Chapter 2 #2
She leads me to a quiet corner near the equipment room, far enough from the locker room that we won’t be interrupted but close enough that I can make a quick escape if necessary. She pulls out a small recording device and sets it between us on a nearby table.
“Mind if I record this?”
“Do I have a choice?”
“You always have a choice, Morrison.”
There’s something in the way she says it that makes me look at her more closely. She’s sitting with perfect posture, professional and composed, but there’s a hint of challenge in her voice that suggests she’s not going to throw me softball questions.
“What do you want to know?”
“Let’s start with the obvious. You lead the league in penalty minutes this season. Care to comment on your fighting record?”
Straight for the throat. I respect that, even if I hate it.
“Hockey’s a contact sport. Sometimes contact gets personal.”
“Is that what happened in the bar two weeks ago? Things got personal?”
My jaw tightens. The bar fight is exactly the kind of story that gets twisted into whatever narrative sells the most papers, and I’m not about to give her ammunition.
“That’s not a hockey question.”
“Your public image affects the team. That makes it a hockey question.”
She crosses her legs as she says it, and the movement catches my attention despite myself. The way her pants pull tight across her thighs, the professional heel that somehow manages to look both practical and distracting...
Focus, idiot. She’s trying to get under your skin, and you’re looking at her thighs.
“My public image is what people like you make it,” I say, forcing myself to meet her eyes instead of letting my gaze wander. “I can’t control what gets printed.”
“You can control what you say to me right now.”
“Can I? Because it seems like you’ve already decided what story you want to tell.”
“What story do you think I want to tell?”
The question makes me pause and I realize she’s not just asking about the article.
She’s asking what I think she sees when she looks at me.
And the honest answer––that I think she sees exactly what everyone else sees, another hockey player with anger issues and a reputation for trouble––isn’t something I’m willing to give her.
Instead, I stand up, using every inch of my height advantage to loom over her. Most people back down when I do this. Most people remember that I’ve put guys in the hospital and decide they’d rather not test my patience.
Rochelle doesn’t even blink. She keeps looking up at me, steady and unflinching.
“That won’t work on me, Kai,” she says. Her voice doesn’t waver, doesn’t show even a hint of backing down.
I lean closer, close enough to see the pulse at her throat. “You sure about that?”
For a moment, neither of us moves. The air between us is charged, like the moment before lightning strikes. I can feel the heat radiating from her body, can see her pulse beating at the base of her throat, and I realize that what I’m feeling isn’t just irritation.
She’s not backing down because she’s not afraid of me.
She’s not afraid of me because...
Because she feels it too. Whatever this is––attraction, challenge, the pull of something dangerous. It’s not one-sided.
This woman, this journalist who’s here to dig up dirt on my life and serve it to the public, is looking at me like she wants to know what I taste like.
And I’m looking at her the same way.
This is bad. This is very, very bad.
I step back abruptly, breaking the moment and hopefully breaking whatever spell just tried to settle over us. Rochelle blinks, and I see disappointment flash across her face before her professional mask slides back into place.
“This interview is over,” I say.
I walk away before she can respond, muttering something about ballsy reporters under my breath, but I can feel her eyes on me until I disappear into the locker room.
Jake takes one look at my face and whistles low. “That went well.”
“Shut up, Rivera.”
“Did you just storm out of an interview with the reporter who’s going to be shadowing us for the next eight weeks?”
I don’t answer, but Jake’s expression tells me my silence is answer enough.
“Kai, what the hell are you thinking?”
I was thinking she smells good and has the kind of mouth that would look perfect wrapped around––
“I wasn’t thinking anything,” I lie. “She asked stupid questions, I gave her stupid answers, end of story.”
“Right. And the part where you looked like you wanted to either kill her or kiss her?”
Both. Definitely both.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Jake shakes his head and starts pulling off his gear. “This is going to be a long eight weeks.”
He has no idea how right he is. Because as much as I want to pretend that what just happened was normal antagonism between a player and a reporter, I know better.
Rochelle Winters isn’t just here to write about hockey. And what I’m feeling when I look at her has nothing to do with media relations and everything to do with the way she didn’t back down when I tried to intimidate her.
She’s trouble, I think as I strip out of my practice gear. The kind of trouble that destroys careers and ruins lives.
The smart play would be to avoid her completely, give her nothing but the bare minimum required by Coach Williams and the league office.
But when I close my eyes, all I can see are those sharp green eyes looking up at me like she knows exactly what kind of danger she’s playing with.
And the worst part is, I think she likes it.