Page 17 of Dirty Play

I bite my lip, staring at the door he just walked through.

He’s furious now, sure. But I’ll win him over.

As soon as he’s gone, I let out a shaky breath, pressing a hand to my chest to steady my racing heart. My face is still warm, and my thoughts are a chaotic mess.

What the hell is wrong with me?

“Kiss me.”

And why, for the life of me, can I still feel the heat of his words lingering on my skin?

Chapter six

~ROWAN~

The studio buzzes with energy, and people with headsets walk around like the market just crashed. I stand in a corner, leaning against the wall, arms crossed, simmering in my own damn fury. Cameras flash, crew members shout directives, and the whole place feels like a goddamn circus. And I’m here because of her.

Blackmailed.The word churns in my stomach like poison. No one has ever had the nerve to pull that on me, let alone someone like her. I want to hate her for it, but there’s this nagging part of me that absolutely admires her audacity. She forced me into this mess, and now she’s smiling like she’s won the lottery.

I push off the wall and run a hand through my hair, pausing when I feel the sticky hairspray the hairdresser sprayed in it.Fucking hell.I wipe my hand on my pants with a frown.

I need to show her this is a one-time deal. She doesn’t get to use this leverage on me again.

I look up, my eyes finding her like a magnet. As I watch her, I notice how the interviewer leans in, hanging on her every word. The way she tosses her head back when she laughs, the way the man’s eyes sparkle with mischief. Damn it, I shouldn’t care. But the jealousy creeps in, gnawing at me. I step back, forcing my eyes away from her, but it’s no use. Why the hell do I care? First Davidson, now this loser.

The makeup artist who’s been tailing me for the past fifteen minutes looks at me, a big fluffy brush in her hand and something round in the other. Her eyes are hopeful, but as they meet mine, the hope turns into regret before she hurries away. I’m not usually this sour and grumpy. I hate this version of myself, but how the fuck am I supposed to act when it’s eight in the morning, I have half a can of hairspray in my hair, I’m missing my workout, and I was blackmailed to come here by the new PR agent.

There’s something about her, something that makes me want to claw my way through the bullshit and show her exactly who she’s messing with.

“Mr. DiMarco, we’re ready for you!” a producer barks, pulling me from my thoughts. I straighten, my jaw clenching as I head toward the set.

“Please welcome the captain of the LA Panthers, Rowan DiMarco! We’re so excited to have you here today.” The interviewer flashes a grin that’s too bright, too eager.

“Thank you. I’m thrilled to be here,” I mutter, plastering on a fake smile.

As the camera rolls, he dives right in. The first questions are mundane, their purpose being to ease me into it. I’ve done more than enough interviews to know the drill by now. After a few meaningless ones, he finally gets to the point.

“With preseason just around the corner, how do you feel about the team’s chances this year?”

“The chances of breaking bones or the chances of us winning?” I ask, leaning back. “Cause they’re about the same.”

The interviewer barks a laugh and leans forward to nudge my shoulder. I keep the small smile plastered on to keep from returning the favor…with way more force.

“Last season, you faced quite a few challenges,” he continues after catching his breath. “There were a few scandals that got out. How did those experiences shape your leadership style?”

“Leadership is about adapting and pushing your team to be better,” I say, meeting his gaze. “It’s about knowing when to support and when to demand more. It’s not about bossing people around; it’s about being the pillar your team needs, the brother, the friend. It’s about family.”

The interviewer nods, clearly pleased, and I can feel the façade holding. “Speaking of family,” he starts, and I tense.Don’t. Don’t fucking say it.“Does it hurt that you never got the chance to see your parents at any of your NHL games?”

Shit.

And just like that, the carefully crafted professionalism shatters. I feel the heat rise in my chest, fury boiling over.

“That’s a very personal question,” I snap, my voice low and dangerous. What does he expect me to say? That it keeps me up at night?

“I didn’t mean…” The interviewer seems taken aback, the shock written all over his face. “People have simply wondered why your parents chose not to support you like other players’ families do. Do you bear any guilt since they—”

“I’m not here to discuss my family drama, and I certainly won’t give you the satisfaction of a soundbite for your tabloids,” I cut him off. “I’m here to talk about hockey.”

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