Chapter 8
My phone buzzes with another text from Marcus Webb at Sports Illustrated, requesting an interview about “team dynamics and Morrison’s leadership role.” I delete it without reading the full message and toss the phone onto my kitchen counter harder than necessary.
Three weeks into this embedded coverage, and now the editor wants direct access.
The coffee maker gurgles to life, and I stare out my apartment window at the Seattle skyline while waiting for caffeine to make the world bearable. Seven-thirty in the morning, and I’m already wound tight enough to snap.
Even my morning routine reminds me of her now.
The shower where I stand under cold water trying to forget how she responds when I get close.
The mirror where I catch myself wondering what she sees when she looks at me.
The closet where I pick clothes and find myself considering what she might think.
This is pathetic. She’s investigating you, not dating you.
A knock at my door interrupts the spiral of self-recrimination. When I open it, Tommy Morrison is standing in the hallway with two cups of coffee from the place down the street and a knowing smirk.
“You look terrible,” he says, pushing past me into the apartment.
“Thanks for the information.”
Tommy settles onto my couch and studies my face with the kind of attention that comes from growing up together in foster care. He knows all my tells, all my defense mechanisms, all the ways I try to hide when something’s eating at me.
“When did you last sleep?”
“I sleep fine.”
“That’s not what I asked.” Tommy takes a sip of his coffee and continues his assessment. “You’ve got that look you used to get when we were kids, and you were trying to solve problems you couldn’t control.”
Problems I can’t control. That’s one way to describe Rochelle Winters.
“I don’t have any problems.”
“Right. That explains why when I talked to Jake––”
I’m going to kill Jake. Slowly.
“Jake exaggerates everything.”
“Well, according to him, you’ve been alternating between homicidal rage and distracted brooding for two weeks straight.” Tommy leans forward, expression serious. “Talk to me. What’s going on?”
The direct approach catches me off guard. Tommy’s never been subtle, but he usually builds up to the serious conversations instead of jumping straight into intervention mode.
“Nothing’s going on.”
“Is it the reporter?”
How does he know? Fucking Jake.
Tommy sees the answer on my face before I can hide it. “Ah. The beautiful journalist who’s been shadowing the team. Jake mentioned she’s been asking a lot of personal questions.”
“She’s doing her job.”
“And you’re attracted to her.”
It’s not a question, and there’s no point denying what Tommy can already see. “It doesn’t matter.”
“I can’t remember the last time a woman got under your skin.”
Never. No one’s ever gotten under my skin like this.
“She’s here to expose my life for public consumption. End of discussion.”
Tommy studies me for a long moment, then nods like he’s reached some internal conclusion. “You’re scared.”
“I’m not scared of anything.”
“You’re scared of trusting someone who might actually understand you.”
Understanding. The word hits too close to home, because that’s exactly what Rochelle seems to be doing, trying to understand me instead of just judging me.
“She doesn’t understand anything. She’s building a story.”
“Maybe. Or maybe she’s trying to figure out who you really are behind all the walls you’ve built.”
Walls I’ve built for good reasons.
“Those walls exist for a reason.”
“Yeah, they do. But sometimes the reason stops being valid.” Tommy finishes his coffee and stands up. “Just don’t let fear make decisions for you. You’ve done that enough for one lifetime.”
“Did you really fucking come here to talk to me about this reporter bullshit? Come on, Tommy.”
He grins. “No, man. Remember the guy I told you about?”
I nod. “What happened?”
“I’m partnering up with him. He’s funding the restaurant.”
I shoot to my feet and hold out my hand. He takes it, and I bring it into a quick hug. I pat his back. “Shit. That’s your dream. Congratulations, Tommy. Fuck, that’s huge.”
Tommy smiles. “Yeah.” He fiddles with something in his hand as he says, “Maybe I can hire the reporter as the manager, and you don’t have to worry about her anymore.”
I almost laugh. Instead, I stare at him. “Screw the reporter, man. This is huge for you.”
His smile widens. “I know. That’s why I had to tell you in person.”
I smile, remembering all the times we spoke about our dreams. It was always hockey for me, and Tommy always wanted to have something of his own.
“I’m fucking ecstatic for you, bro. It’s going to be insane.”
He nods in agreement. “It is going to be insane.”
Practice runs smoothly until I notice Rochelle in the stands, notebook in hand, watching our defensive drills with the kind of focused attention that makes my skin itch.
She’s wearing that black blazer again, the one that shows her figure without being obvious about it, and every time I glance up, she’s either writing or staring directly at me.
Always watching. Always cataloging.
During a water break, I catch her interviewing our equipment manager about stick specifications and tape preferences. Technical details that have nothing to do with personality or character flaws, but she’s treating them like vital intelligence.
Coach calls for penalty kill drills, and I throw myself into the exercise with more intensity than necessary. Physical contact grounds me, gives me something to focus on besides the awareness of being studied like a specimen.
But even aggressive hockey can’t completely erase the memory of how she felt pressed against me in that equipment room, or the way she almost kissed me before we were interrupted.
Stop.
After practice, I take extra time with my post-skate routine, hoping she’ll lose interest and move on to other interviews. When I finally emerge from the locker room, the facility is mostly empty except for a few staff members.
Thank Goodness.
I hastily dress up and head out. The parking garage is dim and mostly deserted when I reach my truck, the fluorescent lights casting harsh shadows between the concrete pillars. I’m loading my equipment bag when footsteps echo behind me, and I don’t need to turn around to know who it is.
She followed me down here.
“We need to talk.”
I turn to find Rochelle approaching with that determined stride that means she has an agenda and expects cooperation. She’s holding a small digital recorder, and her expression is all business despite what happened between us yesterday.
“About what?”
“About the inconsistencies in your public record. The gaps in your junior hockey career. The careful management of your media image.”
“Not everything gets documented.”
“Team rosters get documented. League statistics get documented. And you’re conspicuously absent from several places you should appear.”
She stops just outside arm’s reach.
She’s learned not to get too close.
“Maybe I wasn’t worth documenting.”
“Or maybe someone’s been very deliberate about controlling information about you from the beginning.”
“You’re fishing,” I snap.
“I’m doing my job.”
Always the job. Always the professional justification.
“Your job involves harassment now?”
“My job involves investigation. If you call that harassment, maybe you have something to hide.”
Everything. I have everything to hide.
“I call it invasion of privacy.”
“You’re a public figure who plays a violent sport and has a reputation for aggressive behavior. Privacy is a luxury you gave up when you signed your first professional contract.”
The clinical assessment of my life makes anger surge in my chest. “Don’t take it personally?”
“Exactly. Don’t take it personally.”
Personal. Everything about you is personal.
“That’s where you’re wrong.”
Something in my voice makes her take half a step back, but she doesn’t retreat completely. “Wrong about what?”
“About keeping this impersonal. About pretending this didn’t happen. About acting like you don’t feel this too.”
Color rises in her cheeks, but her chin lifts in that defiant gesture I recognize. “I don’t know what you’re referring to.”
“You know exactly what I’m referring to. The way you responded when I had you against those lockers. The way you looked when you thought I was going to kiss you.”
“That was a momentary lapse in professional judgment.”
“Was it? Because your hands were shaking when you thought I might actually follow through.”
“My hands shake when I’m angry.”
Angry. Right.
“Is that what you call it when your pulse races and your breathing gets shallow?”
I step closer, deliberately invading her personal space, and watch her pupils dilate despite her attempts to maintain professional composure.
“That’s called adrenaline. It happens when people are being threatened.”
“Threatened? Is that how you see me?”
“I see you as someone who doesn’t respect boundaries.”
I laugh. “What boundaries? The ones you keep crossing every time you ask personal questions? The ones you ignore when you dig through my private life for story material?”
“Those are professional inquiries, not personal boundary violations.”
“They feel pretty personal when you’re asking my teammates about my psychological state.”
Rochelle’s professional mask slips for just a moment, and I see something that might be guilt flicker across her features.
Caught.
“I never asked anyone about your psychological state.”
“Anger management issues. Emotional regulation problems. Ring any bells?”
“Those were questions about your playing style, not your mental health.”
Playing style. Right.
“My playing style is connected to my mental state, but you know that. You’re not stupid, and neither am I.”
“Then maybe you should consider why people keep asking those questions.”
“Maybe you should consider why you keep pushing buttons and then acting surprised when I react.”
“I’m not pushing anything. I’m doing investigative journalism.”
“You’re looking for ammunition to destroy my career, and when I don’t cooperate, you get frustrated.”
“I get frustrated when subjects lie to me or refuse to engage honestly with legitimate questions.”
“Honest engagement. Is that what you call it when you back away every time we get too close?”
My words hit its mark, and I see Rochelle’s composure crack slightly.
“Physical proximity isn’t part of professional interviews.”
“No, but it keeps happening anyway, doesn’t it? Every time we’re alone, every time the conversation gets heated, you end up close enough to touch.”
I take another step forward, and now we’re close enough that I can see the emerald flecks in her green eyes, can smell her perfume mixing with the concrete-and-motor-oil scent of the parking garage.
“That’s coincidence.”
“Yeah, just like right now your pulse is visible at the base of your throat, and I haven’t even touched you yet.”
Rochelle’s breath catches, and I know I’ve won this round. She can deny the attraction all she wants, but her body betrays her every time.
Yet. I said yet, and she heard the promise in it.
“This is completely inappropriate, so I should go.”
But she doesn’t move, doesn’t step back, doesn’t break eye contact. Instead, she stands there looking up at me with heat in her green eyes and her lips slightly parted like she’s waiting for something.
Waiting for me to make the decision she can’t make herself.
I reach up and trace the line of her jaw with my thumb, and when she doesn’t pull away, I know we’re both past the point of pretending.
“Tell me to stop,” I say.
“Okay.”
I grin. “You didn’t say it.”
“Say what?”
I look down at her lips, wondering if she’s forgotten why she’s here with me.
Instead of responding, I kiss her. Hard, desperate, with weeks of frustration and denied attraction pouring out in the slide of lips and tongue. Rochelle goes rigid for half a second, then melts into me like she’s been waiting for this as much as I have.
Her hands fist in my shirt, pulling me closer, and I back her against her car, pressing my body against hers. She makes a sound that goes straight through me, and when I deepen the kiss, she meets me stroke for stroke.
Fuck. Finally.
My hands tangle in her hair, tilting her head so I can taste more of her, and she responds by pulling me even closer, like she can’t get enough. This is what I’ve been thinking about for weeks––how she feels against me, how she tastes, the soft sounds she makes when I’m touching her.
I break the kiss to trail my mouth along her jaw, and she gasps my name. The sound makes me harder than I’ve been in weeks, and when my lips find a sensitive spot, she arches against me.
“Kai,” she breathes, and hearing my name in her voice like that makes me lose whatever control I had left.
My hands slide down to her waist, then lower, and she presses into my touch like she’s starving for it. When I suck gently at her pulse point, she makes a sound that’s part moan, part whimper, and her nails dig into my shoulders.
She’s going to kill me.
Her hands slide under my shirt, fingers exploring the muscles of my chest and abs, and everywhere she touches feels like fire. When she traces the line of muscle just above my belt, I bite down gently on her neck, and she gasps.
When Rochelle’s hands slide lower, when she looks up at me with heat in her green eyes and her lips swollen from kissing, rational thought becomes impossible.
I capture her mouth again, kissing her with weeks of pent-up want, and she responds like she’s just as desperate. My hands find the hem of her blouse, slide underneath to touch warm skin, and she shivers against me.
She’s perfect. She feels perfect.
But the rational part of my brain that’s kept me alive this long chooses that moment to reassert itself.
Stop this. Now.
I pull back abruptly, breathing hard, and Rochelle stares up at me with her hair messed from my hands and her lips swollen from kissing.
“This is…” I say, stepping back, catching my breath. “You’re going to ruin me.”
She blinks, trying to focus, and I can see her trying to process what just happened. Her clothes are wrinkled, her professional composure is completely shattered, and she looks like a woman who was thirty seconds away from being debauched against a car.
And oh, I’d have had her thoroughly debauched.
“Maybe I want to be ruined first,” she says, and her voice is rough with want.
The admission nearly breaks my resolve completely, but I force myself to take another step back.
“This can’t happen again.”
“Why not?”
“Because I can’t hate you and want you at the same time. It’s better that I just hate you.”
I walk away before I can change my mind, leaving Rochelle looking like she wants to either follow me or scream in frustration.
Well, welcome to the club, Rochelle.