Chapter 4
Four
KAI
I knew Bass Morelli would be late.
He’s the kind of guy who has no respect for punctuality or probably anything else for that matter. Still, I sit in the media room next to the rink, tablet lit and stylus poised, determined not to let his bad behavior throw me off.
The room is stark. One long table. Two chairs. Glass wall facing the hallway. Whiteboard behind me with a few scribbled reminders for upcoming evaluations. The fluorescents overhead buzz faintly, the hum syncing with my heartbeat as I remind myself to stay cool.
Unbothered.
Unimpressed.
He walks in exactly six minutes and forty-seven seconds late.
And of course, he walks in like it’s a red carpet event.
Bass’s hair is damp, curling slightly at the ends like he just stepped out of an aftershave commercial. His VCU t-shirt clings to his broad chest and shoulders in a way that should be illegal, and he’s wearing a grin that looks both apologetic and absolutely not sorry at all.
“You’re early,” he says, like I’m the one out of line.
I don’t dignify his comment with a response.
Instead, I watch as he sprawls into the seat across from me so casually that it momentarily unnerves me.
Stocky legs wide, muscular arms draped over the sides like the chair’s his throne. I’m pretty sure he’s trying to throw me off my game, and I promise myself that I won’t let him until the words tumble out of my mouth.
“You look like you just rolled out of bed,” I quip.
He leans forward, cocking a brow. “And you look like you’re about to sue someone.”
“Good,” I reply. “It means the outfit’s doing its job.”
He grins wider, licking the corner of his mouth. “Red’s your color.”
I don’t respond because I can’t. My mouth just suddenly became dry. To deflect, I tap the screen of my iPad and begin with the script I spent half the evening rehearsing.
“Thanks for joining me today–”
“Well…I didn’t have much of a choice, did I?” he interrupts.
“Everyone has choices,” I say, raising my eyes to meet his.
“When the coach tells me to be somewhere, then that’s what I do. It’s not up for negotiation.”
There’s my out, because God knows, I think I need one. I’m fucking this up already and we haven’t even started.
“If you’re uncomfortable with this, I can explain to your coach and move on to another one of your teammates.”
I can’t read his face, but if I had to guess, I’d say he’s offended by the offer.
“I’m not uncomfortable at all. Do I look uncomfortable?”
Defensive much?
“Fine, then let’s start with your self-assessment. How would you describe your personal brand?”
He doesn’t even pause. “Dangerous. And delicious.”
I don’t blink. “So, a flaming hot Cheeto.”
“Ah, you get it.” Bass snorts. “Just throw me in a vending machine and make me the top seller.”
He thinks he’s amusing and clearly trying to get a reaction—eye-roll, smirk, anything—but I give him nothing. I learned a long time ago how to freeze out arrogant athletes. It’s a life skill every college student with boobs and an ass should master.
“Serious answers only, Morelli.”
His smile dims, just a little. “Fine. My brand is intensity. Passion. I don’t half-ass anything. I play hard. I train hard. I show up.”
“Interesting.” I type as I talk. “You align your image with power. Performance. High energy.”
He nods, proud.
“But not discipline. Or responsibility.”
That makes him pause.
The grin fades, not fully, but enough.
“I didn’t say I was perfect.”
“No,” I agree, glancing at him. “But you didn’t say you were someone others could trust, either.”
His mouth presses into a thin line. There’s a twitch in his jaw—small, fast—but I catch it.
“What is that supposed to mean?” he asks me. "My boys trust me."
I don’t pull any punches and just say what I know. “Your play on the ice and off can sometimes be volatile, often to the detriment of your team.”
“I was recruited to be volatile.”
“You were recruited to be explosive, not volatile.”
“Do you always go for the jugular?” he asks, voice lower now.
“I figured someone like you would appreciate the honesty for once.”
“Someone like me?”
“You know, a college athlete who has smoke getting blown up his ass 99% of the time.”
“God,” he says, adjusting himself because his body is entirely too big for the type of chairs we’re sitting on. “You’re something else.”
“Not your type, remember?”
“I never said that.” He leans in. “You did.”
We’re both quiet for a second. The tension tightens like a violin string.
“You were at the Ice House last week,” he says to me.
It’s not a question.
“We’ve already discussed this.”
“Just admit that you were watching me.”
“I didn’t even notice you,” I say, hoping I’m giving a convincing performance.
“Liar,” he says with a low chuckle.
The baritone word hits low, sharp. My fingers tighten around the stylus, but I don’t rise to it.
Instead, I pivot. “Next question.”
“Do you have a man, Kai Vega?”
I swallow and almost choke on my saliva. His question catches me off guard, although I know there’s not a serious bone in this guy’s body. The only thing he’s interested in is getting under my skin or inside my panties for ten minutes tops.
“I’m the one asking the questions, Morelli.”
His grin returns like a weapon. “I had a feeling you were in control.”
“I’m into results. Let’s get back on topic.”
But he’s still watching me. Like he’s trying to read something on my face, I haven’t even written yet. And for a brief moment, I want to bare myself like an open book.
I move on. “What do you think people misunderstand most about you?”
His expression shifts—so fast I almost miss it.
He looks down at the table. Then back at me.
“That I don’t care.”
The room stills, and I give him another moment to continue.
“I joke. I talk shit. I bust a few heads open. I know how it looks. But I care. I just… I’m not always sure how to show it without screwing it up.”
What the hell is he doing?
His tone is different now. Honest. Unfiltered.
And that—that—is dangerous.
Because for one breath, one heartbeat, I almost believe him.
Almost.
“What do you mean by that?” I clear my throat. “Why don’t you? Show it?”
Bass shrugs. “Every time I did, someone made me regret it.”
There it is. Vulnerability, nestled inside bravado. And for a heartbeat, I feel something shift in my stomach.
Empathy.
Pity.
Interest?
God, no.
“Well,” I say, standing because I feel like if I don’t get out of this room right now, I’m going to suffocate on my own hypocrisy. “We’ve gotten a little off topic, and so I think we’re done for the day.”
“That’s it? We didn’t even get started.”
“One-on-ones are limited to fifteen minutes.”
“I am no closer to understanding what my personal brand is than I did when your pretty ass walked in here. Are you not going to offer me any kind of closing statement or final thought?”
I grab my tablet and carefully tuck it in my tote bag. “Sure. My final thought is no.”
He frowns. “No to what?”
“No to this.” I motion between us. “No to flirtation. No to whatever that look is you're giving me right now. Let’s be real. You don’t give a shit about what I’m trying to do for your team.
You don’t take anything seriously, and I don’t have time for distractions in varsity jackets.
I’m trying to graduate on time and with a job offer. ”
Bass stands slowly. Tall. Still. Focused.
“There is something so sexy about how comfortable you are in your own skin, Kai Vega, but I wasn’t asking for anything,” he says. “At least not yet.”
“There is no yet, Morelli.”
And before he can say anything else, I walk away.
But not before I feel it—
His eyes on me.
Like he’s already decided that this is just the beginning of us.
And I leave the room, wishing like hell that I’d worn panties today.