Page 56 of Dirty As Puck
A moment of silence stretches between us. It’s not tense or uncomfortable. It’s just charged with something new that’s not the usual flirtation or sharp banter. It’s just something else.
He exhales through his nose, almost a laugh but not quite. “You’re out of your mind.”
“Maybe,” I say, packing up my laptop, “but someone has to be.”
And for the first time since I started this assignment, I’m not thinking about what this will mean for my career. I’m thinking about how to protect Kai Morrison, even if it burns me in the process.
20
I shove my gear bag into the backseat of my car and slam the door harder than I mean to. The echo resounds through the parking garage, too loud in the empty space, and it grates on my already raw nerves. My knuckles ache from practice, but it’s nothing compared to the tightness I feel in my chest.
Rochelle’s face flashes in my mind, the way she looked at me last night, not as if I was some news to dissect, but like she actually saw me.
That softness, that damn tenderness, it’s been digging at me since she left my room. And then her questions, the way she knew about Coach Reynolds… It wasn’t an accident. She’s digging deep.
I drag a hand over my jaw, my nails scraping against the stubble. Part of me wants to trust her, maybe more than I should. Theother part? The part that’s lived through cameras shoved in my face, through lies printed in bold font on articles. That part screams she’s going to stab me the second I let my guard down.
Yet I can’t get her words out of my head,“You don’t have to be the villain they’ve made you out to be.”That’s easy for her to say when she’s the one with the pen, the one who gets to decide how much of me ends up on display.
The concrete smells faintly of oil and damp air, and every footstep feels like a warning. My paranoia spikes. It always does in places like this, where there are too many shadows, too much space for someone to be watching.
I hate that I expect it now, that it’s normal for me to feel hunted.
My phone vibrates in my pocket. It’s a message from Marcus Webb again. I don’t even have to look. Rochelle didn’t tell me what he wanted, but I can guess. Dirt on me. Anything that sells. That’s what people want from me, not the truth, not who I really am, just the damage they think I cause.
I toss the phone back into the passenger seat without answering and lean against the driver’s side door, staring at the low ceiling lights overhead. My pulse won’t slow. Every time I think I’ve managed to keep my past buried, something else claws its way back to the surface.
Maybe Rochelle was right. Maybe I’m not as tough as I pretend to be.
A bitter laugh slips out before I can stop it. Vulnerability doesn’t suit me. It’s dangerous, messy, and it always leaves cracks.
Cracks that people slip through when they want to break you apart.
And lately, it feels like everyone wants a piece of me.
The garage under the restaurant smells like exhaust smoke and fried oil, a mix that clings to the cold air. I balance a takeout bag in one hand, and my keys in the other, just wanting to get home and shut out the noise in my head.
Suddenly, I hear footsteps approaching. They’re not rushed or hesitant. Each step taken seems intentional.
I freeze halfway to my car, my instincts kicking in. My shoulders are tense, and I angle my body so I can see whoever’s coming without looking like I’m ready for a confrontation. The light overhead flickers, casting everything in stuttered shadows.
Then I hear the voice. It’s so calm, it makes me feel uneasy.
“Hello, brother. We need to talk.”
The word slams into me harder than any of my opponents on the ice.Brother.
I turn slowly, takeout forgotten, the paper bag dangling at my side. A man steps out of the shadows. He looks about mid-thirties, maybe older, dark hair, sharp eyes that pin me like he’s known me for years. There’s a smirk on his face like he knows something I don’t.
My voice is flat, edged with warning. “You’ve got the wrong guy.”
He shakes his head and pulls something from his jacket. Papers. He holds them out to me with steady hands. “Definitely not. My name’s Derek. Same mother, different fathers. You and me.”
The sight of the documents makes my stomach twist. Birth certificates and a photo that’s worn at the edges, creased like it’s been carried around forever. Two kids, one of them unmistakably me, younger, next to a woman whose face I’ve tried to erase from my memory.
“Bullshit.” The word rips out of me, harsher than I mean it, but I can’t let this sink in. I can’t. “I don’t have a brother. I grew up alone. Foster homes, shelters, you name it. Alone.”
Derek takes a step closer. I match it backward, grip on my keys tightening until the metal digs into my palm.
