Page 30 of Dirty As Puck
“They feel pretty personal when you’re asking my teammates about my psychological state.”
Rochelle’s professional mask slips for just a moment, and I see something that might be guilt flicker across her features.
Caught.
“I never asked anyone about your psychological state.”
“Anger management issues. Emotional regulation problems. Ring any bells?”
“Those were questions about your playing style, not your mental health.”
Playing style. Right.
“My playing style is connected to my mental state, but you know that. You’re not stupid, and neither am I.”
“Then maybe you should consider why people keep asking those questions.”
“Maybe you should consider why you keep pushing buttons and then acting surprised when I react.”
“I’m not pushing anything. I’m doing investigative journalism.”
“You’re looking for ammunition to destroy my career, and when I don’t cooperate, you get frustrated.”
“I get frustrated when subjects lie to me or refuse to engage honestly with legitimate questions.”
“Honest engagement. Is that what you call it when you back away every time we get too close?”
My words hit its mark, and I see Rochelle’s composure crack slightly.
“Physical proximity isn’t part of professional interviews.”
“No, but it keeps happening anyway, doesn’t it? Every time we’re alone, every time the conversation gets heated, you end up close enough to touch.”
I take another step forward, and now we’re close enough that I can see the emerald flecks in her green eyes, can smell her perfume mixing with the concrete-and-motor-oil scent of the parking garage.
“That’s coincidence.”
“Yeah, just like right now your pulse is visible at the base of your throat, and I haven’t even touched you yet.”
Rochelle’s breath catches, and I know I’ve won this round. She can deny the attraction all she wants, but her body betrays her every time.
Yet. I said yet, and she heard the promise in it.
“This is completely inappropriate, so I should go.”
But she doesn’t move, doesn’t step back, doesn’t break eye contact. Instead, she stands there looking up at me with heat in her green eyes and her lips slightly parted like she’s waiting for something.
Waiting for me to make the decision she can’t make herself.
I reach up and trace the line of her jaw with my thumb, and when she doesn’t pull away, I know we’re both past the point of pretending.
“Tell me to stop,” I say.
“Okay.”
I grin. “You didn’t say it.”
“Say what?”
