Page 37 of Dirty As Puck
I hang up before she can press further, shoving my phone into my bag like it might bite me. Across the restaurant, the chair Kai vacated still sits slightly pushed out. Empty, but heavy with everything I’m trying not to think about.
The chill of the rink hits me the second I step out onto the concrete walkway, my notebook in hand, breath fogging faintly in the air. The team is already in motion, skates carving sharp turns, pucks ricocheting off boards, the low thud of bodies colliding during drills. The soundscape is familiar by now, but my chest tightens all the same.
Because he’s here, as expected. Kai Morrison, the man I swore this morning I would keep at a safe, professional distance, is skating at the far end of the ice with that same effortless, lethal focus that makes the headlines. I tell myself I’m here to work, but my eyes betray me, as it continues to peek at the cut of his stride, the way his shoulders move beneath his dark practice jersey.
“Rochelle,” a voice calls.
I blink, drag my gaze away. Alex Petrov, one of the team’s defensemen, leans on his stick near the boards, helmet already unbuckled.
I force a smile, flip my notebook open. “Alex. Got a minute?”
He shrugs easily, dark hair damp against his forehead. “Sure. What’s up?”
We talk about the upcoming New York rematch, his expectations, the locker room energy, the adjustments they’ve been drilling. My pen moves, but my attention wavers. There’s a prickle at the back of my neck, a heat that has nothing to do with the overhead lights. I don’t need to look to know it’s him.
Kai is watching me, his gaze intense and piercing into the back of my head.
I clear my throat, nod as Alex finishes a sentence I barely process. “Great, thank you. One more thing, team chemistry off the ice. How’s that shaping up?”
He flashes me a boyish grin. “Better than people think. Lots of noise outside, but in here? We’re solid.”
I scribble the quote, offer a tight smile, then excuse myself before my professionalism cracks any further.
The next player I find is Max Bennett, one of the forwards, a tall and soft-spoken blonde guy, who is nursing a Gatorade by the bench. “Max, quick one?”
“Shoot.”
I ask about the team’s dynamic heading into the next away series. He gives me a thoughtful, measured answer, exactly the kind of filler responses Marcus is paying me to avoid. My penmoves automatically, but my body is a live wire, every cell tuned to the man gliding lazy laps behind us.
Kai hasn’t come over. He hasn’t said a word. But his gaze is a physical thing, skating along my spine, wrapping around my ribs until my breath comes too shallow.
Max pauses, capping his drink. “You okay Rochelle?”
I snap my head toward him, too quick. “I’m fine. I just have a lot to cover today.”
He gives me a polite nod, clearly unconvinced, but skates back to rejoin the team on the ice.
I exhale slowly and press my thumb into the notebook’s spiral until it bites.Focus, Rochelle. Quotes. Stats. Deadlines. Not the memory of a conference table digging into your back or the feel of Kai’s hands on your skin.
The whistle blows, ending the practice drill. Players scatter toward the benches, and for one merciful moment I think I’ll escape. Then I catch a glimpse of him by the gate, with his helmet off, hair damp, jaw set in that infuriating way that says he’s already decided something.
I turn away, too fast, pretending to check my recorder. But my pulse tells the truth I’m refusing to admit. I’m not here for the story anymore. I don’t think I can say that with all sincerity after what went down in the conference room yesterday.
And from the way his eyes follow me across the rink, neither is Kai Morrison.
The arena continues with the usual post-practice chaos, sticks clattering, skate guards snapping back into place, the low murmur of local reporters packing up their gear. I sling my recorder into my bag, forcing my hands to move in a steadyrhythm, like I’m in control. Like my heart isn’t thrumming at a faster rate, the same way it has been all morning.
I feel Kai’s presence before I see him.
That quiet shift in the air, that sudden pull at the edges of my awareness, Kai Morrison, closing the distance without a single sound. I keep my eyes down, flipping my notebook shut, pretending I don’t notice the weight of his gaze from across the rink.
“Winters.” His voice is low, and deceptively even.
I look up, my neutral expressions firmly in place. “Morrison.”
He steps closer, just enough to invade the bubble of professionalism I’ve tried to wrap around myself all morning. His damp hair clings to his temples, and his practice jersey is slung over one shoulder, a thin sheen of sweat still catching the light along his collarbone. God help me, because this man is out to ruin me.
“We need to talk,” he says.
