Page 32 of Dirty As Puck
I tap through my notes on the laptop balanced firmly across my knees. Pages of stats, observations, and even quotes, but there are gaps. Huge gaps. Gaps that someone like me shouldn’t be able to see if they were carefully buried. My pulse picks up. Someone’s been intentionally feeding misinformation. And I intend to find out who.
Brad Hutchinson. The name keeps surfacing in old press releases, whispers in locker rooms, and side comments from teammates. Former teammate. Known for showing up in tabloid gossip. I run a search, fingers flying across my keyboard despite the rumble of tires beneath me.
Articles pop up, some seem credible, some sensationalized, all pointing to Brad as a consistent leak. He’s been shaping the story of Morrison the way a sculptor shapes clay. His approach is careful, deliberate, and designed to provoke outrage or sympathy depending on the day.
I bite my lip, staring at the screen. I have to admit that it’s infuriating and thrilling at the same time. My investigative instincts flare. I shouldn’t care about Morrison like this. I shouldn’t be analyzing the angles of his jaw, the curve of his mouth when he’s concentrating. I shouldn’t be imagining the weight of him pressed against me again. But there it is, impossible to ignore. My professional objectivity borders on the edge of personal fascination.
I park outside my apartment and take a deep breath, trying to shake off the mental fog. Laptop in hand, I climb the stairs and settle into my small study, pulling up everything I can find on Morrison’s career.
Birth records, minor league stats, junior team rosters. Every anomaly in the documentation makes my pulse quicken. Missing years, abrupt transfers, inconsistent reporting. Damn,someone has gone to great lengths to cover tracks. My journalistic instincts jump with excitement, but my personal instincts burns in frustration.
I close my eyes and lean back in the chair. God, he’s infuriating. The way he deflects questions, the way he smirks like he knows exactly what I’m thinking. I hate that I can’t stop thinking about him. About the pull he has on me. And yet, every lead, every half-truth, is a thread I need to pull. Professional curiosity and personal desire are tangled into one messy knot I have no intention of ignoring.
I glance at the clock. Practice starts in an hour. I have a decision to make. Focus, stay detached, and cover the session like any other reporter, or lean into the game he plays just as skillfully off the ice, the one where proximity and tension are his weapon, and temptation is an unspoken rule between us.
My eyes dart to the mirror on the wall, as I smooth my hair and adjust my blazer. It’s subtle. Professional. Yet I know exactly what it does to him, how it will make him look up, how his gaze will linger just long enough to be dangerous. I hate myself for thinking about it, and yet, I can’t stop. I’m already playing the game he thrives in.
Sliding the laptop into my bag, I grab my recorder and press it into my coat pocket. Notes, stats, interviews, tools of my profession, but also ammunition. Every word I ask, every glance I steal, is part of this investigation. But there’s another part, a private, dangerous part that has nothing to do with journalism.
As I start my way to the practice facility, my pulse quickens, not from the run, not from the early morning drizzle but from knowing he’ll be there, aware that I’m watching, aware I know more than anyone suspects.
And I can’t wait to see what happens next.
The familiar sound of skates against ice greets me before I even step into the arena. The smell of polished wood, fresh ice, and faint deodorant hits my senses, keeping me grounded for the professional part of today.
I keep my eyes forward, but I can’t stop my pulse from picking up when I see him. Kai Morrison, standing at center of the ice like he owns it, dark hair damp from warm-up sweat, grey eyes scanning the drills with that signature intensity.
I smooth down the black blazer I’d chosen this morning, the one that shows my figure without screaming it, paired with tailored pants that hit just above my ankle boots. Subtle. Professional. Yet I know exactly what effect it will have. The way he shifts his weight when he notices me, the faint tightening of his jaw when his gaze lands on me is a confirmation that yes, this works.
I pull my notebook from my bag, pretending to jot down notes about the defensive rotation, but my eyes keep flicking to him. He’s in motion now, moving with a controlled aggression, muscle memory honed from years of late nights, early mornings, and relentless drills. I can write all the statistics I want, capture all the metrics about the game, but the pull between us is a metric no one can quantify.
Kai glances up during a water break. Our eyes lock for a brief moment. Just long enough. I know that smirk on his face. He’s not doing it because he’s amused but it’s rather deliberate and teasing. He knows I see him. He knows I can’t ignore it. I resist the urge to bite my lip, to let the corner of a smile slip through. He’s testing me.
Coach Williams blows the whistle, and the team jumps into a drill. I scribble notes as quickly as possible, but my mind keeps wandering. Every purposeful brush of hair from his forehead, every slap of a puck against the boards is a challenge. A silent invitation. And I know it. I’m not naïve and he knows it.
I stand, just for a second, adjusting my posture so he can see me better. The blazer lines my shoulders perfectly, the pants tailored enough to hint at the shape beneath without being distracting. I watch him notice. Subtle, deliberate. A professional observer? Sure. But one with intent. I see his eyes flicker. That almost imperceptible narrowing of his gaze. He’s aware I’m aware. And I like it.
Jake Rivera skates past, laughing, slapping his stick against the boards. I take the chance to glance down at my notes, but my heart is hammering too fast to focus. Reed Hendrix is shouting instructions to a younger player, and I take mental notes of his form, but honestly, it’s background noise. Kai’s presence is the signal.
By the end of the drills, I’m taking questions from the equipment manager, framing them as technical inquiries, tape preferences, stick lengths, custom fittings, but each question is layered. I watch Kai’s jaw tighten when I push just slightly longer than necessary, I see the subtle flicker of frustration or desire, sometimes both in those stormy gray eyes.
“Ms. Winters,” Coach Williams calls me over. I cross the ice carefully, heels clicking lightly on the polished boards. “Quick word before you interview the team?”
I nod, my heart still hammering loudly in my chest. “Of course.”
He leans in, lowering his voice. “Be careful with Morrison today. He’s quite distracted.”
Distracted. That’s putting it mildly. My lips twitch. I glance back toward Kai, who’s wiping down his stick and ignoring everyone but still managing to radiate dominance across the rink. He doesn’t know that I’m aware of every detail, every angle, every twitch that gives him away.
After practice, I linger at the edge of the ice, pulling on my coat. He’s in the locker room now, a safe distance, or so I think. I step closer, allowing my movement to be casual but deliberate. A hand brushes a strand of hair behind my ear, a gesture I know he notices. My boots click against the tile floor, echoing louder than they should, a tiny drumbeat of tension building in the empty corridor.
Kai emerges, towel draped over his shoulders. He sees me. His stride doesn’t falter, but the tilt of his head, the narrowing of his eyes, says he’s already calculating how to respond. Our proximity is intentional now. Not accidental. We’re circling each other like a predator and its prey, neither willing to give ground.
“Afraid you can’t handle being alone with me?” I say lightly, letting my tone tease, knowing exactly how it will land.
He stops a pace short, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I can handle anything you throw at me, Winters.”
The undertone is dangerous, unmistakably loaded, and my pulse jumps. I glance down at the recorder in my coat pocket, but it feels heavy and unnecessary. Nothing professional is happening here. Nothing professional has happened in weeks. The game has shifted, and we both know it.
