Chapter 2
The weight room is my sanctuary at six-thirty in the morning when the rest of the world is still pretending sleep matters more than survival.
I slam the forty-five-pound plate onto the bar and feel that familiar burn in my shoulders as I position myself under the steel.
Three hundred and fifteen pounds. Enough weight to crush most people, but for me it’s just Tuesday morning therapy.
My playlist pounds through my headphones.
Nine Inch Nails bleeding into Metallica, loud enough to match the storm that’s been brewing in my chest since I rolled out of bed.
The music drowns out everything like the distant hum of the facility’s ventilation system, the early morning traffic outside, the voice in my head that sounds too much like my dead foster father telling me to control my temper.
But control doesn’t win games, I think, pressing the weight up until my arms lock. Controlled players get walked over.
I rack the bar and grab my water bottle, checking the clock on the wall. Seven-fifteen. Practice starts in forty-five minutes.
The locker room door bangs open, and Jake Rivera walks in, already suited up in practice gear.
Tall, lean muscles, red wild curls for hair and deep brown eyes, with a smirk that never fails to get the fan girls screaming and fainting, Jake’s been my defense partner for three seasons and the closest thing I have to a best friend on this team.
He’s also the only guy who isn’t intimidated by my morning moods.
“Morning, pretty bird,” Jake says, dropping his bag next to his locker. “You’re here early, even for you.”
“Couldn’t sleep.”
“Bar fight nightmares again?”
I shoot him a look that would make most people reconsider their life choices. This bastard just grins and starts pulling on his skates.
“Actually,” he continues, because Jake Rivera has never met a topic he couldn’t beat to death, “you might want to save some of that hostility for later. Coach is introducing the new embedded reporter today.”
My hands still on my laces. “First a fucking mental therapist, and now a reporter? What embedded reporter?”
Jake raises a brow. “The one Sports Illustrated sent to document our playoff run? Didn’t you read the team memo?”
I never read team memos. Team memos are where careers go to die, buried under corporate speak about “brand management” and “media obligations.” I have exactly zero interest in participating in the NHL’s ongoing effort to turn hockey players into performing seals.
“Let me guess,” I grunt, finishing with my skates. “Some middle-aged guy with a receding hairline who thinks he understands hockey because he played beer league in college.”
“Actually, no. This one’s different. Younger. Hungrier.” Jake pauses with an ass eating grin and I know this can’t be good. “And has a V, not a P.”
I roll my eyes.
Perfect. Female journalists are either ice queens who’ve had to develop armor thicker than mine just to survive in sports media, or they’re looking for an angle that involves getting close to players in ways that have nothing to do with hockey. Neither option appeals to me.
“They’re all vultures,” I stand up and test the feel of my skates. “Doesn’t matter what’s between their legs.”
Jake shakes his head. “Wow. Your charm with the opposite sex continues to astound me.”
He doesn’t understand. Jake grew up in a hockey family with parents who still come to games and a younger sister who posts proud Instagram photos every time he scores a goal. His worst press coverage involved a reporter asking if he preferred playing home or away games.
On the other hand, I’ve watched journalists destroy careers over nothing more than a bad mood and an unfortunate camera angle.
Tommy Starfall got crucified in the media after some reporter decided his post-game comments about ice conditions were actually coded complaints about management.
Connor Hughes got labeled a locker room cancer because he wouldn’t smile pretty for the cameras after we lost the division championship.
I refuse to be their next victim.
“Who cares about charm in a world where survival matters most?”
“Right. Because being an asshole to everyone who gets paid to write about us has worked so well for your public image.”
That… is unfortunately true but before I can respond with something that will definitely get me fined by the league office, Coach Williams walks into the locker room.
Dave Williams has been coaching professional hockey for longer than I’ve been alive, and he has the kind of presence that makes grown men shut up and listen without raising his voice.
So, of course, I shut up.
“Morning, boys,” he says, scanning the room as other players filter in for practice. “Before we hit the ice, I want to introduce you to someone who’s going to be around for the next several weeks.”
This is really happening.
A woman steps into the locker room behind Coach Williams, and every assumption I’ve made about female sports reporters goes straight out the window.
The first thing I notice is, this person is utterly breathtaking.
She’s not what I expected. Not ice queen cold or obviously predatory. She’s wearing the usual journalist fit, navy blazer and dark pants, but the way she carries herself has nothing to do with her job.
Sensual, hot and so fucking edible.
My throat goes dry.
Her dark hair is pulled back in a way that’s supposed to be severe but somehow makes me notice the sexy, creamy line of her neck instead. And her eyes...
Son of a bitch. Her eyes are sharp and green and looking directly at me.
It’s almost as if she can see all the impure thoughts I have in my head.
“This is Rochelle Winters from Sports Illustrated,” Coach Williams continues, his own eyes meeting mine as well in warning. “She’ll be embedded with the team for our playoff run. Full access, so I expect everyone to be professional and cooperative.”
Rochelle steps forward, and I catch myself tracking the sultry movement of her hips before forcing my attention back to her face. Shit, shit, shit. This is bad.
“Thank you, Coach Williams. I’m looking forward to working with everyone,” she says, and her voice has a soft huskiness that immediately puts me on edge. She sounds like someone who’s used to getting what she wants, and what she wants right now is clearly access to our lives.
Her gaze sweeps the room and lands on me again. For a split second, I see awareness shine in her eyes, maybe, or calculation. Then it’s gone.
I should be scared of this one.
“Any questions for Ms. Winters before we get started?” Coach Williams asks.
Ms. not Mrs. Noted.
The room is quiet. Most of the guys are probably too busy trying to figure out how to act around a female reporter to think of anything intelligent to say. I should keep my mouth shut, maintain the minimal cooperation Coach expects, and get through this without incident.
Instead, I hear myself asking, “What’s your angle?”
Coach Williams glares at me, but Rochelle doesn’t seem fazed. If anything, she looks like she was expecting the question.
“I’m here to tell the story of this playoff run from the inside,” she says, still looking directly at me. “The real story, not just what happens on the ice.”
“And what makes you think there’s a story worth telling?”
“Every team has a story, Mr. Morrison. Some are just more interesting than others.”
The way she says my name––not dismissive, not intimidated, just matter-of-fact–– irritates me. If she knows my name, this can’t be good.
“Call me Kai,” I say, then continue after she nods. “Interesting is one word for it.”
“What word would you use?”
Complicated. Fucking exhausting. None of your business.
Coach Williams claps his hands together before I can figure out how to respond without giving her more ammunition. “Alright, that’s enough getting acquainted. Everybody on the ice in five minutes.”
The room explodes into motion as players finish gearing up and head for the tunnel. Rochelle steps aside to let everyone pass, but I can feel her watching as I grab my helmet and gloves.
Fucking hell, this is not what I need right now.
Practice is supposed to be about preparation, but I find myself playing with extra aggression, throwing hits harder than necessary and fighting for every inch of ice like this is game seven of the Stanley Cup Finals instead of a Tuesday morning skate.
Part of me knows I’m showing off, and that knowledge pisses me off even more.
I can see Rochelle in the stands, notebook in hand, watching everything with a focused attention that makes my skin itch. During a line change, I catch sight of her uncrossing and recrossing her legs, and the movement draws my attention to the way her pants hug her thighs.
Hell, Morrison. Get your head in the game.
But every time I look up, she’s there. Taking notes, observing, probably cataloguing every penalty-worthy hit and calculating how to spin them into whatever story she’s already decided to tell about us, about me.
When practice ends, I’m the last one off the ice. I take my time with my post-skate routine, hoping Rochelle will get bored and move on to interviewing someone more cooperative.
She doesn’t seem to get it though, she waits patiently and I growl at myself.
Jake skates over as I’m unlacing my helmet.
“Subtle as always,” he says.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Right. And I’m sure the extra hitting had nothing to do with our audience.”
I ignore him and head for the tunnel, but Rochelle intercepts me before I can escape to the locker room.
“Kai, could I get a few minutes for an interview?”
Up close, she’s smaller than she looked from across the room, but there’s nothing diminished about her presence. She’s looking up at me with those sharp green eyes, and I realize she’s not intimidated by the fact that I’m more than a foot taller and probably outweigh her by a hundred pounds.
“Coach’s orders,” I say, making it clear this isn’t voluntary.
“I appreciate your time.”