Page 22 of Dirty As Puck
Time slows down. The crowd noise fades to white static. It’s just me, the puck, and the net.
I fake high, go low, and slide the puck between the goalie’s pads with three seconds left on the clock.
The arena goes silent for a heartbeat, then erupts in a mixture of our bench celebrating and Vancouver fans screaming in fury. My teammates mob me at center ice, but all I can think about is the rush of adrenaline coursing through my veins.
When I finally look up at the press box, Rochelle is staring directly at me. Even from this distance, I can see the desire in her body language.
Fuck.
The hotel bar is packed with teammates, coaching staff, and various hangers-on celebrating our win. I should be exhausted after the game I just played, but the combination of adrenaline and unresolved tension from last night has me wired.
I find a corner booth and order a whiskey, then another. The alcohol doesn’t help with the restless energy humming under myskin, but it takes the edge off my hyperawareness of everything around me.
Including Rochelle, who’s holding court at a table near the bar, interviewing players about the game while maintaining the perfect balance of professional interest and approachable charm.
She’s good at her job. I’ll give her that.
But I can’t stop watching her. The way she tilts her head when she’s listening to an answer. The way she crosses her legs when she’s taking notes. The way she occasionally glances in my direction like she’s checking to see if I’m still here.
Stop staring. Order another drink. Pretend last night never happened.
But the whiskey is making it harder to maintain professional distance, not easier. Every sip loosens my control a little more, makes me remember what she tasted like, how she felt pressed against that wall.
Jake appears at my table, beer in hand. “You planning to stare at her all night, or are you actually going to do something about it?”
“I’m not staring at anyone, man. Cut it out.”
“Uh huh, the reporter hasn’t been stealing glances at you for the past hour either.”
I drain my whiskey and signal for another. “She’s doing her job.”
“Is that what we’re calling it? Because from where I’m sitting, I think y’all should fuck, hard.”
I glare at my best friend because it seems like that’s all I’ve been doing these days. “You’re imagining things.”
“Am I? Because she’s been asking everyone except you about tonight’s game. That seems like a missed opportunity for a journalist who supposedly wants the inside story.”
Jake has a point. If Rochelle was purely focused on her article, she’d be pushing for a post-game interview with the guy who scored the winning goal. Instead, she’s maintaining careful distance.
Because she knows what happens when we get too close.
“Maybe she got all the quotes she needed,” I say.
“Or maybe she’s afraid of what might happen if she approaches you while you’re drinking alone in a corner booth, looking like you want to devour something.”
Someone. I want to devour someone.
I order my fourth whiskey of the night, which is definitely more than I usually drink. But tonight feels different. The combination of post-game adrenaline and memories of Rochelle in my arms is making my usual self-control feel inadequate.
This is dangerous territory.
But when Rochelle finishes her interviews and starts gathering her things to leave, I find myself standing up and walking toward her before I can think better of it.
She sees me coming and goes very still, like a deer sensing a predator. But she doesn’t run. She waits, green eyes watching me approach with wariness and breathlessness.
“Leaving so early?” I ask when I reach her table.
“It’s been a long day.”
