Page 14 of Dirty Play

“I’ve been meaning to introduce myself,” she keeps going. “I heard you’ve been talking to CBK Media regarding their annual charity ball.”

“Yes,” I say, plastering on my professional smile. “It’s still in the early stages, but I’ve been sketching ideas and talking to their PR team.”

Her lips curve into a small, polite smile, but her eyes are sharp, assessing me like I’m a job candidate.

“I’d love to hear more. Charity balls are kind of my specialty. Do you have a moment?”

“Of course,” I say, trying to keep my voice calm. Internally, I’m already rehearsing everything I need to say so I don’t sound like a rookie.

She leads me down the hall to a quiet lounge overlooking the practice rink. Through the wide glass windows, I can see the players gliding across the ice, the faint sounds of their skates and shouts muffled by the thick panes. Alegra gestures to one of the plush chairs, sitting down with the kind of grace I’m pretty sure only exists in movies.

“So,” she says, folding her hands in her lap, “tell me about this charity ball. What’s your vision?”

I dive into my spiel, telling her about my conversation with CBK Media, one of the team’s partners, the silent auction, and how we plan to get the players involved. She listens quietly, nodding every so often, her gaze sharp and focused.

“And the team?” she asks after a moment, her smile tightening just a fraction. “I assume they’ll all be attending?”

“That’s the plan,” I say, leaning forward slightly. “It’s important for them to engage with fans, the press, especially given the…image issues the team’s been dealing with lately.”

“Image issues.” Alegra laughs softly, the sound smooth but a little too knowing. “That’s a diplomatic way of putting it.” She pauses, her lips curving into a faint smile.

“I need to make the players see this is an amazing opportunity.”

“I take it Rowan DiMarco is one of the players you’re referring to?” Her perfect brow arches.

“Rowan’s been…a bit resistant to the PR strategies, yes.” I try not to let my surprise show.

“That doesn’t surprise me. Rowan can be…difficult. But it’s part of his charm.” Her smile doesn’t falter, but there’s something else in her eyes now. Amusement? Maybe.

I study her closely, my curiosity piqued. Her tone shifts when she says his name, softening just slightly, like there’s a story there. Something personal.

“You’ve known him a while?” I ask, keeping my tone casual.

“Oh, yes. Rowan’s been with the team for years. He’s quite the character.” Alegra leans back in her chair, her gaze drifting to the rink. “He’s quite the man.”

There it is again, that little flicker in her voice like Rowan isn’t just another player to her. I file the observation away, adding it to the growing list of mysteries surrounding Rowan.

When our conversation wraps up, Alegra stands gracefully, brushing an invisible speck of dust off her dress. “I’m looking forward to seeing what you come up with for the ball, Ms. Moody. I’m in touch with all of our partners, so if you need anything, don’t hesitate to reach out.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Harrison,” I say, managing to sound polite, even as my brain churns with questions.

As she strides away, heels clicking against the floor, I glance back at the rink. I spot him immediately, moving like an unstoppable force. And now, I have another piece of the puzzle to figure out. What’s his deal with Alegra Harrison?

The training area smells like sweat, rubber mats, and faint traces of disinfectant. Considering the morning rush of players finishing up practice, it's quieter than I expected. Most of them have probably cleared out for recovery, leaving behind only the faint echoes of weights clanging and occasional voices down the hall.

I spot him before he spots me.

Rowan’s in the stretching room, his back to me, his body folded over one of his outstretched legs. He’s shirtless, wearing only black gym shorts that cling just enough. His broad back flexes as he leans deeper into the stretch, the tattoos covering his arms and torso catching the dim lighting.

Holy hell.

I’ve seen plenty of athletes shirtless—it comes with the job—but Rowan’s a different story. The tattoos are artfully placed, some sharp and angular, others intricate and detailed. There’s a massive, inked design sprawled across his shoulder blades, something that looks like wings, but it’s more jagged, almost menacing. And then there’s the way his muscles ripple like every inch of him was carved from granite and wrapped in sin.

I square my shoulders, ignoring the way my brain just short-circuited.

Snap out of it, Liv.

“DiMarco,” I call out, my voice echoing in the empty room. I haven’t spoken to him since yesterday. I can still feel the ghost of his touch on my skin from the way his lithe fingers brushed my hair aside. I had to splash cold water on my face afterward.

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