Page 39 of Dirty As Puck
The whistle blows for a line change. I skate to the bench, my legs pumping, lungs burning in that good, familiar way. But it doesn’t chase her out of my head. If anything, the rush of blood just sharpens as the memory becomes even clearer.
Coach shouts something about tightening our defensive transitions. I nod like I hear him, but I didn’t. All I hear is the ghost of her breath against my skin. All I feel is the phantom weight of her thighs locking around me.
“Morrison! Eyes up!” someone yells, and a puck whizzes past my stick. Damn it!
Jake’s laughing again from down the ice. “Definitely woman problems,” he calls. “Call her after practice, man. Get it out of your system before you tank us in the playoffs.”
What he doesn’t know is that I tried to get it out of my system in the conference room yesterday, and now I can’t stop thinking about her. I wish it were as simple as Jake says.
She’s not just any woman. She’s the reporter assigned to our team. The one writing about us. About me. And I’ve already crossed lines I swore I wouldn’t.
I shove off the bench as the next drill starts, my jaw clenched and stick gripped so hard my fingers ache. No more distractions. That’s the lie I tell myself as I push harder, skating until my legs burn. But her shadow follows me down the ice anyway, soft, dangerous and unforgettable.
The conference room smells like coffee, dry-erase markers, and sweat-soaked gear that didn’t have enough time to air out after the morning skate. We’re crammed around the long table, playbooks open, while Coach Williams stalks the front like an army general planning an invasion.
“Defense needs to tighten up on the forecheck. Don’t give them open ice through the neutral zone,” he says, smacking a diagram with the butt of his marker.
I nod, my fountain pen tapping absently against my notebook, but I’m not seeing Xs and Os. I’m seeing a door.
Every second that passes makes the hair on my arm stand with anticipation. I know she’s coming. This is the slot the media getsto hover in before playoffs kick off. I shouldn’t care or even take notice.
The door opens, and like my body was waiting for the cue, everything zeroes in.
Rochelle steps in, not hurried, not flustered, looking like she owns the air in this room. She’s wearing a skirt sharp enough to make my knuckles itch, her hair twisted in an updo, with a few strands loose, pen already poised like she’s about to dissect every player in the room. My grip on the pen tightens.
She gives Coach a polite nod, then starts doing her thing, soft voice, precise questions, eyes cutting across the room like searchlights. Everyone else answers easily. Jake cracks a joke, the junior players grins too wide, Coach pretends he’s not annoyed that the flow of the meeting’s been cracked open.
Me? I’m watching her mouth the entire time, like a lovesick teenage boy. I definitely feel like one, but I can’t bring myself to stop staring.
Each word she forms drags me back to the sound of her breath the night before, the little gasp when my hands slid beneath her blouse, the low moan she bit back against my neck. My jaw flexes, and I drop my eyes to my notebook before anyone notices the storm brewing behind them.
Coach Williams keeps talking, something about the power play. I jot down nonsense just to look busy. My focus is a mess, because every time she leans in to write something, I catch the curve of her wrist, the delicate tilt of her neck.
“Morrison, you’ve been silent for five minutes straight. Are you alive back there?” Coach snaps, and the guys laugh.
I nod and murmur something about “watching their breakout tendencies,” and it’s enough to satisfy him. Well, barely.
She doesn’t look at me directly, but I catch it, one flick of her gaze, quick as a pulse, and then it’s gone. Like the conference room last night didn’t happen. Like my mouth wasn’t on her skin, my hands tangled in her hair.
The questions wrap up fast. A few more notes, some bland quotes from Jake about team chemistry, a soundbite from Max. Rochelle thanks Coach, her voice smooth, unreadable, then turns to leave.
I keep my pen still, eyes locked on the page while the door clicks shut. But my whole body is tracking her steps down the hall.
When Coach starts outlining the next drill rotation, I realize my knuckles are white against the notebook. I unclench my fists slowly, let out a breath, and wonder how the hell I’m supposed to play my best at the next game with her haunting me in every room she walks into.
I’m back on the ice for afternoon practice, and the rink hums with the low screech of blades on ice, pucks slapping the boards, and the occasional orders Coach Williams continues to bark. Afternoon practice is supposed to be about rhythm, fast transitions, crisp passes, the kind of reps that sharpen your instincts before the playoffs. For me, it’s a pressure valve I can’t quite twist shut.
I tear down the wing, puck on my stick, muscles coiled too tight. Every pass feels like a challenge, every shadow across the boards triggers me. Rochelle’s face flashes in my mind, the arch of her brow in the meeting, the way her mouth curved around eachquestion. Heat rushes through my legs and my grip on the stick tightens.
My eyes catch a rookie, Anders, cutting across center ice a little too slow. Instinct takes over before reason does. My shoulder drops, hip lines up, and the collision sends him skidding off balance. Not hard enough to injure, but close. Very close.
“Easy, Morrison!” Coach’s whistle shrieks across the rink, its echoes bouncing off the rafters. “Save the hits for the damn playoffs!”
I lift my hands, in mock salute, but my jaw is locked tight. “He needs to keep his head up,” I mutter under my breath, circling back into the drill line. Anders waves it off with a half-smile, but I can see the flicker of unease in his eyes. I’m usually the guy they flinch around, but it seems like I’ve turned up the heat today and everyone’s feeling it.
The rest of practice runs hot as my strides are longer, my stick checks sharper, every shot I take rattles the post like I’m trying to break the net off its hinges. The team feels it too. Jake skates past me and taps my stick with his.
“You trying to make enemies or just overcompensating for your lack of focus in the morning drill?” he chirps, grin sharp enough to sting.
