Page 12 of Dirty Play

Everyone else has gone to shower, stretch, or eat. The rink is eerily still in the way it only gets after practice. My legs burn, and my shoulders ache, but I’m not leaving yet. I like being here alone.

I lean into the glide of my skates, tapping the puck lazily along the ice, but then I catch a flicker of movement from the corner of my eye. I glance toward the rink's edge, and apparently, I’m not the only one left. There she is, standing just outside the boards, clipboard in hand, lips pressed into a determined line.

“DiMarco.” Her voice carries across the rink, clear and steady.

Of course.

Livia’s watching me, waiting for me to come to her. Not happening.

I circle back toward the net, dragging the puck in a lazy figure-eight.

I don’t stop. I don’t even look at her.

“Rowan.” She tries again, and fuck, if my name out of her mouth doesn’t do something. I don’t like this.

I let the puck clatter into the boards and glance her way, eyebrows raised in mock surprise.

“Oh, were you calling me?”

Her mouth tightens, and I catch the faintest spark of irritation in her eyes. Good.

“Can we talk, please?” she asks, her voice firm, even as her gaze flickers to the ice beneath her.

“Of course, Ms. Moody.” I smirk, skating closer but not close enough to make it easy for her. “Come on out.” I come to a stop in the center of the rink, right across from her.

Her mouth opens and closes, realization hitting her.

Let me show you what a pain in the ass I am, little hellcat.

“DiMarco, I’m serious.” She hesitates, looking down at her shoes. Plain sneakers that are definitely not made for ice.

“So am I,” I say, my tone light but laced with challenge. “If you want to talk to me, you’ve got to meet me halfway.”

Her eyes narrow, and for a moment, I think she’ll back down. But then she surprises me.

Setting her clipboard down, she steps onto the ice, one foot sliding awkwardly forward.

I bite the inside of my cheek to keep my lips from parting, sucking in a breath.

Well, well.

The way she shuffles toward me is almost funny, her arms outstretched for balance. Almost. Except there’s something truly admirable about how she’s doing it, determination etched into every cautious step.

I stay rooted in place, fighting my body’s urge to skate up to her and put her out of her misery. Instead, I take off my gloves and helmet and toss them on the ice.

She finally reaches me, her nostrils slightly flared as she glares up at me. Cute.

“Can we talk about that interview?” she huffs out, her arms stretched out.

“There’s nothing to talk about.” I shrug. “I don’t see any rope on you, and I doubt you can drag me off the ice. You’re barely walking on it as is.”

“Meet me halfway,” she says, finally letting her hands fall to her sides. “Isn’t that what you just said? Meet me halfway? How about we do that, Rowan? I can reschedule it.” I see something else in her eyes now. They’re softer, her brows no longer pinched together.

God, she really wants this to work out. And fuck if I don’t want to give it to her. But I don’t do press. EverybodyknowsI don’t do press. And if she was as good as everything I found about her claims, she should know why I don’t do press. Or at least have a good fucking guess.

“How about you cancel it instead?” I say, pointing my chin at her.

She rolls her eyes, frustration etched on her features. “Why are you acting like such a toddler?”

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