Page 43 of Dirty As Puck
My fingers hover over my keyboard, frozen. If I send this in as it is, Marcus will kill the story. If I bury it, I become the kind of journalist I swore I’d never be, the one who edits truth to feed a narrative.
And somewhere under all that professional panic, something else curls tight in my chest- relief. Because for the first time, the version of Kai Morrison I’ve been getting to know, the one who protects, who burns too hot, who kisses like he’s trying not to. That version makes sense.
The hallway smells faintly of disinfectant and damp gear, that sharp, metallic tang that clings to rinks long after the ice has been cut. Players filter out of the locker room in waves, laughter echoing, sticks clattering against the walls. I wait, my notebook in hand, pretending to check my phone as I lean casually against the corridor frame.
My pulse betrays me, my heartbeat drumming in a faster than normal rhythm beneath my calm exterior.
Then the player I’ve been waiting for steps out. His hair’s still damp from the shower, his hoodie half-zipped, laces of his sneakers untied like he doesn’t have the patience for the smallest things. He spots me before I even call his name. Those gray eyes flick to mine, sharp, intense and assessing. For a second, the air between us tightens.
“Kai,” I start, my voice steadier than I feel. “I need to ask you something.”
He doesn’t stop walking, just slows enough that I have to fall into step beside him. “This about your story again?” he mutters, gaze fixed ahead.
“The bar fight,” I press. “I’ve been digging through reports. Things don’t add up.”
That makes him stop. One hand presses to the wall behind him, the other curling into his hoodie pocket, and suddenly we’re close, close enough that I can see the water still clinging to his jawline.
“What exactly are you looking for, Winters?” His tone is low, even, but there’s a flicker in his expression, but it’s not fear. Something more protective. More dangerous.
“The truth,” I answer, though it comes out quieter than I intend.
His eyes narrow just a fraction, scanning my face like he’s weighing what kind of truth I’m really after. “Some things,” he says slowly, “are off-limits.”
There it is. The wall he’s built, solid as the boards behind him. My fingers tighten around my pen, the instinct to push warring with the pull I’ve been trying to ignore since the first time he looked at me like this… like I was both a risk and a temptation.
“Kai, this isn’t about a headline. I just… I need to understand what happened that night.”
He exhales, a quiet, frustrated sound. “Why? So, you can twist it? So, you can write something that makes me look like the villain again?”
I shake my head, stepping closer without meaning to. The corridor feels smaller now, the sound of the team fading behind us. “That’s not what I’m trying to do.”
For a moment, neither of us moves. His gaze drops, not to my notebook, but to my mouth and that single look sends heat crawling up my neck.
“You think you want the truth,” he murmurs finally, voice rougher now, “but some of it comes with fallout you’re not ready for.”
I should pull back. I should thank him, walk away, and write something neutral. But my feet stay planted, and my heartbeat fills the space his words leave behind.
“Then tell me off the record,” I whisper.
His jaw works, muscle ticking once, twice, like he’s debating whether I’m worth the risk. Then he shakes his head, pushes off the wall. “Not today, Winters.”
As he walks past, his shoulder brushes mine, not hard or with a grudge, but enough to leave a trail of warmth through my sleeve.
I watch him go, frustration clawing at my ribs, wanting more answers than I got, and hating that part of me doesn’t want answers at all. The part of me that just wants him.
14
The ice rink is a blur of ice spray and sticks clashing as I finish the last lap of drills, my lungs burning, and muscles screaming, but my mind isn’t on the workout anymore. It’s on her. Rochelle.
The memory of yesterday, the feel of her, the way her body pressed against mine, the teasing smirk that had driven me half-mad—lingers in every nerve ending. I try to shake it off, focus on my cooldown stretches, but nothing sticks. My focus is gone, and I know it.
Jake claps me on the back, smirking like he can read my thoughts. “Hey, Morrison. Staying late just to think about her, or are you actually done with practice?”
He winks.
I ignore him, gripping my stick tighter, but the corner of my mouth twitches anyway. God, he always knows. Always.
The locker room doors squeak as my teammates file past, jerseys slung over shoulders, laughter and chatter filling the air. They’re all heading for the showers, leaving me with an insistent emptiness. I linger, deliberately slow, letting the last few players pass by so I can have my moment alone.
