Chapter 10 #3
He shrugs easily, dark hair damp against his forehead. “Sure. What’s up?”
We talk about the upcoming New York rematch, his expectations, the locker room energy, the adjustments they’ve been drilling.
My pen moves, but my attention wavers. There’s a prickle at the back of my neck, a heat that has nothing to do with the overhead lights. I don’t need to look to know it’s him.
Kai is watching me, his gaze intense and piercing into the back of my head.
I clear my throat, nod as Alex finishes a sentence I barely process. “Great, thank you. One more thing, team chemistry off the ice. How’s that shaping up?”
He flashes me a boyish grin. “Better than people think. Lots of noise outside, but in here? We’re solid.”
I scribble the quote, offer a tight smile, then excuse myself before my professionalism cracks any further.
The next player I find is Max Bennett, one of the forwards, a tall and soft-spoken blonde guy, who is nursing a Gatorade by the bench. “Max, quick one?”
“Shoot.”
I ask about the team’s dynamic heading into the next away series. He gives me a thoughtful, measured answer, exactly the kind of filler responses Marcus is paying me to avoid. My pen moves automatically, but my body is a live wire, every cell tuned to the man gliding lazy laps behind us.
Kai hasn’t come over. He hasn’t said a word. But his gaze is a physical thing, skating along my spine, wrapping around my ribs until my breath comes too shallow.
Max pauses, capping his drink. “You okay Rochelle?”
I snap my head toward him, too quick. “I’m fine. I just have a lot to cover today.”
He gives me a polite nod, clearly unconvinced, but skates back to rejoin the team on the ice.
I exhale slowly and press my thumb into the notebook’s spiral until it bites. Focus, Rochelle. Quotes. Stats. Deadlines. Not the memory of a conference table digging into your back or the feel of Kai’s hands on your skin.
The whistle blows, ending the practice drill. Players scatter toward the benches, and for one merciful moment I think I’ll escape. Then I catch a glimpse of him by the gate, with his helmet off, hair damp, jaw set in that infuriating way that says he’s already decided something.
I turn away, too fast, pretending to check my recorder. But my pulse tells the truth I’m refusing to admit. I’m not here for the story anymore. I don’t think I can say that with all sincerity after what went down in the conference room yesterday.
And from the way his eyes follow me across the rink, neither is Kai Morrison.
The arena continues with the usual post-practice chaos, sticks clattering, skate guards snapping back into place, the low murmur of local reporters packing up their gear.
I sling my recorder into my bag, forcing my hands to move in a steady rhythm, like I’m in control.
Like my heart isn’t thrumming at a faster rate, the same way it has been all morning.
I feel Kai’s presence before I see him.
That quiet shift in the air, that sudden pull at the edges of my awareness, Kai Morrison, closing the distance without a single sound. I keep my eyes down, flipping my notebook shut, pretending I don’t notice the weight of his gaze from across the rink.
“Winters.” His voice is low, and deceptively even.
I look up, my neutral expressions firmly in place. “Morrison.”
He steps closer, just enough to invade the bubble of professionalism I’ve tried to wrap around myself all morning.
His damp hair clings to his temples, and his practice jersey is slung over one shoulder, a thin sheen of sweat still catching the light along his collarbone.
God help me, because this man is out to ruin me.
“We need to talk,” he says.
I arch a brow. “About your stats? I already have what I need.”
His mouth quirks, a faint smirk that doesn’t reach his eyes. Clearly, he’s all bullshit. “Not about my stats.”
My throat tightens, because we both know what he means. The words are a pretense, an excuse to draw me away from the others. And like the moth that I swore I won’t be, I follow after him.
The equipment room is half-lit, shelves of tape and helmets lining the walls, the faint smell of sharpened blades lingering in the air. The door clicks shut behind us, and suddenly the world outside doesn’t exist. It’s just me and him like it was yesterday in the conference room.
I cross my arms, a thin barrier I know won’t hold. “Make it quick, Morrison. I’ve got three more interviews to finish.”
He doesn’t speak right away. He just looks at me, eyes meeting mine with an intense gaze, like he’s memorizing the way my hair falls over my shoulder, the curve of my mouth when I press my lips together to hide what I’m feeling.
“I can’t stop thinking about yesterday,” he says finally, voice roughened with something that has nothing to do with hockey.
My pulse stumbles. I force a scoff and roll my eyes. “That was a mistake. One we can’t repeat.”
His eyes darken, a storm beneath a seemingly clear cloud. He steps closer, the scent of sweat and clean soap curling around me, and every nerve ending in my body sits up and takes notice. “Keep telling yourself that, baby,” he murmurs.
The word hangs in the air like a spark has been lit inside me. Baby. That word shouldn’t make my breath hitch, but it does anyway.
I take a step back, but my shoulder blades meet with a cold metal shelf.
There’s nowhere to go. He doesn’t touch me, and he doesn’t need to.
The heat radiating off him is enough to blur the edges of my resolve.
My body remembers the way his hands felt, the way his mouth dragged against my skin.
The ache of him between my legs has been simmering since that conference room, and here it is again, uninvited, and certainly undeniable.
“This isn’t professional,” I manage, though it comes out softer than I mean it to.
“Neither was yesterday,” he says. His gaze drops, just for a second, to my lips. “But it felt real.”
I hate how much that word does to me. Real. Like everything outside this room doesn’t really matter. Like nothing is more important than the moment we shared.
He exhales slowly, a ghost of restraint crossing his face. Then he steps back, giving me a much needed space that feels colder than it should.
“We’re done here,” he says, tone clipped now, like he didn’t just set every nerve in my body on fire. He turns to leave, and before the door swings shut, he glances over his shoulder. His eyes look me up and down.
Then the door clicks, leaving me alone with the echo of his voice and the pounding of my heart. I press a hand to my chest, nails biting into my palm as if that could steady the riot beneath my skin.
I should feel relieved. I should feel angry at his audacity. Instead, I feel… hollow. Starved. Like he took the air with him when he left.