Chapter 12
The rink feels colder than usual this morning, but I’m burning up from the inside out.
My skates cut across the ice, blades screeching as we run through the same warm-up drills I could do in my sleep. Pucks ricochet off the boards, sticks slap, whistles blow and white noise to drown myself in.
Yet my mind’s nowhere near the blue lines or the net. It’s back in that conference room. The way her fingers are clutching my shoulders. The way she arched when I––
I grind my teeth and force a tight pivot, slicing across the ice. I need to focus. We have playoffs coming.
Easy pep talk, except that my body remembers everything. Her mouth. Her voice, low and breathless against my ear. The way her nails bit into my skin like she wanted to leave marks. I’ve got marks on my chest, faint lines and every time the pads press against them I feel that scene all over again.
“Yo, Kai!” Jake skates up beside me, his stick tapping mine with a grin that’s way too knowing. “Are you planning to actually pass the puck today or you’ll just keep daydreaming out here?”
I snap the puck forward with more force than necessary. It clangs off the boards, going nowhere near the guy waiting for it.
Jake laughs, swooping to catch it before it slides away. “What’s up with you? Don’t tell me our golden boy’s got woman problems. You’re skating like a guy who didn’t get enough sleep…” his brows lift, “or got way too much of a different kind of workout.”
I shoot him a look that’s sharp enough to cut glass. “Drop it, Jake.”
He just smirks, all teeth and trouble, before gliding away to join the next drill.
I exhale hard, drag my glove over my mouthguard, and try to reset.
This isn’t me. I’m usually locked in, muscle memory, clean execution, eyes on the game.
Now every time I blink, I see her again, perched on that table, lips parted, whispering my name like she wanted more even as she pretended she didn’t.
The whistle blows for a line change. I skate to the bench, my legs pumping, lungs burning in that good, familiar way. But it doesn’t chase her out of my head. If anything, the rush of blood just sharpens as the memory becomes even clearer.
Coach shouts something about tightening our defensive transitions. I nod like I hear him, but I didn’t. All I hear is the ghost of her breath against my skin. All I feel is the phantom weight of her thighs locking around me.
“Morrison! Eyes up!” someone yells, and a puck whizzes past my stick. Damn it!
Jake’s laughing again from down the ice. “Definitely woman problems,” he calls. “Call her after practice, man. Get it out of your system before you tank us in the playoffs.”
What he doesn’t know is that I tried to get it out of my system in the conference room yesterday, and now I can’t stop thinking about her. I wish it were as simple as Jake says.
She’s not just any woman. She’s the reporter assigned to our team. The one writing about us. About me. And I’ve already crossed lines I swore I wouldn’t.
I shove off the bench as the next drill starts, my jaw clenched and stick gripped so hard my fingers ache. No more distractions. That’s the lie I tell myself as I push harder, skating until my legs burn. But her shadow follows me down the ice anyway, soft, dangerous and unforgettable.
The conference room smells like coffee, dry-erase markers, and sweat-soaked gear that didn’t have enough time to air out after the morning skate. We’re crammed around the long table, playbooks open, while Coach Williams stalks the front like an army general planning an invasion.
“Defense needs to tighten up on the forecheck. Don’t give them open ice through the neutral zone,” he says, smacking a diagram with the butt of his marker.
I nod, my fountain pen tapping absently against my notebook, but I’m not seeing Xs and Os. I’m seeing a door.
Every second that passes makes the hair on my arm stand with anticipation. I know she’s coming. This is the slot the media gets to hover in before playoffs kick off. I shouldn’t care or even take notice.
The door opens, and like my body was waiting for the cue, everything zeroes in.
Rochelle steps in, not hurried, not flustered, looking like she owns the air in this room.
She’s wearing a skirt sharp enough to make my knuckles itch, her hair twisted in an updo, with a few strands loose, pen already poised like she’s about to dissect every player in the room. My grip on the pen tightens.
She gives Coach a polite nod, then starts doing her thing, soft voice, precise questions, eyes cutting across the room like searchlights.
Everyone else answers easily. Jake cracks a joke, the junior players grins too wide, Coach pretends he’s not annoyed that the flow of the meeting’s been cracked open.
Me? I’m watching her mouth the entire time, like a lovesick teenage boy. I definitely feel like one, but I can’t bring myself to stop staring.
Each word she forms drags me back to the sound of her breath the night before, the little gasp when my hands slid beneath her blouse, the low moan she bit back against my neck. My jaw flexes, and I drop my eyes to my notebook before anyone notices the storm brewing behind them.
Coach Williams keeps talking, something about the power play. I jot down nonsense just to look busy. My focus is a mess, because every time she leans in to write something, I catch the curve of her wrist, the delicate tilt of her neck.
“Morrison, you’ve been silent for five minutes straight. Are you alive back there?” Coach snaps, and the guys laugh.
I nod and murmur something about “watching their breakout tendencies,” and it’s enough to satisfy him. Well, barely.
She doesn’t look at me directly, but I catch it, one flick of her gaze, quick as a pulse, and then it’s gone. Like the conference room last night didn’t happen. Like my mouth wasn’t on her skin, my hands tangled in her hair.
The questions wrap up fast. A few more notes, some bland quotes from Jake about team chemistry, a soundbite from Max. Rochelle thanks Coach, her voice smooth, unreadable, then turns to leave.
I keep my pen still, eyes locked on the page while the door clicks shut. But my whole body is tracking her steps down the hall.
When Coach starts outlining the next drill rotation, I realize my knuckles are white against the notebook. I unclench my fists slowly, let out a breath, and wonder how the hell I’m supposed to play my best at the next game with her haunting me in every room she walks into.
I’m back on the ice for afternoon practice, and the rink hums with the low screech of blades on ice, pucks slapping the boards, and the occasional orders Coach Williams continues to bark.
Afternoon practice is supposed to be about rhythm, fast transitions, crisp passes, the kind of reps that sharpen your instincts before the playoffs.
For me, it’s a pressure valve I can’t quite twist shut.
I tear down the wing, puck on my stick, muscles coiled too tight.
Every pass feels like a challenge, every shadow across the boards triggers me.
Rochelle’s face flashes in my mind, the arch of her brow in the meeting, the way her mouth curved around each question.
Heat rushes through my legs and my grip on the stick tightens.
My eyes catch a rookie, Anders, cutting across center ice a little too slow. Instinct takes over before reason does. My shoulder drops, hip lines up, and the collision sends him skidding off balance. Not hard enough to injure, but close. Very close.
“Easy, Morrison!” Coach’s whistle shrieks across the rink, its echoes bouncing off the rafters. “Save the hits for the damn playoffs!”
I lift my hands, in mock salute, but my jaw is locked tight.
“He needs to keep his head up,” I mutter under my breath, circling back into the drill line.
Anders waves it off with a half-smile, but I can see the flicker of unease in his eyes.
I’m usually the guy they flinch around, but it seems like I’ve turned up the heat today and everyone’s feeling it.
The rest of practice runs hot as my strides are longer, my stick checks sharper, every shot I take rattles the post like I’m trying to break the net off its hinges. The team feels it too. Jake skates past me and taps my stick with his.
“You trying to make enemies or just overcompensating for your lack of focus in the morning drill?” he chirps, grin sharp enough to sting.
“Just locked in,” I say, but the words taste hollow, like an easy lie.
When Coach finally calls the end of practice, my jersey is plastered to my skin, my breath coming rough. I duck into the tunnel, peel off the gear piece by piece until it’s just me and the echo of blades fading down the hall.
The shower room is all fog and blur by the time I step under the spray. Hot water drums against sore muscles, but it does nothing to wash away the heat coiled under my skin. I brace my palms against the tile and drop my head, letting the steam crawl up my neck.
And there she is, lurking around the corners of my mind again.
Damn Rochelle Winters. Her soft gasp when I pushed her against that conference table, the sound of her breath hitching as my hands mapped her skin, the way her thighs parted in total surrender.
It’s all still there, under my fingernails, behind my eyelids.
I should be thinking about the coming games. About forechecks and line changes. Instead, I’m reliving the drag of her nails down my back, the taste of her breath against my tongue.
The water runs hotter, almost scalding my skin, but I don’t move. Because the truth is, the ice can’t cool this down. And if I keep skating like this with the ghost of her haunting every corner of my mind, I’m going to burn right through the damn playoffs.
The bar isn’t exactly loud tonight, just the low thrum of music, the clink of beer bottles, and the easy banter of my teammates blowing off steam after a good game.
It’s supposed to be a simple night. Minor victory, good energy, and celebratory music humming in the background.
But the second I see her the whole damn room narrows.
Rochelle is in the damn bar tonight. She’s by the far table, notebook tucked under her arm as usual, and her hair falling in a clean sweep over one shoulder.
Black pants and a fitted blouse that makes look professional, but the kind of professional that turns heads.
And she knows it, or maybe she doesn’t. Either way, it’s working.
I catch the way a couple of guys, both teammates and the team staff, as the let their eyes linger on her legs while she moves through the room.
It’s a harmless look, a quick and casual checking out, but it sets something sharp loose in my chest. I have no claim on her.
Absolutely no right. And still, my grip tightens around the glass in my hand until the condensation slicks my palm.
Jake elbows me. “You’re staring like she owes you rent, man,” he says, voice low, smirk cutting through the noise. “How about you approach her like a man should?”
I force a short laugh, shake my head like it’s nothing. “Focus on your beer, Rivera.”
“Yeah, sure,” he mutters, but his eyes are already drifting toward the group by the corner table.
I stay where I am, leaning against the high table, sipping a drink that has long gone warm and watching her work the room with that polite smile and clipped pen strokes.
Every time she laughs at something another guy says, it twists a little tighter in my gut. And when her gaze sweeps the bar and lands on me, just for a split second, everything else goes quiet.
She looks away first.
Of course, she does.
Professional, always.
But that one second is enough to crack the restraint I’ve been nursing since the conference room.
A few minutes later, I see her slip out toward the hallway by the bathrooms. Her steps are casual and unhurried. I wait two beats, long enough to make it look like coincidence and then I follow after her.
The hallway’s dim and lined with framed photos and the flickering neon light from the bar’s sign. I wait until she’s out of the ladies restroom before I catch up with her, my fingers brushing her elbow before I can even think about what I’m doing.
She spins, startled, but her expression flickers just for a second, somewhere between irritation and something hotter.
“Kai,” she breathes, barely above a whisper.
I step in, close enough that her back meets the cool wall behind her. The smell of her hits me. It’s warm, clean, that same mix of citrus and skin that has been haunting me. My hand lands flat against the wall by her head.
“You’re supposed to be celebrating,” she says, voice steady, but her pulse is jumping at her throat.
“I am,” I murmur, eyes locked on hers.
Her lips part. I don’t wait for an invitation.
I’ve been fantasizing this moment all day.
The kiss isn’t careful, it’s fast, rough, the kind of kiss that steals your breath and sense in the same stroke.
She gasps against my mouth, one hand catching the front of my shirt like she’s deciding whether to push me off or pull me closer.
I make the choice for her as she hesitates.
My fingers find her waist, pulling her flat against me, her back scraping gently against the wall as our mouths move in similar rhythm of teeth, tongue, heat. It’s messy, unplanned, the kind of kiss that tastes like everything we’ve been pretending doesn’t exist.
She breaks it first, breath hot against my cheek. “Kai,” she whispers, “this has to stop.” Her hand on my chest betrays her words.
I don’t move back. Not yet. My forehead presses to hers, voice low, almost a growl. “Then stop looking at me like you want more.”
Her laugh is soft, bitter, almost broken. Her hands, still on my chest flex once, then fall away. She steps sideways, out of my reach, the cool air rushing in where her body was a second ago.
“This doesn’t help either of us,” she says, and it sounds like she’s trying to convince herself, not me.
I let her go. Because I have to, not because I want to.
As she disappears back into the light of the bar, I stay in the hallway, breath coming hard, palms still tingling from where they touched her. The taste of her lingers on my tongue. It’s sweet, defiant, and very addictive. My heart is racing out of control.
We both know this isn’t over. And that’s the problem.