Page 28 of Dirty As Puck
“Those walls exist for a reason.”
“Yeah, they do. But sometimes the reason stops being valid.” Tommy finishes his coffee and stands up. “Just don’t let fear make decisions for you. You’ve done that enough for one lifetime.”
“Did you really fucking come here to talk to me about this reporter bullshit? Come on, Tommy.”
He grins. “No, man. Remember the guy I told you about?”
I nod. “What happened?”
“I’m partnering up with him. He’s funding the restaurant.”
I shoot to my feet and hold out my hand. He takes it, and I bring it into a quick hug. I pat his back. “Shit. That’s your dream. Congratulations, Tommy. Fuck, that’s huge.”
Tommy smiles. “Yeah.” He fiddles with something in his hand as he says, “Maybe I can hire the reporter as the manager, and you don’t have to worry about her anymore.”
I almost laugh. Instead, I stare at him. “Screw the reporter, man. This is huge for you.”
His smile widens. “I know. That’s why I had to tell you in person.”
I smile, remembering all the times we spoke about our dreams. It was always hockey for me, and Tommy always wanted to have something of his own.
“I’m fucking ecstatic for you, bro. It’s going to be insane.”
He nods in agreement. “It is going to be insane.”
Practice runs smoothly until I notice Rochelle in the stands, notebook in hand, watching our defensive drills with the kind of focused attention that makes my skin itch. She’s wearing that black blazer again, the one that shows her figure without being obvious about it, and every time I glance up, she’s either writing or staring directly at me.
Always watching. Always cataloging.
During a water break, I catch her interviewing our equipment manager about stick specifications and tape preferences. Technical details that have nothing to do with personality or character flaws, but she’s treating them like vital intelligence.
Coach calls for penalty kill drills, and I throw myself into the exercise with more intensity than necessary. Physical contact grounds me, gives me something to focus on besides the awareness of being studied like a specimen.
But even aggressive hockey can’t completely erase the memory of how she felt pressed against me in that equipment room, or the way she almost kissed me before we were interrupted.
Stop.
After practice, I take extra time with my post-skate routine, hoping she’ll lose interest and move on to other interviews. When I finally emerge from the locker room, the facility is mostly empty except for a few staff members.
Thank Goodness.
I hastily dress up and head out. The parking garage is dim and mostly deserted when I reach my truck, the fluorescent lightscasting harsh shadows between the concrete pillars. I’m loading my equipment bag when footsteps echo behind me, and I don’t need to turn around to know who it is.
She followed me down here.
“We need to talk.”
I turn to find Rochelle approaching with that determined stride that means she has an agenda and expects cooperation. She’s holding a small digital recorder, and her expression is all business despite what happened between us yesterday.
“About what?”
“About the inconsistencies in your public record. The gaps in your junior hockey career. The careful management of your media image.”
“Not everything gets documented.”
“Team rosters get documented. League statistics get documented. And you’re conspicuously absent from several places you should appear.”
She stops just outside arm’s reach.
