Chapter 6
Six
KAI
I should be done with this nonsense.
Hell, I was done with him.
The one-on-one is over. I got the data I needed. The audio is uploaded. His file is already marked with all the usual branding red flags: impulsive behavior, inconsistent messaging, emotional immaturity.
Bass Morelli is a walking PR headache, and frankly, I feel sorry for any pro team that decides to sign him. He’s not going to do them any favors. But that’s not my business or my problem.
In fact, I shouldn’t have to ever think about his unserious ass again.
Except I do.
Because Coach Dixon just sent out an email with my professor carbon-copied on it: “Due to a conflict with media room renovations, all remaining athlete interviews will take place at the Valencia Ice Arena during morning practice hours.”
Meaning I now have to trek across campus in the early hours and hold my sessions at the rink.
His domain.
Every. Single. Time.
When I tell Sue all about it, she laughs and hands me a snickerdoodle. “Here, cookies make everything feel better.”
The cookie is damn good, but does she not understand what a clusterfuck this is?
The arena is colder than I expected, maybe because it’s so damn hot outside. A sharp chill slides beneath my navy blazer as I push through the side entrance and step into the cavernous space.
The heels of my knee-high, leather boots click against the concrete, echoing off high ceilings and empty bleachers. I should have worn my sneakers in a place like this, but there’s a short list of things I can’t stand, and the cold is one of them.
It smells like ice, rubber, and sweat in here.
And standing by the boards, stretching like he’s modeling for a damn Nike ad, is Bass Morelli.
He’s dressed in a black athletic hoodie and joggers, the sleeves shoved to his elbows to show off thick, tatted forearms. There’s a sheen on his neck—sweat or water from the ice, I can’t tell—but it makes him look like he’s already been working hard at something.
Like he belongs here.
His hair’s damp and slightly unruly, but in the best way possible. I imagine that many girls have run their fingers through it, but then I immediately put the kibosh on that line of thinking—since when do I care who’s had their hands in that guy's hair?
When he looks up and spots me, that same crooked smile blooms on his face—like he knew I’d be here, like he’s been waiting.
My stomach twists. I shove it down.
“How many suits do you own?” he asks as he jogs over.
“I’m wearing a blazer and some jeans.” I roll my eyes. “Not a suit.”
“You look real nice it, Kai Vega.”
His compliment makes me feel uneasy, not because I don’t think I look good, but because something flutters in my chest when he offers it.
“What are you doing here so early?” I ask, clearly deflecting.
“Practice starts in thirty. I figured I’d get a head start. And maybe—” he pulls something from behind his back, “earn a second chance at another one-on-one. I don’t like how the last one ended.”
It’s a clear to-go cup.
But not just any cup.
One filled with Matcha.
Light ice, almond milk, honey drizzle.
My matcha order.
The one I only get from Café Sol on the edge of campus.
I stare at it, then say, “This is my exact order.”
“I thought about just guessing. But it made more sense to double-check with the cute southern chick.”
The cute southern chick?
“You mean my roommate?” I ask incredulously.
“That’s the one.”
"Check with her when?"
"We ran into each other yesterday."
Funny how she never mentioned it. I’m going to kick Sue’s ass when I get home. Snickerdoodles be damned.
“This is either a very nice gesture or creepy as fuck. Hard to tell with you.”
“I’ll take either,” he says with a shrug. “If it gets me another conversation with you.”
I take the cup from him and tell myself it’s because I didn’t have time to grab anything for breakfast this morning—not because I’m impressed.
“This doesn’t mean anything,” I tell him.
“Understood.”
But the corner of his mouth lifts, and it’s infuriating. Like he believes he’s just won some small battle in the midst of a greater war.
Gah! I shouldn’t have caved so easily. Now, he’ll never leave me alone.
Neo arrives on time, as expected. He gives me a polite nod and heads toward the interview alcove near the Zamboni exit. It’s quieter there, more controlled. Even though their coach unexpectedly changed the location, throwing me off kilter, I appreciate his attention to detail.
I follow Neo, noting the easy confidence in his gait. His leadership is subtle, the kind that doesn’t ask for attention but gets it anyway. I make some quick notes on my tablet as he waits patiently, hands folded.
Then I feel it.
Bass.
Still watching.
Still there.
Like he has nowhere else in the world he’d rather be than parked on a bench from a distance with that smirk in his eyes.
I cross my legs which is a mistake because the seam of my jeans presses against my bare clit making me even more aware of how of an affect this guy is having on me.
Focus, Kai.
Neo and I go through the interview. It’s brief, but he gives me everything I need. He’s composed, thoughtful. Everything I expected. I ask about his off-ice values, the future of his team, and how he views personal branding in college athletics.
Then, from across the ice:
“Try not to sound like a hostage, Cap! This affects my girl’s grade.”
My eyes widen at Bass’s use of the term my girl.
“Is he on drugs?” I say out loud.
“Just ignore him,” Neo chuckles. “That’s what the rest of us do.”
I try. I really do.
But Bass doesn’t fade into the background like he should. He stays visible, present, and alert. His eyes track my movements—when I shift how I’m sitting, when I make a note on my iPad, when I brush a strand of hair behind my ear.
It’s like he’s mentally cataloging everything about me, and the odd thing is that there’s nothing creepy feeling about it.
Honestly, it makes me feel seen.
“Have you known Bass long?” I decide to ask since he’s not within earshot.
“Since freshman year.”
“Do you consider him a friend?”
“Is this part of the interview?”
“No,” I stop the recording. “This is just me asking you a few questions.”
“That’s fine,” Neo smiles. “Bass is more than my friend. He’s my brother. A good one.”
At one point, I drop my cell phone, which makes a huge clanking sound against the metal bench. Bass is at my side before I even register it, bending down to retrieve it from beneath the bleacher.
He holds it out, gaze level. His fingers brush mine when I take it. Warm. Calloused. Real.
“Be careful,” he says softly. “If I have to buy you a new phone, I’ll expect a proper thank you.”
I clench my jaw.
Neo finishes strong, shaking my hand before heading off to gear up. I start packing my equipment, and of course, Bass follows me to the exit like a shadow.
“You know,” he says, falling into step beside me, “for someone who’s not interested, I'm pretty sure you had your eyes on me all day.”
“Only because you were stalking me the entire time!”
“Oh, so you could feel my eyes on you? That’s sexy.”
I shoot him a look. “You should really use all of this energy for something productive, like hitting the hockey puck into the net.”
“You didn’t finish doing your homework on me, I see,” he says confidently. “I’m one of the highest scorers this university has ever seen.”
“With the highest amount of penalties.” I retort, holding the cup up. “Look, this isn’t going to work.”
“What isn’t?”
“This...thing you’re doing. The charm offensive.”
He tilts his head, genuinely curious. “What if it’s not an offense? What if it’s just who I am?”
I stop just short of the exit, turning to face him. He’s standing close enough that I have to tilt my head back slightly. His hoodie smells faintly like clean laundry and cool sweat. His eyes are darker here, rimmed in something deeper than smugness.
“Listen, this is probably a great time to show you this.” I pull out my phone and show it to him.
“This is a code of conduct contract required by the university that we both need to sign. It’s a protection for both of us, and it means we’re required to keep things strictly professional.
It’s a fillable PDF. All you have to do is use your finger and sign right here. ”
“I can do that,” he says, his simple response oozing with pornographic undertones. He’s practically undressing me with his eyes, and it’s knocking me off kilter. I shove the phone in his direction to remind him (and myself) that I’m not affected.
“Here.” I expand the document so he can see where to sign.
He signs with his pointer finger, and then I sign with mine and show him that I did.
He couldn’t care less.
In fact, I think his eyes are on my breasts the entire time.
“You’re not going to wear me down, Bass,” I tell him.
“I’m not trying to wear you down.”
“Then what are you doing?”
He takes a slow step back, just enough to break the tension. “Showing you I’m not who you think I am.”
“It’s not working,” I lie.
And I walk away, trying not to notice the sound of his soft chuckle behind me.
But as I step into the sunlit corridor, still clutching the matcha like it means nothing—
I do notice.
And that’s the part I hate the most.