Chapter 8
Eight
KAI
Professor Murphy’s office smells like a tuna sandwich and academic disappointment.
I've been sitting in the uncomfortable leather chair across from her desk for exactly three minutes, watching her squint at her computer screen with the kind of expression that makes my stomach drop to my ankles. She’s reading my progress report, no doubt for the first time. Way to be prepared.
"Your work with the other hockey players has been exemplary," she says finally, not looking up. "Neo Major’s interview was thorough. Shane Sullivan showed genuine engagement with the process."
I wait for the "but" because there's always a "but" when someone starts with praise.
"But your sessions with Bass Morelli are..." She pauses, removing her silver-rimmed reading glasses. "Concerning."
"Concerning how?" I ask, even though I have a pretty good idea.
"Fifteen minutes for a baseline assessment? That's not nearly enough data for your thesis. And according to Coach Dixon, Mr. Morelli has been asking specifically about when his next session is scheduled."
My chest tightens. "He has?"
"Which suggests he's engaged with the process, yet your reports indicate minimal progress."
I don’t dare tell her that the only thing he’s engaged with is getting inside my panties, but that would actually cause serious problems for him, and if I’m honest…I don’t want him to get into trouble for simply being who he’s probably been his whole life.
“I think that my lack of progress may have something to do with my disconnect with the sport. I think I could give you what you’re looking for if I work with another team, say, like the baseball team?”
Professor Murphy leans forward. "Kai, do you think you can just cherry-pick your first job when you graduate from VCU?”
“Well–” I stutter.
“I selected you for this assistantship because you have the potential to excel in sports media. But if you can't handle one difficult athlete..."
She doesn't finish the sentence. She doesn't need to.
This is my final year in school, and I need to make it count if I’m going to be a competitive candidate in the job marketplace. I don’t have a soft, cushy place to fall after graduation. My Dad made that crystal clear.
Once you graduate, Kai, you’re on your own. I’ve done all I can for you. I promised your mother, God rest her soul, I would.
Between student loans, his parent plus loans, and my Dad's extra part-time job, the two of us have extended ourselves as much as we possibly can to keep me in school. I have one scholarship, but it's not nearly enough to pay the astronomical expenses of college. Thank God that Sue pays for the bigger room in our student apartment, because I don’t know how I’d afford to live anywhere else. Nevada is expensive as hell.
"I can handle him," I say quickly. Too quickly.
“Good, then let’s tighten up your work.” She clicks a few keys on the keyboard and presses the Return key with purpose.
"I'm assigning you an extended case study with Mr. Morelli.
One week of intensive brand rehabilitation sessions.
Daily meetings. Real-time social media monitoring.
A comprehensive strategy presentation at the end. "
My mouth goes dry. "Daily meetings? I’m not sure his schedule will allow that.”
“I’ll talk to Coach Dixon. We go way back. Consider it a practicum within your practicum. If you can successfully rebrand Bass Morelli's public image, it will be the cornerstone of your thesis and guarantee you graduate school recommendations."
“Rebrand his image in a week?” I ask with full doubt.
“Obviously, you can’t perform miracles. But there’s a lot you can do in a week. Trust yourself to use the skills you've learned over the last three years.”
I stare at her screen like it might explode. "And if I can't?"
Professor Murphy’s smile is sharp. "Then perhaps sports media isn't your calling after all."
Yeah, this woman hates me.
Twenty minutes later, I'm standing outside the VCU Ice Arena, clutching my laptop like a lifeline and seriously considering a career change. Perhaps Sue is right about the bakery idea. Sticky Situations sounds pretty good right about now. I could manage it for her.
My phone buzzes with a text from an unknown number.
Unknown: Heard you got voluntold for Bass duty. Meet me at the rink. We need to talk. - B
How the hell did he get my number?
I find him in the same spot as yesterday, stretching by the boards. But today he's not alone. A man in his fifties wearing a VCU coaching polo is standing beside him, arms crossed, expression serious. We’ve only communicated through emails, but I recognize him instantly.
"Ms. Vega," he says as I approach them both. "Coach Dixon. I believe we need to have a conversation."
This day just keeps getting better.
"Coach," I nod, hoping I sound more professional than I feel. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”
"Professor Murphy filled me in on your new assignment," he says. "I'll be honest with you—Bass is one of my best players, but he's also one of my biggest headaches. You’ve got your work cut out for you.”
I glance at Bass, who's pretending to be fascinated by his skate laces. I swear the guy has the depth of a hamster, but he undeniably looks even sexier today if that's possible. He gives me a casual head nod and a lame eye wink as he finishes with his laces.
"His talent on the ice is unmatched,” Coach Dixon continues, not caring if Bass overhears. "But his behavior off the ice..." He shakes his head. “Any more incidents like last month's bar fight, and I'll have no choice but to bench him for the rest of the season."
"What happened last month?" I ask Bass.
"Some jackass from Nevada State was running his mouth," Bass says with an attitude. "So I shut it for him."
"With your fists," Coach Dixon adds dryly. "In front of a crew of ESPN reporters."
My eyes widen. "National media was there?"
Bass looks back down at his skates.
This is the fresh hell that Professor Murphy expects me to fix?
"The thing is," Coach Dixon continues, "Bass graduates in May. NHL scouts are already sniffing around. But they want character, not just skill. They want someone who can represent their franchise, not embarrass it."
He turns to Bass. "You've got raw talent, son. But talent without discipline is just wasted potential."
Bass's jaw tightens, like he's heard all of this before, but he doesn't argue.
"Which is why," Coach Dixon continues, “you’re going to give up a week of your life to Ms. Vega and you're going to do exactly what she tells you to do. No jokes. No games. No showing up late. This is your career we're talking about."
The weight of it settles on my shoulders like a lead blanket. This isn't just about my thesis anymore. It's about Bass's future. Not that I care, but I’m sure he’s worked toward the dream of an NHL career his whole life. He can’t blow it now. Plus, it will reflect poorly on me, too.
After Coach Dixon leaves, Bass and I stand in awkward silence. The arena feels bigger somehow, emptier.
He adjusts the cuff of his glove, and my eyes flick there—unintentionally, annoyingly—and then up to the way his jersey stretches over his chest, tight across muscles that look carved instead of built.
His helmet sits snug on damp, just-showered hair, the dark strands curling slightly at his neck.
His skin is still dry, but there’s a charged energy in how he moves—coiled power, waiting for release.
He hasn’t even started skating yet, but he already looks like sex and sweat and a stupid mistake I’d regret in the best possible way.
I hate that my pulse quickens just watching him stand there, calm and cocky, like he’s already won something.
"So, daily meetings, huh?" he says in a tone that’s not filled with his usual confidence.
Hmm, that's different.
"Looks like it."
"You don't look happy about it."
"I'm not," I admit, and I notice how his jaw ticks. "But apparently, neither of us has a choice."
"We always have choices, Kai Vega."
The way he says my name—soft, almost careful—makes something flutter in my chest.
I ignore it.
"Your choice is simple," I tell him. "Play along with this, or watch your NHL dreams go up in smoke."
"And what's your choice?"
I look down at the computer in my hands. "Make you seem presentable, or fail my thesis and lose my shot at a decent job in my field when I graduate. So I guess the choice is that or stocking shelves at my local supermarket.”
"Damn." He leans back against the glass. "When you put it like that, we're both pretty fucked."
Despite everything, I almost smile. "Pretty much."
"Alright then." He pushes off from the boards. "Since we're both stuck with each other, might as well make the best of it."
"This isn't going to be fun for you, Bass."
"Who says I'm looking for fun?" His expression turns serious. "Maybe I'm looking for something else entirely."
The quiver in my chest intensifies. I clutch my laptop tighter.
Maybe he says.
"The first session is tomorrow morning. Eight AM. Don't be late."
"Wouldn't dream of it," he says. "Where should we meet?"
There are too many eyes at the rink and definitely too many at the Ice House, so I try to think of a place a little more neutral.
"My apartment. If you know what I drink every day, I'm sure you already know where I live," I say sarcastically.
"As a matter of fact, I do," he smirks triumphantly.
As I walk away, I hear him call behind me: "Hey, Kai?"
I turn back.
"For what it's worth," he says, "I think you're exactly the right person for this job. If anyone can make me look like a Boy Scout seven days from now, it's you.”
I’m not sure how he knows, but I needed to hear that today. My confidence has been wavering for weeks, perhaps because I sometimes wonder if I even deserve this assistantship.
I raise my hand in acknowledgement of the affirming words, but keep walking. My ass switching a little more confidently now.
“And by the way,” he calls out again. “You look fucking hot as hell today, Kai Vega.”
My lips curve up at the compliment.
“You do too,” I mutter to myself.