Page 12 of Dirty As Puck
“My disposition is always like this.” I deadpan.
“True. But usually, you’re not radiating quite this much sexual frustration.”
Sexual frustration??“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Sure you don’t. That’s why you’ve been avoiding looking in her direction for the past twenty minutes, despite the fact that she’s wearing those shorts that makes her legs look incredible.”
I make the mistake of glancing over at Rochelle, and Jake’s right - the fucking shorts is doing things for her figure that shouldn’tbe legal in public spaces. She’s got one leg crossed over the other, and when she shifts position to reach for her coffee, the movement draws my attention to the curve of her hip.
Don’t look. Don’t think about it. Don’t wonder what she’d feel like under your hands.
“You’re an idiot,” I slap the back of his head.
“And you’re attracted to someone who’s probably going to write an article about how you eat puppies for breakfast. This should be entertaining.”
Before I can tell Jake exactly where he can shove his entertainment, the gate agent calls for boarding. The team shuffles toward the gate, and I make sure to position myself as far from Rochelle as possible in the boarding line.
Distance is good. Distance is professional. Distance means I won’t do something stupid.
We board the chartered plane in groups, and I claim an aisle seat toward the back, figuring I can stretch out and maybe catch some sleep during the two-hour flight. Jake slides into the seat across the aisle, already pulling out his tablet for whatever game he’s obsessed with this week.
“Alright, everybody listen up.” Coach Williams stands at the front of the plane, holding a clipboard. “I’ve got seat assignments for this flight, and before anyone complains, remember that I don’t care about your preferences.”
Seat assignments.We haven’t had assigned seating since junior hockey.The fuck?
Coach starts reading names and seat numbers, and I tune out until I hear my own name called.
“Morrison, 12A. Winters, 12B.”
Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.
I look up to find Rochelle staring at Coach Williams with the same expression of horror that’s probably on my face. She looks like someone just told her she’ll be spending the next two hours locked in a cage with a rabid bear.
At least the feeling is mutual.
Jake catches my eye and grins. “Have fun, kids.”
I’ll hurt my best friend.
There’s no point arguing with Coach Williams about seating arrangements, so I grab my bag and make my way to row twelve. Rochelle is already there, sliding her laptop bag under the seat in front of her with movements that are just a little too sharp.
“This is ridiculous,” she mutters as I approach.
“Something we can agree on.”
I drop into the aisle seat, and immediately the space feels smaller. Rochelle smells like that same clean perfume from our interview, something light that shouldn’t be noticeable but manages to fill my entire awareness. When she reaches up to adjust the air vent, her sweater pulls slightly above her stomach, and I force myself to look out the window instead.
Soft. Her skin looks so soft, and my hands itch to touch them.
Two hours. I can handle two hours of sitting next to someone without doing something stupid.
The plane starts taxiing, and both of us maintain rigid silence. Rochelle pulls out her laptop and opens what looks like a research document, while I grab my headphones and try to find music loud enough to drown out the sound of her typing.
But I can still see her screen from the corner of my eye, and what I see makes my jaw clench.
She’s got a document open titled, “Kai Morrison Background Research,” and from what I can glimpse, it’s full of notes about my penalty record, my suspension history, speculation about my “anger management issues.” One section header reads “Potential Psychological Factors.”
Psychological factors.Like I’m some kind of case study instead of a person.
