Chapter 6
I wake up with my heart pounding and my sheets twisted around my legs like I’ve been fighting invisible demons all night. Which, in a way, I have been.
The hotel room is dark except for the red glow of the digital clock, but I can hear Rochelle breathing softly from the fold-out bed fifteen feet away. Steady, peaceful breaths that tell me she’s actually asleep, unlike me.
She’s been asleep for hours while I’ve been lying here replaying every second of what happened against that wall.
The memory comes before I can ignore it––Rochelle’s hands fisted in my hair, the soft sound she made when I kissed her neck, the way she arched into my touch like she couldn’t get close enough. The taste of her mouth, the heat of her skin, the way she looked at me when Jake interrupted us.
I’m doomed.
I’m hard again, just from remembering the way she felt pressed against me, and I know there’s only one solution that’s going to let me function today.
I slip out of bed as quietly as possible, grab clothes from my bag, and head for the bathroom. The shower takes forever to heat up, and when it finally does, I turn the temperature control all the way to cold.
The shock of freezing water hits my skin, but it’s exactly what I need. I brace my hands against the shower wall and let the cold water pound against my shoulders, trying to wash away the memory of Rochelle’s mouth on mine.
Don’t fucking get involved with journalists. This is going to blow up in my face.
But even the cold shower can’t completely erase the way she tasted, or the way she responded to me like she’d been wanting it as much as I had. The way she didn’t back down, didn’t play coy, just met my intensity with her own.
She’s fucking trouble.
I stay under the cold water until my teeth are chattering and my skin is numb, then get dressed and emerge from the bathroom to find Rochelle already awake, sitting on the edge of the fold-out bed with her laptop balanced on her knees.
She looks up when I come out, and for a split second, I see that same heat from yesterday on her face, in the red that flushes her cheeks, the way her breath catches and the way she unconsciously bites her lips.
And just like that, my cold shower is in vain.
And then everything ends, she looks away.
“Morning,” she says, like nothing happened. Like we didn’t almost tear each other’s clothes off eight hours ago.
“Morning.”
The single word comes out irritable and I see Rochelle’s fingers pause on her keyboard.
She’s wearing different clothes than last night––jeans and a sweater that somehow manages to be both conservative and distracting.
Her hair is pulled back in a ponytail, and she’s not wearing makeup, but she still looks good enough that I have to force myself to look away.
Professional distance. Keep it professional.
“I’ll be out of your way in a few minutes,” she says, closing her laptop. “Just finishing some notes from yesterday’s interview with you.”
Notes about me. Always notes about me.
“Take your time.”
But I don’t mean it. I want her gone so I can stop pretending I don’t remember exactly how her skin felt under my hands, or how she looked at me when I told her she tasted better than I imagined.
Rochelle gathers her things and disappears into the bathroom, and I use the privacy to get my head on straight. Game day routine. Focus on hockey, not on the reporter who’s here to document my every move.
She’s doing her job. You’re doing yours. Last night was a mistake that won’t happen again.
When Rochelle emerges from the bathroom twenty minutes later, she’s back in full professional mode with her blazer, dress pants, hair styled, makeup applied.
She looks like every other sports journalist I’ve ever dealt with, except for the fact that I know what she sounds like when she’s losing control.
“Team breakfast is in an hour,” she says, packing her laptop. “I’ll see you there.”
She leaves without waiting for a response, and I’m left alone in a hotel room that smells like her perfume.
The team breakfast is held in a private dining room on the hotel’s second floor, and by the time I arrive, most of the guys are already there. I grab coffee and a plate of eggs and find a seat at the far end of the table, away from where Rochelle is sitting with her notebook and recorder.
But I can feel her presence like a constant electric current. Every time I glance up, she’s either taking notes or talking quietly to one of my teammates. Professional. Focused. Completely ignoring me.
Good. That’s how it should be.
Except I catch her looking at me twice during breakfast. The first time, she looks away quickly when our eyes meet. The second time, she holds my gaze for a moment too long, and I see something in her expression that has nothing to do with journalism.
She’s thinking about it too.
Jake slides into the seat next to me, grinning like he knows something. “Sleep well?”
“Fine.”
“Right. And I’m sure the team emergency last night didn’t interrupt anything important.”
I give him a look. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Sure, you don’t. That’s why you look like you haven’t slept in a week, and our embedded reporter keeps glancing over here like she’s trying to solve a puzzle.”
Jake notices everything. Always has.
“Focus on the game,” I tell him. “Vancouver’s going to be aggressive tonight. They need this win more than we do.”
Jake takes the hint and changes the subject to hockey, but I can still feel Rochelle watching from across the room. When I risk another glance, she’s interviewing Walsh about team chemistry, but her attention keeps drifting to me.
Stop looking at her. Stop thinking about how she felt in your arms. Focus on hockey.
Pre-game preparation is usually my sanctuary. It’s a chance to get my head right, channel my energy, prepare for sixty minutes of controlled violence. But today, I can’t seem to find my focus.
I’m lacing my skates when I hear Rochelle’s voice in the hallway outside the locker room, talking to Lockwood about my playing style.
“Kai seems to play with a lot of anger,” she’s saying. “Is that something you’ve noticed? The way he channels his emotions on the ice?”
Anger issues. That’s the angle she’s going with?
Lockwood gives her the standard diplomatic response about intensity being part of defensive play, but I can hear the calculation in Rochelle’s follow-up questions. She’s building a narrative, and it’s not a flattering one.
She’s doing her job. This is what journalists do.
But it still pisses me off. Last night, she was kissing me like her life depended on it. Today, she’s asking my teammates about my issues.
Fucking hell.
Coach Williams calls for our pre-game meeting, and I force myself to focus on the game plan. Vancouver’s power play, their key defensive pairings, the tendencies of their goaltender. Hockey. Simple, straightforward, violent hockey.
But when we take the ice for warm-ups, I can see Rochelle in the press box, and the sight of her makes my jaw clench. I hold steady on my skates, but hold my damn hockey stick like it’s the problem.
The Vancouver crowd is hostile from the moment we step on the ice. They’re still angry about our last meeting here, when I put their captain into the boards hard enough to keep him out for three games. The hit was clean, but Vancouver fans have long memories.
“Morrison sucks!” someone screams from the stands. “You’re a disgrace to hockey!”
Meh.
The opening faceoff is barely over before I’m throwing my first hit of the night––a bone-jarring check on Vancouver’s leading scorer that sends him crashing into the corner boards. The crowd erupts in boos, and I feel that familiar surge of adrenaline that comes with being the villain.
This is what I’m good at. This is who I am.
I play the first period like a man possessed, throwing hits that echo through the arena, fighting for every inch of ice like it’s game seven of the Stanley Cup Finals. The Vancouver players start giving me extra room, which creates space for my teammates to work.
During the first intermission, Jake skates over to me. “You’re playing angry tonight. More than usual.”
“Vancouver brings out the worst in me.”
“It just may have something to do with a certain reporter who’s been asking questions about your psychological state?”
He’s always poking and prodding.
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Lockwood mentioned she was asking about anger management. Thought you should know.”
The second period is even more physical than the first. I’m hunting for hits, looking for opportunities to make Vancouver players regret stepping on the ice. The crowd gets uglier with every check I throw, and the Vancouver players start taking liberties when the ref isn’t looking.
Midway through the third period, with the game tied 2-2, Vancouver’s power forward tries to run me through the corner boards. He’s bigger than me, but I see him coming and brace for impact. The hit reverberates through my bones, but I stay on my feet and immediately drop my gloves.
The fight lasts thirty seconds. It’s long enough for me to land three solid punches before the linesmen break it up. The Vancouver crowd is screaming for my blood, but I can see Rochelle in the press box, watching intently, probably taking notes about my “violent tendencies.”
With two minutes left in the game, I intercept a pass at our blue line and start a rush up ice. The Vancouver defenseman comes at me hard, trying to separate me from the puck with a hip check. I slip past him and find myself alone with their goaltender.
Time slows down. The crowd noise fades to white static. It’s just me, the puck, and the net.
I fake high, go low, and slide the puck between the goalie’s pads with three seconds left on the clock.
The arena goes silent for a heartbeat, then erupts in a mixture of our bench celebrating and Vancouver fans screaming in fury. My teammates mob me at center ice, but all I can think about is the rush of adrenaline coursing through my veins.