Chapter 13 #2
She looks terrified and her hair is messy, while her hands are shaking as one man reaches for her arm. Kai steps in, blocking the man from grabbing her, his body a barrier. Then the shoving starts. Another man lunges. The clip freezes mid-motion, but it’s enough to tell me what I need to know.
He wasn’t starting the fight. He was stopping it.
The ground shifts beneath me like ice cracking. Every quote I’ve taken, every accusation I’ve been nudged to frame, it all wobbles on this pivot. The man Marcus wanted me to paint as a violent star athlete off the rails… was protecting someone who clearly needed it.
I hit replay, just to be sure. His hands never strike first. He absorbs the blows, maneuvers the girl away, gestures sharply toward the staff as the attackers scatter.
My fingers hover over my keyboard, frozen. If I send this in as it is, Marcus will kill the story. If I bury it, I become the kind of journalist I swore I’d never be, the one who edits truth to feed a narrative.
And somewhere under all that professional panic, something else curls tight in my chest- relief. Because for the first time, the version of Kai Morrison I’ve been getting to know, the one who protects, who burns too hot, who kisses like he’s trying not to. That version makes sense.
The hallway smells faintly of disinfectant and damp gear, that sharp, metallic tang that clings to rinks long after the ice has been cut.
Players filter out of the locker room in waves, laughter echoing, sticks clattering against the walls.
I wait, my notebook in hand, pretending to check my phone as I lean casually against the corridor frame.
My pulse betrays me, my heartbeat drumming in a faster than normal rhythm beneath my calm exterior.
Then the player I’ve been waiting for steps out.
His hair’s still damp from the shower, his hoodie half-zipped, laces of his sneakers untied like he doesn’t have the patience for the smallest things.
He spots me before I even call his name.
Those gray eyes flick to mine, sharp, intense and assessing.
For a second, the air between us tightens.
“Kai,” I start, my voice steadier than I feel. “I need to ask you something.”
He doesn’t stop walking, just slows enough that I have to fall into step beside him. “This about your story again?” he mutters, gaze fixed ahead.
“The bar fight,” I press. “I’ve been digging through reports. Things don’t add up.”
That makes him stop. One hand presses to the wall behind him, the other curling into his hoodie pocket, and suddenly we’re close, close enough that I can see the water still clinging to his jawline.
“What exactly are you looking for, Winters?” His tone is low, even, but there’s a flicker in his expression, but it’s not fear. Something more protective. More dangerous.
“The truth,” I answer, though it comes out quieter than I intend.
His eyes narrow just a fraction, scanning my face like he’s weighing what kind of truth I’m really after. “Some things,” he says slowly, “are off-limits.”
There it is. The wall he’s built, solid as the boards behind him. My fingers tighten around my pen, the instinct to push warring with the pull I’ve been trying to ignore since the first time he looked at me like this… like I was both a risk and a temptation.
“Kai, this isn’t about a headline. I just… I need to understand what happened that night.”
He exhales, a quiet, frustrated sound. “Why? So, you can twist it? So, you can write something that makes me look like the villain again?”
I shake my head, stepping closer without meaning to. The corridor feels smaller now, the sound of the team fading behind us. “That’s not what I’m trying to do.”
For a moment, neither of us moves. His gaze drops, not to my notebook, but to my mouth and that single look sends heat crawling up my neck.
“You think you want the truth,” he murmurs finally, voice rougher now, “but some of it comes with fallout you’re not ready for.”
I should pull back. I should thank him, walk away, and write something neutral. But my feet stay planted, and my heartbeat fills the space his words leave behind.
“Then tell me off the record,” I whisper.
His jaw works, muscle ticking once, twice, like he’s debating whether I’m worth the risk. Then he shakes his head, pushes off the wall. “Not today, Winters.”
As he walks past, his shoulder brushes mine, not hard or with a grudge, but enough to leave a trail of warmth through my sleeve.
I watch him go, frustration clawing at my ribs, wanting more answers than I got, and hating that part of me doesn’t want answers at all. The part of me that just wants him.
14
The ice rink is a blur of ice spray and sticks clashing as I finish the last lap of drills, my lungs burning, and muscles screaming, but my mind isn’t on the workout anymore. It’s on her. Rochelle.
The memory of yesterday, the feel of her, the way her body pressed against mine, the teasing smirk that had driven me half-mad—lingers in every nerve ending. I try to shake it off, focus on my cooldown stretches, but nothing sticks. My focus is gone, and I know it.
Jake claps me on the back, smirking like he can read my thoughts. “Hey, Morrison. Staying late just to think about her, or are you actually done with practice?”
He winks.
I ignore him, gripping my stick tighter, but the corner of my mouth twitches anyway. God, he always knows. Always.
The locker room doors squeak as my teammates file past, jerseys slung over shoulders, laughter and chatter filling the air. They’re all heading for the showers, leaving me with an insistent emptiness. I linger, deliberately slow, letting the last few players pass by so I can have my moment alone.
Then I see Rochelle, standing by the hallway outside the locker room, notebook in hand, pen poised like she’s ready to capture a story the moment it breathes.
My chest tightens. She looks calm, professional even, but I can see the tension in the slight tilt of her head, and the subtle way she bites her lip.
Her eyes catch mine for a heartbeat, and everything inside me shivers.
I know I should look away, leave the room empty and safe, but I don’t.
I can’t. Instead, I take a casual step closer, the kind that makes it seem like I’m still focused on wiping down my stick, but it’s not about the stick.
Her gaze doesn’t falter, and she doesn’t look away.
She meets me head-on, daring me to make the first move.
My mind is a war zone. Every rational thought is screaming at me that she’s off-limits.
I should be professional and there’s a line I shouldn’t cross.
But every fiber of my body betrays me. My hands itch to touch her again, to feel that soft brush of her skin, to taste her lips, to let the steam of the locker room close in on us and shut the world out.
I let my eyes roam over her, not shamelessly, but deliberately, tracing the curve of her jaw, the sharpness of her cheekbones, the way her blouse clings just enough to tease, to drive me wild.
She’s aware that I’m looking, of course she is.
She always is. And I can tell she likes it, the tension she’s stirring in me, even if she’ll never admit it out loud.
Jake’s voice echoes in the distance again. “You’re practically melting there, man.”
I growl under my breath, but I don’t move, not yet. I can’t. I’m waiting, circling, a predator sizing up its prey, though we both know this hunt isn’t an innocent one.
The air between us is thick, electric, dangerous. I can hear the faint scuff of her boots against the tile as she shifts her weight, and it’s enough to make my chest tighten again. My pulse thunders in my ears, not from exhaustion but from desire, from the game we’re playing without words.
One step closer, and I’m nearly in her space, close enough to feel the heat radiating off her body.
I catch the faint scent of her perfume mixed with the lingering tang of the ice rink, a scent that should be maddening, and it is.
She doesn’t flinch, doesn’t move back. She knows that she’s got me, and so do I.
I should walk away. I should let the professional distance win. But the second her eyes flick to mine, holding mine steady, everything inside me snaps. I stay. I linger. I want her. And I know she wants me too.
The tension between us is palpable, coiling tight like a spring. One wrong step or the right one, and everything slips through the cracks again. I don’t know if I’ll survive that step.
The locker room empties slowly, laughter and chatter fading into distant echoes as my teammates retreat from the showers. I linger deliberately, letting the noise die down, knowing exactly what I’m doing.
My chest is still tight, my muscles humming from practice, but it’s nothing compared to the tension tightening between us already.
“Looking to have a quick interview with you, Morrison,” she says, voice airy but with a bite I can hear in every word. Her eyes don’t waver. Instead, they meet mine head-on.
“This about yesterday? By the way, you shouldn’t be in here,” I warn, trying to keep my voice level, professional, but failing spectacularly.
“Then tell me to leave,” she replies, just enough defiance in her tone to make my pulse hammer.
I don’t. I can’t. Something in the way she stands there, daring me, teasing me, makes it impossible. My hand tightens on the edge of the bench behind me. I take a slow step closer, careful to make it look casual, but close enough that the air between us thickens like steam.
Her perfume hits me first, that familiar sharp citrus mixing with the residual tang of sweat from practice. My chest tightens again, and I have to swallow hard. Every instinct is screaming at me to touch her, to close the remaining inches between us, to taste the challenge in her eyes.