Chapter 5
The Vancouver airport taxi drops me at the Travelodge on East Hastings, and I immediately regret every life choice that led me to book the cheapest accommodation I could find online.
The building looks like it was last renovated during the Carter administration, and the neon sign flickers ominously in the Vancouver drizzle.
This is what happens when Sports Illustrated covers “reasonable expenses” and you’re too proud to ask for an upgrade.
But pride is better than spending another second in close proximity to Kai Morrison.
Two hours on that plane, and I can still feel the phantom pressure of his mouth on mine, the way his hand felt cupping my face, the heat that shot through me when he kissed me like he was claiming something that belonged to him.
It was just turbulence panic. A distraction. Nothing more.
Except I can’t stop replaying the moment when I grabbed his hoodie and pulled him closer instead of pushing him away. Can’t stop thinking about how he tasted like mint and something darker, how his lips were softer than they had any right to be for someone so hard around the edges.
Oh lord. Professional distance, Rochelle! He’s still an arrogant athlete who sees you as a threat.
The hotel lobby smells like industrial disinfectant and broken dreams, but the desk clerk is friendly enough when I check in. My room is on the third floor, overlooking what appears to be either a construction site or a very organized junkyard.
At least it’s private. No risk of doing something stupid with Morrison when he’s twenty blocks away at the team hotel.
I drop my bags and immediately notice the temperature. It’s cold enough in here that I can see my breath, and when I check the thermostat, it’s set to seventy-two but clearly not working.
Twenty minutes later, after trying every troubleshooting trick I can think of, I’m standing in a hotel room that feels like a meat locker, wearing my winter coat and contemplating my options.
The front desk clerk apologizes profusely but explains that the heating system is down for the entire building and won’t be fixed until tomorrow afternoon.
Perfect. Just perfect.
I could stick it out. I’ve survived worse accommodations during my freelance days. But the team plays tomorrow, and I need to be functional for interviews and game coverage, not fighting hypothermia in a budget hotel.
Which means swallowing my pride and asking the team’s travel coordinator about emergency accommodations.
Thirty minutes later, I’m standing in the lobby of the Fairmont Hotel Vancouver, where the team is staying, trying not to feel like a complete failure at basic travel planning. The coordinator is an efficient woman named Sarah, checks her tablet and frowns.
“We’ve got a problem,” she says. “The hotel is fully booked because of some medical conference. I can get you a room, but it would have to be shared accommodations with one of our travelers.”
Shared accommodations. In other words, a roommate. “What are my options?”
Sarah scrolls through her tablet. “Coach Williams has a suite, but he’s specifically requested privacy for game preparation.
Most of the players are doubled up already.
..” She pauses, and her expression suggests she’s found something problematic.
“The only available space is a room with Kai Morrison. He booked a single, but it has a couch that converts to a bed.”
No. Absolutely not. Not after what happened on the plane.
“Are you sure there’s nothing else? I could take a rollaway in someone’s room, or—”
“I’m sorry, but that’s all we have. It’s just for the night.”
One night, yes, but almost forty-eight hours in the same room as Morrison, pretending that kiss never happened while trying to maintain professional boundaries.
This is a disaster.
But my alternative is spending the night in a hotel room cold enough to preserve meat, and I have a job to do. “Fine. But I want to make it clear that this is purely practical necessity.”
Sarah nods and hands me a key card. “Room 1247. Mr. Morrison is already checked in.”
The elevator ride to the twelfth floor feels like ascending to my own execution.
I’ve covered athletes before, maintained professional relationships with subjects who were attractive, difficult, or both.
But I’ve never had one kiss me like Morrison did on that plane.
It desperate and demanding and completely without permission.
And I’ve never kissed one back like I was drowning and he was oxygen.
I knock on the door to room 1247, and Kai opens it wearing dark jeans and a gray shirt that clings to his chest in ways that should be illegal. His expression goes from neutral to annoyed the moment he sees me.
“What are you doing here?”
“My hotel’s heating is broken. Your travel coordinator arranged emergency accommodations.”
Kai’s jaw tightens. “Let me guess. They put you in here.”
“Just for the night. I’ll stay out of your way.”
“Perfect. Just what I need… a reporter camped out in my room.”
The dismissive tone in his voice makes anger flare in my chest. “Trust me, sharing a room with you isn’t exactly my idea of a good time either.”
“Then find somewhere else to stay.”
“There is nowhere else. The whole place is booked because of some medical conference. You think I’d be here if I had any other choice?”
Kai runs a hand through his hair, clearly frustrated. “This is exactly what I was trying to avoid.”
“What, having to tolerate my presence for forty-eight hours? I’ll try not to cramp your style too much.”
“My style isn’t the problem. The problem is you documenting everything I do for your little exposé.”
Little exposé. Like my career is some kind of hobby. “I’m not here to spy on your personal life, Morrison. I’m here because my alternative is hypothermia.”
His eyes flash at the deliberate use of his last name. “Right. And I’m supposed to believe you won’t be taking notes on my sleeping habits?”
“Only if you do something worth writing about.”
Kai stares at me for a long moment, then steps aside with obvious reluctance. “Fine. But we’re setting ground rules.”
I brush past him in the doorway, and the brief contact sends electricity shooting up my arm. I have to resist the urge to jerk away like I’ve been burned.
Get it together. You’re a professional.
The room is spacious by hotel standards, with a sitting area, work desk, and one very large king bed that seems to dominate the entire space. The couch looks comfortable enough, but it’s positioned directly across from the bed with a clear sight line.
This is going to be torture.
“I’ll take the couch,” I say quickly, before Morrison can make the offer. “And I’ll try to stay out of your way as much as possible.”
“Fine.” Morrison’s voice is clipped, professional, but I catch him glancing at the bed and then at me, like he’s thinking the same thing I am.
One night. I can do one night.
We maintain careful distance as we go through the evening routine of settling in. Kai orders room service while I set up my laptop at the desk, both of us speaking only when necessary and avoiding eye contact whenever possible.
But I’m hyperaware of everything he does. The way he moves around the room with easy confidence. The way his jeans fit across his ass when he bends to plug in his phone charger. The way his shirt pulls tight across his shoulders when he reaches for something in his bag.
Stop staring. Stop thinking about how his hands felt on your face. Stop remembering the way he kissed you.
When room service arrives, we eat in silence, Kai at the small table while I stay at the desk with my laptop. But I can feel him watching me when he thinks I’m not paying attention, and every time I glance up, there’s heat in his eyes that has nothing to do with anger.
He’s thinking about the kiss too.
By nine o’clock, the tension in the room is thick enough to cut with a knife. Kai announces he’s going to shower first, and I nod without looking up from my laptop screen.
Don’t think about him naked. Don’t think about water running over all those muscles you felt through his hoodie. Don’t think about whether he’s thinking about you while he’s in there.
But the bathroom is only feet away, and the walls aren’t thick enough to block out the sound of running water. I try to focus on typing notes from today’s travel, but my concentration keeps fracturing every time I hear him moving around in there.
When the water stops, I hold my breath, waiting for him to emerge. The bathroom door opens, and Kai walks out wearing nothing but a towel wrapped around his waist, water still beaded on his chest and shoulders.
I’ve seen shirtless athletes before. Locker room interviews are part of the job.
But seeing Kai half-naked in the intimate setting of a hotel room is completely different.
His body is exactly what I expected from watching him play––broad shoulders, defined chest, abs that look like they were carved from stone.
But there are details I couldn’t see from the press box: the scar along his left ribs, the tattoo on his shoulder that looks like coordinates, the way his hair curls when it’s wet.
Don’t stare. Don’t let him catch you staring.
But it’s too late. Kai notices me looking, and instead of being embarrassed or hurrying to get dressed, he holds my gaze. For a moment that stretches too long, neither of us moves. The air between us feels charged, like the moment before lightning strikes.
He knows exactly what he’s doing to me.
Kai smirks and walks to his bag to pull out sleep clothes, taking his time like he enjoys having an audience.
Arrogant prick.
“Bathroom’s free,” he says, his voice carrying just enough suggestion to make my pulse jump.
I grab my overnight bag and escape to the bathroom, closing the door harder than necessary. My hands are shaking as I turn on the shower, and when I catch sight of myself in the mirror, my cheeks are flushed, and my pupils are dilated.
This is so bad.