Page 20 of Dirty As Puck
Don’t fucking get involved with journalists. This is going to blow up in my face.
But even the cold shower can’t completely erase the way she tasted, or the way she responded to me like she’d been wanting it as much as I had. The way she didn’t back down, didn’t play coy, just met my intensity with her own.
She’s fucking trouble.
I stay under the cold water until my teeth are chattering and my skin is numb, then get dressed and emerge from the bathroom to find Rochelle already awake, sitting on the edge of the fold-out bed with her laptop balanced on her knees.
She looks up when I come out, and for a split second, I see that same heat from yesterday on her face, in the red that flushes her cheeks, the way her breath catches and the way she unconsciously bites her lips.
And just like that, my cold shower is in vain.
And then everything ends, she looks away.
“Morning,” she says, like nothing happened. Like we didn’t almost tear each other’s clothes off eight hours ago.
“Morning.”
The single word comes out irritable and I see Rochelle’s fingers pause on her keyboard. She’s wearing different clothes than last night––jeans and a sweater that somehow manages to be both conservative and distracting. Her hair is pulled back in a ponytail, and she’s not wearing makeup, but she still looks good enough that I have to force myself to look away.
Professional distance. Keep it professional.
“I’ll be out of your way in a few minutes,” she says, closing her laptop. “Just finishing some notes from yesterday’s interview with you.”
Notes about me. Always notes about me.
“Take your time.”
But I don’t mean it. I want her gone so I can stop pretending I don’t remember exactly how her skin felt under my hands, or how she looked at me when I told her she tasted better than I imagined.
Rochelle gathers her things and disappears into the bathroom, and I use the privacy to get my head on straight. Game day routine. Focus on hockey, not on the reporter who’s here to document my every move.
She’s doing her job. You’re doing yours. Last night was a mistake that won’t happen again.
When Rochelle emerges from the bathroom twenty minutes later, she’s back in full professional mode with her blazer, dresspants, hair styled, makeup applied. She looks like every other sports journalist I’ve ever dealt with, except for the fact that I know what she sounds like when she’s losing control.
“Team breakfast is in an hour,” she says, packing her laptop. “I’ll see you there.”
She leaves without waiting for a response, and I’m left alone in a hotel room that smells like her perfume.
The team breakfast is held in a private dining room on the hotel’s second floor, and by the time I arrive, most of the guys are already there. I grab coffee and a plate of eggs and find a seat at the far end of the table, away from where Rochelle is sitting with her notebook and recorder.
But I can feel her presence like a constant electric current. Every time I glance up, she’s either taking notes or talking quietly to one of my teammates. Professional. Focused. Completely ignoring me.
Good. That’s how it should be.
Except I catch her looking at me twice during breakfast. The first time, she looks away quickly when our eyes meet. The second time, she holds my gaze for a moment too long, and I see something in her expression that has nothing to do with journalism.
She’s thinking about it too.
Jake slides into the seat next to me, grinning like he knows something. “Sleep well?”
“Fine.”
“Right. And I’m sure the team emergency last night didn’t interrupt anything important.”
I give him a look. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Sure, you don’t. That’s why you look like you haven’t slept in a week, and our embedded reporter keeps glancing over here like she’s trying to solve a puzzle.”
