place, like he’s not ready for me to let go of me yet.

I don’t know when he touched me, but it’s like he’s always had his hands there, pulling me closer without a single word.

His eyes are locked on mine—dark and intense—like he’s trying to figure me out. Or maybe he is daring me to make the first move.

When I shift a little, his fingers tighten on my hips, and my breath hitches in my chest.

My pulse is pounding so loud in my ears that it drowns out everything else. My hands are still pressed against his chest, the muscles beneath my palms so solid, and the pull between us is magnetic—like neither of us can pull away, but neither of us knows how to make the first move either.

He moves his hand, just slightly, and my heart skips in my chest when his thumb brushes my hip. The heat shoots straight through me, and I bite my lip, trying to focus on anything except the way his eyes follow the movement.

Before I know it, his hands pull me forward, yanking me into his lap.

I gasp, my hands flying to his shoulders. “Ryan?—”

He groans, the sound low and rough, like he’s trying to keep control but doesn’t have it in him anymore. “I know,” he mutters, shaking his head like he’s frustrated with himself. “Fuck, I know. I just… don’t want you to stop.”

I can feel him hard beneath me. His hands grip my hips, pulling me even closer, and the friction between us is so intense I can hardly think straight. It’s too much, but it’s also exactly what I want.

“What about what you said?” I breathe out. “The rules… and my brother?”

His lips twitch into a smirk as his fingers tighten on my hips. “I’ve always been a bit of a rulebreaker.”

I want to believe him. God, I just want to let go, to lose myself in him—everything inside me is screaming for it. But the consequences hit me. All of the complications flood my thoughts of what will happen if we go ahead with this. I can’t ignore them, no matter how badly I want to.

I bite down on my lip, trying to hold on to the last thread of control I have left.

“We shouldn’t do this,” I whisper, my voice shaking, torn between the desire to pull away and the temptation to give in.

Ryan nods, his breath ragged. “I know.”

“This is a really bad idea,” I say, fighting to hold onto the last shred of logic as my heart hammers harder with every second.

His jaw clenches. “The worst.”

And yet, his hands don’t move. Neither do mine. We’re so close, and I can’t look away from him, can’t pull back. Something is happening, and I don’t know how to stop it.

I’m not sure I want to.

His eyes flicker to my lips, and I can’t breathe. My heart hammers in my chest so loudly I’m sure he can hear it.

“Fuck it,” he murmurs, his fingers curling around my neck, pulling me closer before his mouth crashes against mine.

I gasp, trembling as he finally kisses me.

I’ve wanted this since that stupid welcome week party. Since the moment I first saw him, his cocky smirk and messy hair and stupidly perfect hands. And now it’s finally happening.