Page 26 of Dirty As Puck
“The real story isn’t for public consumption.”
“Everything’s for public consumption if you know how to ask the right questions. And I’m very good at asking questions.”
Kai’s hand comes up to rest on the locker beside my head, effectively caging me in. His other arm braces against the metal on my other side, and suddenly I’m surrounded by him––his heat, his scent, the barely controlled intensity that radiates from every line of his body.
“This is why I don’t trust journalists,” he growls, but he doesn’t move away. If anything, he leans closer, his face inches from mine.
He’s going to kiss me. Right here, right now, and I’m going to let him.
My pulse races as I stare up at him, watching his gray eyes drop to my mouth. The air between us feels charged, electric, like the moment before lightning strikes. I can feel myself leaning toward him, drawn by the same magnetic pull that’s been building between us since that first day.
“Good thing I don’t need your trust to do my job,” I whisper, but the words come out breathless, wanting.
Kai’s head tilts toward mine, his mouth just a breath away from my lips. I can feel the heat of him, smell his soap and something darker that’s purely him. My eyes start to flutter closed, and I know that in another second, another heartbeat, we’re going to cross that line again.
The sound of keys jingling in the hallway shatters the moment like glass. The night janitor appears in the doorway, stops short when he sees us standing so close together.
“Oh, sorry folks. Didn’t know anyone was still here. I can come back later if you need a few more minutes.”
We spring apart like we’ve been electrocuted, both of us probably looking exactly as guilty as we are. Kai runs a hand through his hair and avoids my eyes.
“We were just finishing up,” he says.
“Take your time,” the janitor says, but there’s something knowing in his eyes as he moves on to the next room.
He knows exactly what he interrupted.
Kai grabs his bag and heads for the door without another word, leaving me standing alone among the equipment lockers with my heart hammering against my ribs.
This is getting out of hand.
I’m supposed to be investigating Kai Morrison, uncovering whatever secrets he’s hiding behind all that hostility. I’m supposed to be finding the dirt Marcus wants, not having charged confrontations in empty equipment rooms that leave me breathless and wanting.
Professional focus. That’s what you need.
But every time I get close to him, journalism becomes an excuse for proximity. Every conversation turns into verbal sparring that makes my pulse race and my concentration fracture.
The foster care information is a lead worth following. Someone has been painting Kai as a privileged problem child when the reality is completely different. That kind of deliberate misdirection usually means there’s something bigger to uncover.
What’s he really hiding? And who benefits from the false narrative?
But as I gather my things and head for the exit, all I can think about is how close Kai came to kissing me, and how much I wanted him to follow through.
The drive home through Seattle traffic gives me time to refocus on what I’m actually doing here. Marcus wants dirt on Kai Morrison, and I’m starting to think the real dirt isn’t what anyone expects. The question is whether I can uncover it while maintaining enough professional distance to actually do my job.
8
My phone buzzes with another text from Marcus Webb at Sports Illustrated, requesting an interview about “team dynamics and Morrison’s leadership role.” I delete it without reading the full message and toss the phone onto my kitchen counter harder than necessary.
Three weeks into this embedded coverage, and now the editor wants direct access.
The coffee maker gurgles to life, and I stare out my apartment window at the Seattle skyline while waiting for caffeine to make the world bearable. Seven-thirty in the morning, and I’m already wound tight enough to snap.
Even my morning routine reminds me of her now. The shower where I stand under cold water trying to forget how she responds when I get close. The mirror where I catch myself wondering what she sees when she looks at me. The closet where I pick clothes and find myself considering what she might think.
This is pathetic. She’s investigating you, not dating you.
A knock at my door interrupts the spiral of self-recrimination. When I open it, Tommy Morrison is standing in the hallway with two cups of coffee from the place down the street and a knowing smirk.
