14. Gemma
Chapter 14
Gemma
W ork had been amazing lately. No, amazing didn’t even cover it—it was transformative. Every day felt like I was finally doing what I was meant to do. My articles about the Atlanta Fire had resonated with readers, and my editor was practically glowing with every new piece I submitted.
I was on Fire.
Okay, terrible pun, but it was true. Today, I was on the ice for interviews. The players were coming off a grueling practice, their jerseys soaked with sweat and their faces flushed from exertion. The air inside the rink was cold enough to sting my cheeks, but the energy from the team warmed the space. It was the kind of scene sportswriters dream of—easy camaraderie, great quotes, and just enough chaos to make things interesting.
Hudson, center, had pulled some ridiculously skilled moves on the ice, and no one was sure how he accomplished them. How he did backflips on hockey skates was beyond me. It was one thing to do them on figure skating skates. They had toe picks that made stunts a lot less dangerous because they offered more control. Hockey skates were made for speed and hard stops, not acrobatic moves. As I was pondering this, he jumped and spun almost horizontally in the air to avoid a player charging at him, and I laughed out loud in shock. I wasn’t the only one.
“That is not regulation,” Sergei said, his Russian accent drawing my attention.
Hudson laughed easily. “No, it’s not. But it looked cool, right?”
Sergei grumbled, and he and the team’s other Russians huddled off together to gripe in their mother tongue.
Jesper high-fived Hudson as they both skated toward me on the bench. “Dude, how come you never do that shit when we’re playing for real?”
“Ees not regulation,” Hudson said in a mock Russian accent.
“Yeah, sure, but they’ll never see it coming.”
I interjected, “So, what was that? Were you a figure skater before coming onto the Fire?”
Hudson smiled at me and gently elbowed Jesper to pay attention. “Before making it onto the Fire, I was a choreographer.”
“Who did you train?”
The unmistakable look of pride filled his deep, dark eyes. “Probably half of your workout playlists.”
I blinked, unsure what he meant by that. “Um?—”
“I was a hip-hop dance choreographer and professional dancer. I worked with some of the greats. Now, I’m stuck working with these dickheads?—”
Jesper playfully shoved him, and a few of the other guys joined us, carrying on amongst themselves until they closed in. “You’re the dickhead, dickhead.”
Hudson laughed. “Yeah, maybe I am.” Then he turned to me, looking me over. “You’re the reporter we’re all supposed to talk to, right?”
“Gemma Grimaldi,” I said, extending my hand. He removed his glove and shook it, and his rough hand dwarfed mine. “It’s nice to officially meet you, Hudson.”
“You, too. As I understand it, you’re supposed to do some one-on-ones with all of us, right?”
“That’s right.”
“Never knew I’d be on a team that arranged dates for me, and I certainly don’t mind the competition.”
I laughed. “Not dates. Appointments.”
“Sure, appointments.” He sat next to me on the bench. “I usually find quiet Italian restaurants to be the best places for appointments. What do you say?”
“That will make it easier to hear your answers to my questions. I hate when background noise cuts into my recordings—it’s terrible. I have to call you back and bother you again, and it slows the process down, which is awful for deadlines.”
“And maybe afterward, we can hit a club or two. I can show you what else I’m known for.”
“Clubs are notoriously loud, Hudson. Why would I want that?”
He smirked. “I’d like to see how you move on the dancefloor. How someone dances tells you everything about them.”
“My job is to get to know you. Not the other way around.”
His eyes danced down and up my body. “No reason it can’t be both.”
I was really hoping this was not where his line of inquiry was heading, and now, with all the guys around me, I decided to draw a line to make things clear in case anyone had any ideas like Hudson’s.
First, I smiled to keep things light. “I’m sure you’re a terrific dancer, but I am not.”
“That’s okay. We can?—”
“We can’t. My job is to interview you and nothing else. Professional interviews, with which I wield the power to make or break your reputation and, consequently, your career. I hope that’s clear enough for you.”
Hudson, the determined young man that he was, smiled, too. “Sounds like you could use some wine to help you relax. There’s a great bar downstairs at my condo.”
The kid would not let this go. I couldn’t tell if that was because a half dozen players were watching us or because he was that kind of person, but I’d had it with his innuendo.
But before I could respond, a sharp voice sliced through the air. “Rice, that’s enough.”
I turned, startled to see Casey standing just off the bench, his arms were crossed and his jaw was tight. His expression was unreadable, but his tone carried a weight that silenced Hudson instantly. In fact, all the guys shut up and awaited further instructions.
“Keep it professional,” Casey snapped.
Hudson raised his hands in surrender, his grin turning sheepish as he backed off. “Got it, Coach. Professional.”
The rest of the players chuckled, the tension dissipating as they returned to their routine. But Casey’s gaze lingered on me, his blue eyes steady and intense. It was the first time I’d seen him like this—protective, almost territorial—and it sent a shiver down my spine all the same.
Part of me knew I should bristle at the interference. I didn’t need anyone to stand up for me, and I certainly didn’t need anyone staking a claim. For that matter, it might egg some of the guys on if they thought flirting with me was forbidden.
But another part of me—a bigger part—couldn’t help but like it. There was something deeply satisfying about the way Casey had stepped in, about the way his words carried a kind of unspoken message: she’s mine.
After wrapping up my interview with Cole Maxwell, a hulking left winger, I made my way to Casey’s office. I was riding the high from Casey’s flirtation intervention and the buzz I got from prying secret information from a subject. Cole had a secret scented candle side hustle.
He sold them online using his female cousin’s name, because he knew candles sold under a guy’s name wouldn’t sell as well. But now, she wanted a cut of the profits for the name usage, and he was having a hard time figuring out what to do. When I pointed out that they didn’t need a person’s name attached to them—he could have sold them under some generic name like Stone and Winter or something equally neutral—he blushed deeply, annoyed with himself that he hadn’t thought of that. I suggested he pay her whatever she asked, but he really should talk to a lawyer to make things fair between them, and he agreed.
The players had already filed into the locker room, their laughter and chatter echoing faintly through the hallways. The chill from the rink followed me as I pushed open the door, stepping into the warmth of Casey’s office.
He was seated at his desk, a notebook open in front of him, but his pen wasn’t moving. He looked up as I entered, his expression softening slightly.
“You didn’t have to do that,” I said, closing the door behind me.
“Do what?” he asked, though the faint smirk tugging at his lips told me he knew exactly what I was talking about.
“Barking at Hudson like that. He was just being playful.”
“He was hitting on you,” Casey said flatly. “And you’re here to work, not deal with that.”
I raised an eyebrow, leaning against the edge of his desk. “It’s not the first time it’s happened, and it won’t be the last. I can handle a little flirting.”
“You shouldn’t have to handle it,” he said, his tone softening but no less firm. “You’re here to do your job, not fend off idiots who can’t keep things professional.”
The earnestness in his voice sent a flicker of warmth through me, and I felt my irritation melt away. It wasn’t just jealousy driving him—it was something deeper, something protective and genuine. And the way he said it, I knew something more important about Casey. But I had to ask to confirm my theory.
“If we weren’t…involved, you still would have intervened, wouldn’t you?”
“Damn straight. I hate it when women get hit on while doing their job. It puts them in the awkward position of having to turn someone down while also not getting in trouble for being rude. It’s unprofessional of men, and I won’t stand for that kind of bullshit on my team.”
I didn’t know what to think. I had dated around, met some interesting men, and had a good time doing it. But this might have been the first time I had found a man with integrity, and for some reason, that turned me on more than anything else. He had shown me professional respect, not to impress me, but because he respected me outright.
Was it a turn-on because it was so rare? Maybe.
“I appreciate that.”
He nodded once, but his eyes hardened. “Hudson’s used to getting his way when it comes to women. He’s a good-looking young man.”
I half-shrugged. “I guess so.”
His eyes dipped back to his screen, and he cleared his throat. “If, once the interviews are over, you’re interested in him, I’m sure he’d be open to it.”
Something twisted in my chest. “What?”
“It’s okay, Gemma. We never said we were exclusive. I just ask that you don’t mention anything to them about us. No point in stirring up drama.”
I blinked at him. He was serious, and I didn’t understand why. “Casey?—”
“Don’t feel you have to say anything to mollify me. Please. We’re both adults?—”
“You don’t have to worry about the players,” I said gently. I had to say something, or he would keep rambling. “I like you. A lot. And nothing they say or do is going to change that.”
His lips went tight, but still, he didn’t look at me. “Good to know where I stand among them.”
I marched to the other side of his desk and spun his chair around so he faced me. “You’re not standing among anyone! You’re the only man I’m interested in. Period.”
His blue eyes searched mine, and for a moment, the air between us felt charged. With what, I wasn’t sure. Finally, he reached for my hand, his fingers warm and calloused as they closed around mine.
“Good,” he said, his voice low. “Because I don’t want to share you. I’m not interested in seeing other people. Are you?”
The simple honesty of his words sent a shiver down my spine, and before I could think twice, I leaned down and kissed him. It started slow, almost tentative, but the moment his hand slid to the back of my neck, pulling me closer, the kiss deepened into something hotter, more urgent.
“Gemma,” he murmured against my lips, his voice rough with need.
The tension that had been simmering between us since the incident at the rink finally boiled over, spilling into every touch, every kiss, every whispered word. The papers on his desk tumbled to the floor as he lifted me onto the edge, his hands finding my waist as he pulled me closer.
“Are you sure about this?” he asked, his breath warm against my skin. “Here? Now?”
“Yes,” I said, threading my fingers through his hair. “I’ve never been more sure.”
The next moments were a blur of heat and sensation. His hands were strong and steady, his lips leaving a trail of fire wherever they touched over my clothes. The cold, professional atmosphere of the office melted away, replaced by the heady intimacy of being with him.
For the first time in what felt like forever, I let myself be completely vulnerable, completely open. And Casey met me there, his touch tender even as his kisses grew more desperate. Between those raw kisses, he locked the door, and when he came back, there was nothing to slow us down.
Except him.
He pressed his forehead to mine, and with excruciating slowness, he unbuttoned my shirt. I didn’t care about that part of things—this was an office quickie, or so I thought. But Casey made me wait for his touch, and that spurred me on. By the time his hands brushed over my nipples, I was dying. I had to be. No one had ever left me on edge this long, and my patience had worn away completely.
“Casey, why are you moving so slowly?”
His lips quirked to the side. “Because I like seeing you want something.”
“Someone.”
He smiled fully at that. “Is that what you want, Gemma? Just one person?”
“You. I want you.”
Without a word, he pulled me off the desk and stripped me in a rush of desire. He pulled a condom from his pocket, and his clothes melted away in a few moves. When it was in place, Casey picked me up, my legs around his waist, as he walked me back to the door. The cold wood drew a gasp from my throat as my spine hit the door. But he thrust home, and that was all I needed to warm up.
The door had less give than the tree we had fucked against in the park. Casey’s thrusts were rougher this time, almost as if he understood I could take it now. But he kissed me tenderly, touched my face reverently. The dichotomy was dizzying—fast and hard down below, sweet and gentle up top. He overwhelmed my senses, and before I knew it, I came in a holler.
After, I straddled him on his desk chair. He nipped at my throat, groaning all the while. I loved the sounds he made. He was always so proper until he was naked, and I loved that, too. But this time, I wanted him unleashed, feral. So I rode him harder, throwing all my weight behind it. I bit his neck as I took control. His groans became growls, and when he swelled inside of me, my orgasm took hold. We almost howled together.
When it was over, we lay tangled together on the small couch in the corner of the office, the faint hum of the building filling the quiet space. My head rested on his chest, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat fascinating me for some reason. It was music to my ears.
“I meant what I said,” I murmured, breaking the silence. “I like you, Casey. I don’t want anyone else.”
His arm tightened around me, his lips pressing a soft kiss to the top of my head. “I like you too, Gemma. More than I probably should.”
The vulnerability in his voice made my chest ache, and I tilted my head to look up at him. “Why does it feel like you’re holding something back?”
He hesitated, his gaze flickering away for a moment before he met mine again. “Because I want this to work. And I’m terrified of screwing it up.”
“You won’t,” I said firmly, reaching up to brush a strand of hair from his face. “We won’t.”
But I might.
I put the thought out of my head as best I could. I knew I had to tell him the truth about Winnie, but not now. His smile was small, and at that moment, I understood what worried him. He was afraid of messing up, and so was I. There was something real here. Whatever it was—whatever it could become—it was worth fighting for.