Chapter 3
I sit in my hotel room staring at my laptop screen, the cursor blinking mockingly at me in an empty document.
Two hours since my interview with Kai ended, and I still can’t get his voice out of my head.
The way he said, “You sure about that?” His low and rough voice and his mouth that was far too close to my ear.
He’s an arrogant athlete with anger management issues, not some romantic lead.
But that’s the problem. The interview was supposed to be professional fact-gathering, and instead it felt like some kind of verbal sparring match that left me more wired than I’ve been in months. The man is infuriating, hostile, and completely unwilling to cooperate.
And I’m annoyingly turned on by all of it.
I close my laptop harder than necessary and reach for my phone, scrolling through my notes from the interview.
Every question I asked, Kai deflected with sarcasm or outright hostility.
Every attempt to get him to open up met with a wall of suspicion that would make a maximum-security prison seem welcoming.
But underneath all that antagonism, there was something else. The way his eyes tracked my movements. The way his jaw tightened when I crossed my legs. The way he leaned in close enough that I could smell his soap that definitely should not have been distracting but absolutely was.
He was as aware of me as I was of him… well that’s what I think.
Ugh!
Am I so pathetic? Is this the right job for me?
My phone buzzes with a text from Gemma: How was day one with Hockey McPunchface?
I type back: Hostile. Uncooperative. Thinks I’m here to destroy his life.
Are you?
The question sits on my screen, and I realize I don’t have a simple answer anymore. Marcus wants dirt on Kai, but after spending an hour in the same room with him, I’m starting to wonder if the story is more complicated than anyone thinks.
Me: Still figuring that out.
Gemma: Translation: he’s hot and you’re confused about your professional ethics.
Me: I’m not confused about anything. He’s a source. That’s it.
I toss my phone aside and open my laptop again. Time to do what I do best, which is research until my eyes burn and I understand exactly what I’m dealing with.
Marcus said there were buried stories about Kai, so I start digging deeper than the surface-level tabloid coverage. Public records, old newspaper archives, anything that might give me insight into who Kai really is behind the carefully constructed bad boy image. What I find doesn’t make sense.
The bar fight that labeled him as hockey’s latest problem child? Security footage shows Kai stepping between the alleged victim and another man who was clearly the aggressor. The victim’s statement mentions Kai “getting in the way,” but doesn’t actually accuse him of assault.
The boarding penalty that got him suspended for three games last season? Video replay shows the opposing player losing his edge before Kai even made contact. The hit was late, sure, but not the deliberate headhunting the media portrayed it as.
Fight after fight, penalty after penalty––when I dig into the details, Kai’s version of events holds up better than the official narrative. Either he’s the unluckiest player in professional hockey, or someone’s been spinning these stories to paint him in the worst possible light.
Why would the media want to destroy Kai specifically?
I make notes in a new document, tracking potential angles. Marcus wants dirt, and Kai clearly has secrets. The question is whether I can get close enough to uncover what he’s really hiding behind all that hostility.
My phone rings. Marcus Webb.
“Winters, how’s the story developing?”
“Still gathering information,” I say. “Kai’s not exactly forthcoming.”
“That’s what I expected. You’ll need to get creative. Build rapport, make him trust you. Whatever it takes to get him talking.”
The implication in Marcus’s voice makes my skin crawl. Whatever it takes. Like I’m supposed to use my gender as a weapon to manipulate Kai into revealing secrets.
“I’ll get the story,” I say because I need this job even if I’m starting to hate the assignment.
“Good. I want an update by Friday.”
He hangs up, and I sit there wondering when journalism became indistinguishable from espionage.
But I have a job to do, and bills to pay, and a career to salvage. Time to see if I can crack the wall Kai has built around himself.
The next morning, I spend an extra twenty minutes getting ready.
Not because I care what Kai thinks of how I look, but because I’ve learned that confidence comes from feeling put-together.
The fitted black blazer that shows my figure without being inappropriate.
Dark pants that make my legs look longer.
Just enough makeup to look professional but approachable.
This is strategic dressing, not peacocking for Kai’s benefit. Not using my gender to get Kai to talk.
I arrive at the practice facility early, claiming a spot in the stands where I have a clear view of the ice. When the team takes the ice for morning skate, I immediately spot Kai. He’s impossible to miss with his size and the aggressive way he moves through warm-up drills.
And when he glances up at the stands, his eyes find me immediately.
Good. Let him know I’m watching.
I pull out my notebook and make a show of taking notes, aware that Kai’s gaze keeps drifting back to me. When I uncross and recross my legs, adjusting my position for a better angle to observe practice, I catch him tracking the movement.
He’s unable to keep his eyes off me.
The smirk I feel spreading across my face is probably unprofessional, but I can’t help feeling satisfied that the attraction isn’t one-sided. Kai can be as hostile as he wants during interviews, but his body language tells a different story.
Practice is more revealing than yesterday’s session, but not in the way I expected. Kai dominates the ice like he owns it––barking orders at teammates, throwing hits that echo through the arena, playing with the kind of physical intensity that makes everyone else look small by comparison.
He’s not just big. He’s overwhelming.
During scrimmage drills, he controls the defensive zone like a general commanding troops. Players defer to him, follow his lead, adjust their positioning based on his calls. It’s impressive, sure, but it’s also exactly what you’d expect from someone with an ego the size of Washington State.
Alpha energy wrapped in arrogance. Textbook athlete narcissism.
The way he moves through contact, absorbing hits and dishing them out with equal measure, has a raw physicality that’s impossible to ignore. Every check he throws looks like it could put someone through the boards. Every stride across the ice carries the threat of violence barely held in check.
And I hate that I find it attractive.
When practice ends, I make my way down to the tunnel, hoping to catch some of the other players for interviews. If Kai won’t talk, maybe his teammates will give me insight into what he’s actually like when the cameras aren’t rolling.
Jake Rivera is the first player I approach. Kai’s defense partner seems friendly enough, though I notice his smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes when he realizes what I want to discuss.
“Ms. Winters, right? How are you settling in?”
“Getting my bearings,” I say. “I was hoping to get some quotes about team chemistry, especially on the defensive lines.”
Jake glances around, probably checking to see if Kai is within earshot. “What do you want to know?”
“How long have you been paired with Kai?”
“Three seasons.”
“His reputation suggests he might be challenging to work with.”
Jake’s smile becomes more guarded. “Look, Kai’s not an easy guy to know. He keeps to himself, does his job, doesn’t socialize much with the team. But he’s reliable on the ice.”
Reliable. Not exactly a glowing character reference.
“What about off the ice?”
“What about it?”
The shift in Jake’s tone tells me I’ve hit a boundary. Kai’s teammates might be willing to give professional assessments, but they’re not going to serve up personal details for my story.
They’re protecting him.
“Thanks for your time,” I tell Jake, already planning my next move.
I interview three more players over the next hour, but the pattern is consistent.
Polite cooperation, professional responses, and an absolute wall when it comes to personal details about Kai Morrison.
They’ll discuss his playing style, his role on the team, his effectiveness as a defenseman.
But anything that ventures into character territory gets shut down fast.
Either Kai has the loyalty of saints, or they’re all afraid of him.
West Carmack gives me technical analysis of Kai’s defensive positioning. Reed Hendrix talks about power play strategies. Cameron Gray discusses penalty kill formations. Hurley only talks about himself. All hockey, no personality, no insight into who Kai actually is when he’s not on the ice.
Professional courtesy or damage control?
I’m packing up my recorder when heavy footsteps echo in the hallway behind me. I don’t need to turn around to know who it is - I can feel Kai’s presence like a storm front moving in.
“Enjoying your fact-finding mission?” His voice is low and dangerous, with an edge that makes my pulse jump.
I turn slowly, keeping my expression neutral even though my heart is racing. Kai is standing closer than necessary, still in his practice gear, looking like he could bench press a truck without breaking a sweat.
Don’t let him see that he affects you.
“Just doing my job,” I say. “Getting to know the team.”
“By pumping my teammates for information about me?”
“By talking to players about hockey. If you have a problem with standard sports journalism practices, maybe you should take it up with the league office.”
His jaw tightens. “Standard sports journalism. Is that what you call manipulating people into giving you quotes you can spin however you want?”
Manipulating? “I don’t need to manipulate anyone. Your reputation speaks for itself.”
“My reputation is exactly the problem.”
Kai steps closer, and suddenly the hallway feels smaller. He’s using his size to intimidate me, probably expecting me to back down like most people probably do when faced with six feet four inches of pure man.
Not happening.
I hold my ground, tilting my chin up to meet his glare directly.
He tilts his head slightly to the side, his eyes looking intently at him, almost like he is trying to figure me out, then I see a tick on his jaw before he speaks, “You have no idea what you’re dealing with.”
“Try me, hockey boy.”
The words slip out before I can stop them, and I immediately regret the flippant nickname. Kai’s eyes narrow, then drop to my mouth for just a second before snapping back to my eyes.
Oh.
The air between us shifts, becoming charged with something that has nothing to do with professional antagonism. Kai’s hand starts to rise, like he’s about to touch my face, and my breath catches.
For a split second, I think he’s actually going to do it. Touch me, cross that professional line that we’re both pretending doesn’t exist.
Instead, his hand freezes halfway to my cheek. Something flickers across his expression––conflict, maybe, or frustration––and then he drops his hand and steps back.
“Stay away from my teammates,” he growls, then turns and walks away, leaving me standing in the empty hallway with my heart hammering against my ribs.
I touch my cheek where his hand almost made contact, annoyed at myself for wanting him to have followed through. For wanting to know what his skin would feel like against mine, whether his hands are as rough as they look.
This is bad, Rochelle. This is very, very bad.
I’m supposed to be investigating Kai, not fantasizing about him. I’m supposed to be building a case for why he’s hockey’s latest problem, not finding evidence that he’s been systematically misrepresented by the media.
And I’m definitely not supposed to be attracted to him.
But as I watch Kai disappear around the corner, I realize I have bigger problems than professional ethics. Because every instinct I have as a journalist is telling me that there’s more to this story than anyone wants me to find.
And every instinct I have as a woman is telling me that Kai is dangerous in ways that have nothing to do with his penalty record.
I pull out my phone and text Gemma: I think I’m in trouble.
Her response comes immediately: The good kind or the career-ending kind?
Me: Both.
Gemma: Want to talk about it over wine tonight?
Me: Desperately.
Because I need to figure out what I’m actually doing here. Am I investigating Kai, or am I just finding excuses to spend time around him?
And if it’s the latter, what the hell am I going to do about it?
I gather my things and head for the exit, already dreading the conversation I’m going to have with Gemma tonight. Because explaining why I’m attracted to a man who clearly sees me as a threat to everything he’s worked for is going to require more wine than either of us probably has on hand.
As I walk through the Seattle drizzle to my car, I can’t shake the memory of Kai’s eyes dropping to my lips, or the way my pulse spiked when I thought he might actually touch me.