Chapter 6 #2
When I finally look up at the press box, Rochelle is staring directly at me. Even from this distance, I can see the desire in her body language.
Fuck.
The hotel bar is packed with teammates, coaching staff, and various hangers-on celebrating our win. I should be exhausted after the game I just played, but the combination of adrenaline and unresolved tension from last night has me wired.
I find a corner booth and order a whiskey, then another. The alcohol doesn’t help with the restless energy humming under my skin, but it takes the edge off my hyperawareness of everything around me.
Including Rochelle, who’s holding court at a table near the bar, interviewing players about the game while maintaining the perfect balance of professional interest and approachable charm.
She’s good at her job. I’ll give her that.
But I can’t stop watching her. The way she tilts her head when she’s listening to an answer. The way she crosses her legs when she’s taking notes. The way she occasionally glances in my direction like she’s checking to see if I’m still here.
Stop staring. Order another drink. Pretend last night never happened.
But the whiskey is making it harder to maintain professional distance, not easier. Every sip loosens my control a little more, makes me remember what she tasted like, how she felt pressed against that wall.
Jake appears at my table, beer in hand. “You planning to stare at her all night, or are you actually going to do something about it?”
“I’m not staring at anyone, man. Cut it out.”
“Uh huh, the reporter hasn’t been stealing glances at you for the past hour either.”
I drain my whiskey and signal for another. “She’s doing her job.”
“Is that what we’re calling it? Because from where I’m sitting, I think y’all should fuck, hard.”
I glare at my best friend because it seems like that’s all I’ve been doing these days. “You’re imagining things.”
“Am I? Because she’s been asking everyone except you about tonight’s game. That seems like a missed opportunity for a journalist who supposedly wants the inside story.”
Jake has a point. If Rochelle was purely focused on her article, she’d be pushing for a post-game interview with the guy who scored the winning goal. Instead, she’s maintaining careful distance.
Because she knows what happens when we get too close.
“Maybe she got all the quotes she needed,” I say.
“Or maybe she’s afraid of what might happen if she approaches you while you’re drinking alone in a corner booth, looking like you want to devour something.”
Someone. I want to devour someone.
I order my fourth whiskey of the night, which is definitely more than I usually drink. But tonight feels different. The combination of post-game adrenaline and memories of Rochelle in my arms is making my usual self-control feel inadequate.
This is dangerous territory.
But when Rochelle finishes her interviews and starts gathering her things to leave, I find myself standing up and walking toward her before I can think better of it.
She sees me coming and goes very still, like a deer sensing a predator. But she doesn’t run. She waits, green eyes watching me approach with wariness and breathlessness.
“Leaving so early?” I ask when I reach her table.
“It’s been a long day.”
“Has it? I thought journalists lived for nights like this. Big win, dramatic finish, plenty of material for your story.”
She huffs. “I got what I needed.”
“Did you? Because it seems like you’ve been avoiding the one person who actually won the game.”
Rochelle’s chin lifts in that defiant way I’m starting to recognize. “I don’t think you want to be interviewed right now.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’ve been drinking, and you’re looking at me like...” She stops, like she caught herself before saying something she shouldn’t.
“Like what?”
She whispers, “Like you want to finish what we started last night.”
She’s right. That’s exactly how I’m looking at her. Like I want to drag her back to our hotel room and pick up where we left off, professional boundaries be damned.
She knows exactly what she’s doing to me.
“Maybe I do,” I say, stepping closer until I can smell her perfume. “Maybe I’ve been thinking about it all day.”
She looks around and takes a step back. “This is a bad idea.”
“You said that last night too. Right before you kissed me back.”
Color rises in her cheeks, but she doesn’t back down. “That was a mistake.”
“Well, you didn’t seem to think so at the time.”
I’m crowding her space now, using my size to my advantage, and I can see her pulse jumping at the base of her throat. She’s affected by my proximity, no matter how much she tries to hide it. Her eyes look around the room, paranoid of being caught.
“You think you have me figured out,” I say, my voice lower than it needs to be. I finally have her attention back. “You think you know exactly what story you’re going to write about me.”
“I think you’re exactly what you appear to be,” Rochelle says, but there’s a breathless quality to her voice that undermines her words. “Trouble.”
“Maybe you like trouble,” I grin, and my voice is rough with want and whiskey.
For a moment, neither of us moves. The bar continues around us, teammates laughing and drinking and celebrating, but all I can see is Rochelle looking up at me with heat in her green eyes.
Then she blinks, and the moment breaks.
“I should go,” she says, grabbing her bag and recorder.
She walks away without another word, leaving me standing by the bar with the taste of possibility and frustration burning in my throat.
Let her go. This is for the best. Nothing good can come from getting involved with a journalist.
But as I watch Rochelle disappear through the bar’s entrance, all I can think about is how much I want her.
I order another whiskey and settle in for what’s going to be a very long night of trying to forget the way Rochelle Winters tastes and failing completely.
We’re playing with fire. Both of us.
And the problem is, I’m starting to like the burn.