Chapter 13
The sharp ring of my phone slices through the early morning quiet, dragging me from my restless sleep. My arm fumbles over the nightstand, until I find the vibrating device before my brain fully catches up. One glance at the screen and I spring up.
Marcus Webb.
Damn it.
I clear my throat, try to mask the drowsiness in my voice. “Marcus. Good morning.”
“Spare me the pleasantries, Winters,” his voice snaps through the line, sharp as broken glass. “It’s been weeks. Where’s my story?”
My stomach tightens beneath the thin sheets. I sit up, tugging the duvet closer like they can shield me from the pressure barreling down the phone line. “I’m compiling material. His season, his backstory, his life outside of…”
“I don’t want all that fluff,” he cuts in, each word clipped. “I want headlines. I want something that gets the fans talking endlessly for weeks. Morrison’s got skeletons and I’m paying you to dig them out.”
A pulse drums in my temple. I grip the phone tighter. “Marcus, I don’t think that’s a very…”
“Spare me the ethics lecture,” he barks. “You’re not a saint, you’re a reporter. And I’ve got advertisers breathing down my neck, waiting for Hockey’s bad boy to slip. You gave me your pitch, remember? You told me you could handle Morrison. So, handle him.”
My mouth tastes like copper. I press a hand to my forehead, watching dawn spill its pale light across my curtains. Handle him. As if Kai were a story to manipulate, not a man whose hands had been on my waist just nights ago, whose lips still haunted me with mental images.
“I don’t have a scandal yet, but I’m searching,” I say quietly. It’s the closest to honesty that I can risk.
“Then get it. I need dirt, Winters. Not fluff and fawning quotes about his diet or his winning streak. Find me the crack in his mysterious persona, or I’ll find someone else who will.”
The line goes dead with a hollow click.
I let the phone drop into my lap, staring at the ceiling as the weight of the call settles like a stone on my chest. My heartbeat feels too loud in the still and quiet bedroom.
What the hell am I doing?
I came here to write a story. A sharp, honest profile that could remind people why sports writing still mattered and why the truth mattered.
But somewhere between the first tense interview and the heat of his breath on my neck, the lines have blurred.
I had notes full of half-truths, quotes that painted him disciplined, relentless, even tender in unguarded moments. But nothing that would satisfy Marcus.
And the one thing I did have, that night in the hallway, the press of his body against mine, his lips tasting like temptation and trouble, that wasn’t evidence. That was a weapon that Marcus would twist until it blew up in my face.
I push myself out of bed, pacing the cold floor. Job security versus my integrity. Integrity versus desire. Desire versus the gnawing dread that I’ve already crossed the line that I swore I wouldn’t.
The city outside is already awake, traffic swelling like a restless tide. I stand at the window, phone still warm in my hand, and whisper to the glass, “What are you doing, Rochelle?”
No answer. Just the hollow echo of a woman straddling two worlds. The one I promised my employer and the one I’m falling headlong into with a man who was supposed to be my story, not my biggest temptation.
The chill of the rink hits me as soon as I step inside, sharp enough to bite through the tailored coat I threw over my shoulders this morning.
Skates scrape against ice in quick, practiced arcs.
Helmets glint beneath the bright overhead lights.
The Seattle Icehawks practice like a machine.
Smooth, disciplined, and ever relentless.
And I’m here to find the loose screw in that machine. The call from Marcus filled me with enough fuel for the morning.
Notebook in hand, recorder tucked into my bag, I scan the ice for my first mark. Jake Rivera, one of the best players on the team. He’s the kind who’s seen enough seasons to know when a captain is coasting and when he’s carrying the team. Perfect for a start.
“Rivera,” I call as he glides to the bench for a water break. He grins when he spots me.
“Winters. Didn’t expect to see you at practice today.”
“Off the record,” I promise, flashing him my recorder anyway. “Quick question about Morrison’s leadership and teamwork. How’s he been with the team this season?”
Jake leans on his stick, thinking and eyeing me with caution.
He’s very loyal to Morrison, but he’s also obligated to give me a response.
“Kai? He’s intense. He holds us accountable, but he’s not a tyrant.
First one on the ice, last one off. Even the rookies respect him.
” He takes a swig from his bottle, shrugs. “Why? Are you looking for dirt on him?”
A dry smile tugs at my lips. “That depends. Am I guaranteed to find dirt?” I’m going for straightforward today.
He laughs and pushes off, leaving me with nothing but a half-page of glowing remarks. No temper, no whispers of favoritism, not even a hint of scandal.
I move on to the next player that’s available for a quick interview.
Knox Thompson, a fresh-faced rookie, is lacing up near the boards. Perfect target for a slip of honesty, since he’s too new for rigid loyalty to Kai.
“Knox,” I crouch slightly to meet his gaze, softening my tone. “How’s it been, adjusting to Morrison’s style? Any… challenges?”
He blinks, then shakes his head with a boyish grin.
“Captain’s tough, but fair. He pulled me aside after my first bad game and told me to shake it off.
Said he’d rather have me make mistakes than play scared.
” Thompson chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck.
“Honestly, he’s one of the reasons I haven’t lost it since I joined. ”
Great. Another gold star for Morrison. Just exactly what I need to impress my boss.
I jot down the quote anyway, my jaw tight. Marcus Webb wanted scandal. Headlines. The kind of rot you could build a front page around. All I’m getting is a saint in skates, despite his popular reputation.
Movement flickers at the corner of my vision.
Kai. He’s leaning against the far boards, helmet off, hair damp with sweat, and eyes locked on me like he’s challenging me.
He doesn’t move, and doesn’t speak, he just watches.
The air feels thinner suddenly, my throat drier.
It’s the same look he gave me last night in the hallway, right before everything got complicated.
I tear my gaze away, force my pen to scratch across the page. Focus, Rochelle. You’re not here to remember the taste of his mouth.
Practice ends with the usual clatter of sticks and the scraping of skates leaving the ice. Players file past, tossing me polite nods. No whispers or hint of juicy information. Just respect, the kind that doesn’t make for a scandal.
I linger at the edge of the rink, fingers curled tight around my notebook. Frustration prickles under my skin. The harder I dig, the cleaner it looks beneath the surface. And the more I fail to find anything, the louder Marcus’s voice echoes in my head, Find me something in the crack, Winters.
Across the room, Kai smirks faintly, his towel slung over his shoulders, as if he can taste my frustration from here. As if he knows exactly how little I have, and how much that bothers me.
And damn it, if he does, then I hate to admit that he’s right.
The cursor blinks against the glow of my laptop screen, like an impatient timer keeping track of the time with the steady hum of my fraying nerves.
My coffee has gone cold beside my hand, the mug forgotten hours ago.
Tabs clutter my browser with headlines screaming about a bar fight, witness statements half-remembered, police reports buried under other deflecting headlines.
This was supposed to be simple. Find the cracks in Kai Morrison’s polished backstory, expose the chaos beneath, and deliver Marcus Webb his scandalous article on a silver platter. But the deeper I dig, the more the narrative feels rather flimsy and inconsistent.
I scroll through the first article again.
“Sources claim Morrison threw the first punch.” Then another, “Witness alleges Morrison incited the altercation.” But the timestamps don’t line up.
One report says the fight started at midnight, another states that it started two hours past midnight.
Witness A claims there were three men. Witness B says five.
The more I read, the less it holds together, like trying to stitch a story out of smoke.
Sighing, I pull up the official police summary, my eyes scanning for clarity. “Altercation involving professional hockey player Kai Morrison… no charges filed… mutual disagreement, de-escalated by staff.”
That’s it? That’s what Marcus expects to spin into a headline that would keep people talking for weeks?
Frustration burns hot in my chest. I was sent here to write the truth, but Marcus never said truth, did he? He wants dirt, whether it existed or not. And right now, all I have is a mess of contradictions.
I lean back, rubbing my temples, when a buried link in an old blog post catches my eye, a mention of nearby security cameras, footage that “never saw daylight.” My pulse kicks up.
I follow the breadcrumb. A grainy still image hosted on a fan forum, a hint of a broader clip archived on a local server.
Minutes turn into an hour of dead links and login gates before I finally get it, a low-resolution video file buried in the corner of an old city watch database. My heart thuds as I press play.
The footage is shaky and monochrome. A dimly lit alley behind the bar.
A cluster of men, voices raised, but no audio, yet the body language is clear.
I can tell by watching that someone’s angry.
And then, through the blur, I see Kai. Broad-shouldered, jaw clenched, standing between a young woman and the chaos brewing at the door.