Chapter 7
I choose a seat in the very back of the plane for the flight home to Seattle, as far from Kai as physically possible without actually getting off the aircraft.
The distance doesn’t stop me from being hyperaware of his presence six rows ahead, or from stealing glances at the way his shoulders fill out his team-issued travel shirt.
Focus, you have a story to write.
I open my laptop and pull up my notes from the Vancouver trip, intending to organize my thoughts into something resembling coherent journalism.
What I find instead is three pages of observations that read more like a detailed catalog of Kai Morrison’s physical attributes than professional sports coverage.
“Morrison’s playing style shows remarkable intensity, particularly in the way his jaw clenches when he’s focused...”
I delete the line and start again.
“The defenseman’s approach to contact is aggressive yet calculated, his body moving with a kind of controlled violence that...”
Delete. Again.
Professional observations, not personal fantasies.
But every time I try to write about Kai’s hockey performance, my mind drifts to other kinds of performance.
The way he kissed me against that hotel room wall.
The way his hands felt spanning my waist. The way he looked at me in the bar like he wanted to drag me back to his room and finish what we started.
This is exactly why journalists shouldn’t get personally involved with their subjects.
I close the laptop and stare out the airplane window, watching Vancouver disappear beneath clouds.
One night of sharing close quarters with Kai, and I’m completely compromised.
Marcus wanted me to get close enough to uncover Morrison’s secrets, but all I’ve uncovered is my own weakness for dangerous men who kiss like they’re claiming territory.
Pull yourself together. You’re a professional. Act like one.
The Seattle practice facility feels like neutral territory after the intensity of the Vancouver hotel room.
Familiar surroundings, established routines, clear professional boundaries.
I can do this. I can cover Kai Morrison like any other athlete and pretend I don’t know how tender and gentle his kisses are.
Professional distance. That’s the key.
I arrive early and set up in the stands with my notebook and recorder, determined to focus on hockey instead of the way Kai’s practice jersey clings to his chest. When the team takes the ice for morning skate, I keep my observations strictly technical.
Morrison’s positioning during defensive drills shows strong anticipation skills.
His communication with teammates indicates natural leadership abilities.
The way he moves on ice demonstrates excellent edge work and…
Kai glances up at the stands during a water break, and our eyes meet for a split second. The look he gives me is completely neutral––professional, distant, like I’m just another reporter covering his team.
Okay. That’s good. It’s how it should be.
But something about his deliberate indifference irritates me more than his previous hostility. At least when he was antagonistic, I knew I was getting under his skin. This cold professionalism feels like dismissal.
You wanted professional boundaries. This is what they look like.
Practice ends, and I make my way down to the tunnel area for post-skate interviews. Most of the players are cooperative, giving me standard quotes about preparation and team chemistry. But when I approach Kai, he brushes past me like I’m invisible.
“Morrison, could I get a quick quote about tonight’s—”
“Ask Coach Williams,” he says without slowing down. “I’m sure he’ll have plenty to say about tonight’s game plan.”
Back to Morrison instead of Kai. Message received.
Coach Williams is in his office reviewing game tape when I knock on his door frame. He looks up and gestures for me to come in, pausing the video on a freeze frame of Kai delivering a bone-crushing check.
“Ms. Winters. How can I help you?”
“I was hoping to get some background on Morrison’s development as a player. His journey to the NHL.”
Coach Williams leans back in his chair, studying me with the kind of sharp attention that successful coaches develop. “What specifically are you looking for?”
“His early hockey experience. Junior career. Family support system.” The standard questions that usually reveal the privileged background most professional athletes come from.
“Morrison’s background is…unique,” Coach Williams says carefully. “He didn’t have the traditional hockey family support most of these guys grow up with.”
Unique. That’s an interesting word choice.
“How so?”
“Foster care system. Bounced around quite a bit as a kid. Didn’t start playing organized hockey until he was twelve, which is ancient by NHL standards.”
Foster care. Not exactly the entitled athlete narrative I was expecting.
“That must have made his development challenging.”
“Made him tougher. Kid had to fight for everything––ice time, equipment, coaching attention. Nothing was handed to him.” Coach Williams pauses the conversation to make a note on his practice sheet. “Morrison earned every opportunity he got.”
Interesting. This doesn’t fit the spoiled athlete profile at all.
My journalist instincts kick into high gear. If Kai’s background is different from his public image, there’s a story there. The question is whether it’s the kind of story Marcus Webb wants, or something else entirely.
“What about his reputation for aggressive play? The penalties, the fights?”
Coach Williams gives me a look that suggests I’m missing something obvious. “Morrison plays hard because he knows what it’s like to have nothing. Every shift could be his last, so he leaves everything on the ice. That intensity gets misinterpreted as anger sometimes.”
Misinterpreted. Or deliberately spun that way.
This is getting more complicated. Foster care background, late start in hockey, no family support––these details don’t support the bad boy athlete narrative the media has built around him. But they might support something else. Something that could be just as valuable from a story perspective.
Why would someone want to hide a sympathetic background? What’s he really covering up?
“May I also mention, Ms. Winters, that many of our players come from different backgrounds, yet a lot of the media focus stays on Mr. Morrison. I want to reiterate this to you that he is…deserving and a hard worker with a lot of talent and heart. Nobody reaches his success without it. Understood?”
I nod. “Thank you for your time, Coach.”
I leave his office with more questions than answers and a growing sense that there’s a bigger story here.
If Kai came from foster care, if he had to fight for every opportunity, then someone has been working very hard to paint him as a privileged problem child.
The question is who benefits from that narrative, and what they’re trying to hide.
This could be exactly the kind of dirt Marcus wants. Just not the kind we expected.
I find Kai in the equipment room after practice, methodically hanging up his gear with the kind of attention to detail that speaks of years spent taking care of his own equipment. He doesn’t acknowledge my presence, but his shoulders tense when I clear my throat.
“We need to talk.”
“No, we don’t.” He continues organizing his gear like I’m not standing three feet away.
“Your background doesn’t match your public image. Foster care, late start in hockey, no family support system. That’s not exactly the entitled athlete story everyone thought.”
Kai finally turns to look at me, and his gray eyes are cold as winter ice. “Maybe you’re not as smart as you think you are.”
The dismissive tone makes anger flare in my chest. “Maybe you’re not as tough as you pretend to be.”
That gets his attention.
Kai steps toward me, closing the distance until I’m backed against the equipment lockers. The metal is cold against my back, but the heat radiating from his body makes the temperature difference irrelevant.
“You think you know me because you talked to Coach for five minutes?”
“I think there’s more to your story than the angry hockey player persona. And I think someone’s been working very hard to make sure that’s the only story people hear.”
His jaw tightens. “And what if everything you think you know about me is bullshit?”
“Then maybe you should tell me the real story instead of letting me dig it up myself.” I lift my chin defiantly. “Because I will dig it up. That’s what I do.”
“The real story isn’t for public consumption.”
“Everything’s for public consumption if you know how to ask the right questions. And I’m very good at asking questions.”
Kai’s hand comes up to rest on the locker beside my head, effectively caging me in. His other arm braces against the metal on my other side, and suddenly I’m surrounded by him––his heat, his scent, the barely controlled intensity that radiates from every line of his body.
“This is why I don’t trust journalists,” he growls, but he doesn’t move away. If anything, he leans closer, his face inches from mine.
He’s going to kiss me. Right here, right now, and I’m going to let him.
My pulse races as I stare up at him, watching his gray eyes drop to my mouth. The air between us feels charged, electric, like the moment before lightning strikes. I can feel myself leaning toward him, drawn by the same magnetic pull that’s been building between us since that first day.
“Good thing I don’t need your trust to do my job,” I whisper, but the words come out breathless, wanting.
Kai’s head tilts toward mine, his mouth just a breath away from my lips. I can feel the heat of him, smell his soap and something darker that’s purely him. My eyes start to flutter closed, and I know that in another second, another heartbeat, we’re going to cross that line again.
The sound of keys jingling in the hallway shatters the moment like glass. The night janitor appears in the doorway, stops short when he sees us standing so close together.
“Oh, sorry folks. Didn’t know anyone was still here. I can come back later if you need a few more minutes.”
We spring apart like we’ve been electrocuted, both of us probably looking exactly as guilty as we are. Kai runs a hand through his hair and avoids my eyes.
“We were just finishing up,” he says.
“Take your time,” the janitor says, but there’s something knowing in his eyes as he moves on to the next room.
He knows exactly what he interrupted.
Kai grabs his bag and heads for the door without another word, leaving me standing alone among the equipment lockers with my heart hammering against my ribs.
This is getting out of hand.
I’m supposed to be investigating Kai Morrison, uncovering whatever secrets he’s hiding behind all that hostility. I’m supposed to be finding the dirt Marcus wants, not having charged confrontations in empty equipment rooms that leave me breathless and wanting.
Professional focus. That’s what you need.
But every time I get close to him, journalism becomes an excuse for proximity. Every conversation turns into verbal sparring that makes my pulse race and my concentration fracture.
The foster care information is a lead worth following. Someone has been painting Kai as a privileged problem child when the reality is completely different. That kind of deliberate misdirection usually means there’s something bigger to uncover.
What’s he really hiding? And who benefits from the false narrative?
But as I gather my things and head for the exit, all I can think about is how close Kai came to kissing me, and how much I wanted him to follow through.
The drive home through Seattle traffic gives me time to refocus on what I’m actually doing here.
Marcus wants dirt on Kai Morrison, and I’m starting to think the real dirt isn’t what anyone expects.
The question is whether I can uncover it while maintaining enough professional distance to actually do my job.