Page 41 of Dirty As Puck
Her laugh is soft, bitter, almost broken. Her hands, still on my chest flex once, then fall away. She steps sideways, out of my reach, the cool air rushing in where her body was a second ago.
“This doesn’t help either of us,” she says, and it sounds like she’s trying to convince herself, not me.
I let her go. Because I have to, not because I want to.
As she disappears back into the light of the bar, I stay in the hallway, breath coming hard, palms still tingling from where they touched her. The taste of her lingers on my tongue. It’s sweet, defiant, and very addictive. My heart is racing out of control.
We both know this isn’t over. And that’s the problem.
13
The sharp ring of my phone slices through the early morning quiet, dragging me from my restless sleep. My arm fumbles over the nightstand, until I find the vibrating device before my brain fully catches up. One glance at the screen and I spring up.
Marcus Webb.
Damn it.
I clear my throat, try to mask the drowsiness in my voice. “Marcus. Good morning.”
“Spare me the pleasantries, Winters,” his voice snaps through the line, sharp as broken glass. “It’s been weeks. Where’s my story?”
My stomach tightens beneath the thin sheets. I sit up, tugging the duvet closer like they can shield me from the pressure barreling down the phone line. “I’m compiling material. His season, his backstory, his life outside of…”
“I don’t want all that fluff,” he cuts in, each word clipped. “I want headlines. I want something that gets the fans talking endlessly for weeks. Morrison’s got skeletons and I’m paying you to dig them out.”
A pulse drums in my temple. I grip the phone tighter. “Marcus, I don’t think that’s a very…”
“Spare me the ethics lecture,” he barks. “You’re not a saint, you’re a reporter. And I’ve got advertisers breathing down my neck, waiting for Hockey’s bad boy to slip. You gave me your pitch, remember? You told me you could handle Morrison. So, handle him.”
My mouth tastes like copper. I press a hand to my forehead, watching dawn spill its pale light across my curtains.Handle him. As if Kai were a story to manipulate, not a man whose hands had been on my waist just nights ago, whose lips still haunted me with mental images.
“I don’t have a scandal yet, but I’m searching,” I say quietly. It’s the closest to honesty that I can risk.
“Then get it. I need dirt, Winters. Not fluff and fawning quotes about his diet or his winning streak. Find me the crack in his mysterious persona, or I’ll find someone else who will.”
The line goes dead with a hollow click.
I let the phone drop into my lap, staring at the ceiling as the weight of the call settles like a stone on my chest. My heartbeat feels too loud in the still and quiet bedroom.
What the hell am I doing?
I came here to write a story. A sharp, honest profile that could remind people why sports writing still mattered and why the truth mattered. But somewhere between the first tense interviewand the heat of his breath on my neck, the lines have blurred. I had notes full of half-truths, quotes that painted him disciplined, relentless, even tender in unguarded moments. But nothing that would satisfy Marcus.
And the one thing I did have, that night in the hallway, the press of his body against mine, his lips tasting like temptation and trouble, that wasn’t evidence. That was a weapon that Marcus would twist until it blew up in my face.
I push myself out of bed, pacing the cold floor. Job security versus my integrity. Integrity versus desire. Desire versus the gnawing dread that I’ve already crossed the line that I swore I wouldn’t.
The city outside is already awake, traffic swelling like a restless tide. I stand at the window, phone still warm in my hand, and whisper to the glass, “What are you doing, Rochelle?”
No answer. Just the hollow echo of a woman straddling two worlds. The one I promised my employer and the one I’m falling headlong into with a man who was supposed to be my story, not my biggest temptation.
The chill of the rink hits me as soon as I step inside, sharp enough to bite through the tailored coat I threw over my shoulders this morning. Skates scrape against ice in quick, practiced arcs. Helmets glint beneath the bright overhead lights. The Seattle Icehawks practice like a machine. Smooth, disciplined, and ever relentless.
And I’m here to find the loose screw in that machine. The call from Marcus filled me with enough fuel for the morning.
Notebook in hand, recorder tucked into my bag, I scan the ice for my first mark. Jake Rivera, one of the best players on the team. He’s the kind who’s seen enough seasons to know when a captain is coasting and when he’s carrying the team. Perfect for a start.
“Rivera,” I call as he glides to the bench for a water break. He grins when he spots me.
