Dirty As Puck (As Puck #4)

Chapter 1

I’m stress-eating a blueberry muffin that tastes like cardboard when my phone decides to ruin what’s left of my Tuesday morning. The caller ID shows Marcus Webb - Sports Illustrated, and I nearly choke on the blue crumble.

Marcus Webb doesn’t call freelancers. Marcus Webb has assistants who have assistants who send form rejection emails.

The fact that his name is lighting up my cracked iPhone screen means either I’ve won the journalism lottery or I’m about to get sued for that piece I wrote about performance-enhancing smoothies in youth hockey.

“Rochelle Winters,” I answer, trying to sound like I wasn’t just calculating whether I can afford both rent and groceries this month. Spoiler alert: I cannot.

“Winters. Marcus Webb, Sports Illustrated. I have a proposition.”

No pleasantries. I respect that. Also, my bank account is currently showing $247.83, so I’m inclined to respect anything that might change that number.

“I’m listening.”

The coffee shop around me fades to background noise. The hiss of espresso machines, the tap-tap of laptop keyboards, the general ambiance of Seattle trying to caffeinate itself into productivity. I lean forward, laptop forgotten, and focus on Marcus’s gravelly voice.

“Eight-week embedded assignment. Full access with the Seattle Icehawks during their playoff push. Team meetings, locker room, travel, the works. We want an in-depth profile on Kai Morrison.”

My pulse jumps. The Seattle Icehawks. Kai “Storm” Morrison. This is major, front-page territory. This is career-making territory. This is “Rochelle, how did you go from writing about amateur bowling tournaments to covering professional hockey” territory.

“What’s the angle?” I ask, because I’ve learned that when opportunities sound too good to be true, there’s usually a catch hiding in the fine print.

“Morrison’s latest scandal. Bar fight two weeks ago, sent some guy to the hospital.

My source says there’s more to dig up. Lots of juicy stories buried in his past. We want you to get close, get the real story.

The kind of access other journalists can’t get.

The Icehawks are having a notorious season with their players out of control.

The media needs to know what’s going on up there. ”

The catch reveals itself. They want me to be their weapon of choice in character assassination. Not exactly the kind of journalism that gets you a Pulitzer, but it pays the bills. And right now, my bills are winning.

“Why me?” I ask, though I suspect I know the answer. Young, female, probably less threatening than the usual sports journalism old boys’ club. Someone Morrison might actually talk to instead of giving the standard media-trained responses.

“You’re hungry. You’re thorough. And you’re not afraid to ask the uncomfortable questions.”

Translation: I’m desperate enough to take assignments other journalists won’t touch, and I don’t have enough industry connections to worry about burning bridges.

“What’s the timeline?” I ask.

“Playoffs start in two weeks. We need you embedded from day one. Full exposure - practices, games, team travel, everything. Eight weeks, maybe more if they make it to the finals.”

Eight weeks. Eight weeks of steady pay, real assignments, actual sports journalism instead of community college tennis tournaments and high school football. Eight weeks to prove I belong in the big leagues.

“I’ll need credentials, hotel arrangements, travel budget—”

“Already handled. You interested or not?”

I glance at my laptop screen, where my bank account balance mocks me from the corner. Then I look around this coffee shop where I’ve been camping out because my apartment’s heating is questionable, and the Wi-Fi is non-existent.

“I’m interested.”

“Good. Email me your availability and I’ll send over the details. Oh, and Winters? Morrison’s got a reputation for eating journalists alive. Don’t take it personally.”

The line goes dead, and I sit there staring at my phone like it might disappear if I blink too hard.

Before I can fully process what just happened, my phone buzzes with a text from my best friend, Gemma.

Coffee date cancelled AGAIN by Mr. Wonderful. Emergency margaritas at my place tonight? I have the good tequila.

I text back quickly: Rain check. Just got the assignment of a lifetime. Will call you later with details.

Her response is immediate: THE assignment? The one you’ve been manifesting? OMG YES. Call me the second you’re done hyperventilating.

Gemma knows me too well. She’s been my reality check since college, the friend who talks me down from panic spirals and celebrates my wins when I’m too scared to believe they’re real.

We’ve been through three years of my freelance struggles together.

She’s the one who brought me soup when I couldn’t afford groceries and reminded me I’m good at this job when every editor in Seattle seemed to disagree.

I fire off another quick text: Not hyperventilating. Yet.

Sure, babe. Remember to breathe between the research spiral you’re about to fall into.

She really does know me too well.

Kai Morrison. I know the name, obviously.

Anyone who follows hockey knows Kai “Storm” Morrison.

He’s a six-foot-four defenseman with a temper to match his nickname and a penalty record that reads like a rap sheet.

He’s the kind of player who makes highlight reels for all the wrong reasons: boarding calls, fighting majors, game misconducts.

The NHL’s poster boy for everything that’s supposedly wrong with modern hockey.

I crack my laptop open and dive into research mode, because that’s what I do.

I research until my eyes burn and my coffee goes cold.

Google serves up the usual collection of sports websites, tabloid stories, and grainy cell phone videos of Morrison throwing punches in various arenas across North America.

The bar fight photos are new since the last time I looked him up.

TMZ has a field day with them. Morrison in a torn dress shirt, blood on his knuckles, being separated from some guy half his size.

The headlines write themselves: “Storm Morrison Strikes Again,” “Hockey’s Bad Boy Can’t Stay Out of Trouble,” “When Athletes Attack.”

But something about the photos nags at me.

The guy Morrison supposedly attacked looks more confused than injured, and Morrison’s posture is protective instead of aggressive.

My journalism instincts start tingling, which is either a good sign or a sign that I’ve been surviving on caffeine and optimism for too long.

I screenshot the images and send them to Gemma with a quick message: What do you see in these photos?

She responds within minutes. Oh, the perks of having a best friend who works as a paralegal and analyses evidence for a living.

Guy in the background looks like he’s running TOWARD them, not away. And Morrison’s stance is all wrong if he’s the aggressor. Defensive posture. Weird.

This is why I keep Gemma around. Well, that and she makes killer margaritas.

I scroll through more photos, game highlights, interview clips.

Morrison has the standard athlete look with his sharp jaw, dark hair, and the kind of build that suggests he pushes guys over for a living.

I mean… he’s really wide, I give him that.

Objectively attractive, if you’re into the whole “dangerous guy who could probably snap you in half” aesthetic.

Which I’m not. Definitely not.

But there is something about that scowl of his that’s annoyingly compelling. The way he carries himself in interviews like he’s barely containing something volatile just beneath the surface. It’s the kind of dangerous edge that would make any rational woman run in the opposite direction.

My rational brain files this under “professional hazard” and moves on.

My phone buzzes again.

Gemma: Please tell me you’re not developing a crush on Hockey McPunchface before you’ve even met him.

I text back: Professional interest only. I don’t date sources.

Good. Because your track record with emotionally unavailable men is already concerning enough.

Ouch. True, but ouch.

I click on a video interview from last season, some post-game scrum where Morrison looks like he’d rather be getting a root canal. The reporter asks about his penalty minutes, and Morrison’s response is pure steel wrapped in sarcasm.

“Maybe if the refs called the game instead of trying to manage it, we wouldn’t have this conversation.”

His voice is lower than I expected, with just a hint of something––not quite an accent, but an edge that suggests he didn’t grow up in the classic hockey clubs. The camera loves his sharp angles and storm-gray eyes that look like they’re calculating exactly how much trouble you’re worth.

Trouble. Right. That’s what Marcus wants me to dig into.

I spend the next hour falling down the rabbit hole of Kai Morrison’s public persona.

There are the obvious stories––the fights, the suspensions, the fines.

But there are gaps too, spaces in his biography that don’t quite add up.

No mention of family, no hometown hero stories, no childhood photos with youth hockey teams. For a professional athlete, his background is surprisingly thin.

That’s when my journalism training kicks into high gear.

Gaps in a public figure’s background usually mean one of two things: either there’s nothing interesting to hide, or there’s something very interesting to hide.

Given Morrison’s reputation and Marcus’s confidence in buried stories, I’m betting on the latter.

I start a new document and begin making notes.

Family background - unknown.

Childhood - no public records.

Draft history - picked up in the third round, which is unusual for someone with his current skill level.

Either he was a late bloomer, or something happened in his junior career that scared teams off.

My phone buzzes with Marcus’s email. Credentials, hotel confirmations, a schedule that makes my head spin. This is really happening.

But buried in the details is something that makes my stomach drop. The assignment doesn’t just want me to write about Morrison––it wants me to get close enough to uncover his personal secrets. The kind of access that comes from building trust, then breaking it for a story.

I’ve never done a hit piece before. Sure, I’ve written unflattering articles about corrupt youth league officials and overzealous parents, but this feels different.

This feels like using my gender and his potential attraction to manipulate him into revealing things that could destroy his reputation.

My phone rings. Gemma.

“Okay, spill,” she says without preamble. “What’s got you overthinking so hard I can feel your anxiety from across town?”

I explain the assignment, the access, the expectation that I’ll dig up dirt on Morrison for public consumption. When I finish, there’s silence on the other end.

“So basically, they want you to be a sports journalism honey trap,” Gemma finally says.

“That’s... actually a really good way to put it.”

“And you’re having ethical concerns.”

“Massive ethical concerns.”

“But you’re also broke, and this could make your career.”

“Also, yes.”

Gemma sighs. “Look, you know I support you no matter what. But maybe the real story isn’t what they think it is. Maybe Morrison isn’t the villain they want him to be. Maybe the real journalism is finding out the truth, not just confirming their bias.”

This is why Gemma is my best friend. She has a way of cutting through my spiral of overthinking and pointing me toward what I actually believe.

I close the laptop and lean back in my chair, watching Seattle drizzle against the coffee shop windows. Eight weeks ago, I was writing about community college basketball. Now I’m about to get unprecedented access to one of professional hockey’s most controversial players.

There’s a voice in my head––the same one that got me through journalism school and three years of freelance rejection––whispering that this is my chance.

My opportunity to prove I can hang with the big leagues, to write the kind of stories that matter.

Sure, Marcus wants dirt on Morrison, but maybe there’s more to the story.

Maybe there’s actually journalism to be done here.

Or maybe I’m just trying to justify taking an assignment that feels a little too much like tabloid hunting for my comfort.

“I have to take it,” I tell Gemma. “Even if it makes me uncomfortable. I need this.”

“I know you do. Just promise me you’ll trust your instincts. If something doesn’t feel right about Morrison or the story, don’t ignore that feeling.”

“Promise.”

“Good. Now go home and pack some cute outfits. If you’re going to be around professional athletes for eight weeks, you might as well look good doing it.”

I laugh for the first time all day. “There’s my superficial best friend.”

“Someone has to balance out your noble journalism ideals.”

I gather my things and head for the door, already mentally preparing for the next eight weeks. Research Morrison’s background, study his game film, learn enough about hockey to ask intelligent questions. Find the story behind the story, even if it’s not the one Marcus wants to hear.

The rain hits my face as I step outside, and I can’t help but smile. For the first time in months, I have somewhere to be that isn’t this coffee shop or my increasingly questionable apartment.

Kai Morrison has no idea what’s coming for him. Then again, I’m not entirely sure I do either.

But I’m about to find out.

I pull my jacket tighter against the Seattle rain and unlock my beat-up Honda Civic. The engine turns over on the second try, which I’m taking as a good omen. Time to go home and pack for what could either be the assignment of a lifetime or a career-ending disaster.

Eight weeks to get close to hockey’s most notorious bad boy and uncover the real story behind the headlines. Eight weeks to prove I belong in the big leagues.

I need to focus. I remind myself that he’s just another entitled athlete with secrets.

At least, that’s what I keep telling myself as I drive through the rain, already planning my approach for what promises to be the most challenging assignment of my career.