Page 21 of The Rule Breaker (Colton U Playbook #1)

RYAN

T he second my skates hit the ice, I know it’s gonna be a shit practice.

Everything’s off.

My balance feels weird, like my legs suddenly forgot how to hockey. My strides are slow and heavy, like I’m skating through fucking quicksand. Even my stick feels wrong, like someone swapped it out for a shitty rental from the campus rec center.

I try to shake it off. Focus. The drills are simple, stuff I could do in my sleep. But still, nothing clicks. My passes are off, my shots are weak, and don’t even get me started on my puck handling—I might as well be playing with a goddamn tennis ball.

And I know exactly why.

It’s not the game. Yeah, we lost, and it fucked with me for sure—but I’ve had worse losses. It’s not even the hit I took in the third period, even though my shoulder feels like someone took a sledgehammer to it.

No, it’s her .

I haven’t spoken to her since that night.

The night she pressed into me, her hands clutching my jersey like she was desperate for me to pull her closer.

The night I kissed her, like I couldn’t stop myself, like I’d been starving for it.

And the night she kissed me back like she’d been waiting for me to make that move since the day we fucking met.

And now? I don’t know where we stand.

I haven’t texted her. She hasn’t texted me—except for that one message. The one I ignored.

The second I woke up the next day, I did what I always do. I grabbed my phone. Muscle memory. Habit. Call it whatever you want. I wasn’t even fully awake when I saw the notification.

Isabella:

Hey.

I stared at it, my thumb hovering over the screen like an idiot. Didn’t open it. Didn’t answer. Just sat there, staring at that one word.

I told myself I’d answer later. That I was too tired. Too busy. But that was bullshit.

I didn’t answer because I had no clue what to say.

How do I even talk to her now?

How do I look at her without thinking about how her breath hitched when I slid my hands down to her hips?

Without remembering the sounds she made when I kissed her?

Jesus.

I grit my teeth and squeeze my eyes shut, forcing myself to focus on something else, anything else. But it doesn’t work.

I still hear her.

I still feel her.

My brain is fucking useless.

And apparently, so is my reaction time, because the puck zips right past me before I even see it coming.

“Jesus, Ryan,” Logan mutters from across the rink, shooting me a look as he chases it down. “You playing in your sleep or what?”

I roll my shoulders, grip my stick tighter, and try to shake the distraction off. “I’ve got it.”

“Doesn’t look like it,” Cole chimes in, skating up beside me. “What the hell’s up with you today?”

“Nothing,” I mutter, letting out a harsh breath.

Cole arches a brow. “You’re acting like a damn zombie out here.”

“Is your shoulder still acting up?” Logan asks.

The guys won’t let up about last week’s game, like I’m some fragile fucking rookie instead of the captain. They’ve been on me all week. I know it’s their way of checking in, but I don’t want to talk about it.

I shake my head, trying to focus, trying to make the next pass smooth, but I’m off—way off. The puck skids awkwardly across the ice instead of finding its mark.

Cole narrows his eyes at me. “What the hell was that?”

I scowl, frustration bubbling up. “Nothing. Just missed the angle.”

Cole isn’t buying it. He shoots me a look, his brow furrowing. “Missed the angle? Or still hung up on the game?”

I clench my jaw. “I’m fine,” I repeat, more harshly than I intended. “I’m over it.”

Nathan skates past and shoulders me lightly. “Clearly,” he deadpans. “That’s why you’ve been a miserable bastard all week.”

I swallow hard, guilt coiling tight in my stomach. Jesus. Can’t even look at the guy without feeling like I’m about to crack. Every time I do, it hits me just how much I fucked up.

Because he has no idea.

No idea that while he was out drinking with the team that night, I had his sister on my lap, her hands tangled in my jersey, and her body shuddering under my hands.

No idea that I kissed her.

No idea that I still fucking want her.

And now? I’m avoiding her like the plague, like somehow, I can erase that night and just pretend it didn’t happen.

I shake off the thought and push harder, my legs burning as I tear down the ice, trying to outskate my own brain. Focus. Block it out.

But it’s impossible.

Because I feel it. Clear as fucking day.

I don’t even have to look up to know she’s there, standing at the edge of the rink, clipboard in hand.

I can’t look. I won’t. Even though every instinct is screaming at me to turn my head, to acknowledge her.

Instead, I lock in on the puck. On the guys. On literally anything but her.

Doesn’t matter. Her voice still cuts through the noise of the rink, sharp and clear.

“You’re hesitating in transitions.” Cool. Professional. Like nothing happened between us. “It’s throwing off the plays. You’re also pulling back on faceoffs instead of attacking.”

My jaw ticks, grip tightening on my stick until my knuckles go white.

Coach’s voice yanks me out of my own head. “Ryan, is your shoulder still bothering you?”

I don’t flinch. Don’t blink. Don’t give him an inch. I’m so fucking tired of this conversation. “No.”

Coach’s stare is a full-body check. “Don’t lie to me.”

I exhale hard through my nose, my whole body coiled with frustration. “I’m fine.”

There’s a beat of silence, then Isabella’s voice cuts through again.

“You’re compensating,” she says.

I feel her eyes on me, even though I refuse to meet them.

“You’re holding back in contact drills,” she says, voice calm but laced with something else. Concern, maybe? “Because it hurts.”

My fingers flex around my stick.

I hate that she noticed. That she sees right through my bullshit. That she knows me well enough to know when I’m lying.

“I’ll deal with it,” I mutter, my voice rough, the words scraping their way out of my throat through clenched teeth.

“You don’t have to,” she says, softer.

And like an idiot, I look at her.

One split second. That’s all it takes.

The noise of the rink fades. The sting in my shoulder? Gone. The shitstorm in my head? Silent. It’s just her. Just us.

And I see it in her eyes.

She cares.

And I fucking hate that she does.

Because if I let myself go there—if I even think about her for more than a second—I’ll crack. I’ll say I’m sorry. I’ll spill everything I’ve been choking down since that night.

That I haven’t stopped thinking about her.

That I still feel her. Still hear those soft, breathy sounds she made when I?—

Fuck.

And worst of all? I’ll kiss her again.

I tear my eyes away, heat prickling at the back of my neck, and force myself to lock it down.

“Thanks for the notes,” I mutter, the words stiff and dry in my mouth.

I don’t wait for her to respond before I pivot, digging into the ice, and get the hell out of there—before I forget all the reasons I’m not allowed to want her and end up making the same mistake twice.