Page 33 of Dirty As Puck
I lean against the locker room wall, casual, but not so casual. Every line of my body radiates tension and anticipation. Every glance is a challenge. He tilts his head, like he’s studying me.He’s reading me, trying to test me. And I like it, more than I should. More than I care to admit.
The air between us is charged. Ice-cold Seattle drizzles outside, but inside, the tension burns. Words could ignite the room, touches could detonate it.
The door clicks shut behind Kai, the sound echoing in the empty conference room like a starter pistol for a race neither of us should be running.
He doesn’t sit, and I’m not surprised. Instead, he leans against the table instead, with his hands braced firmly on either side, like the whole thing is a casual meeting. But his eyes, those piercing brown eyes, are anything but casual. They find me instantly, dragging over my frame, lingering too long on the way my blouse clings in this heated room.
“You wanted this to be professional,” he says. His voice is low, a little rough, like he’s been running drills outside too long. “So, ask your questions, reporter.”
I set my recorder on the table, but I don’t press start. “That’s rich, coming from you. Half the time, you answer me like you’re auditioning for a gossip column.”
His mouth twitches, a half smirk, half warning. “Maybe I just like watching you try to figure me out.”
God, he’s infuriating. And magnetic.
I cross my legs, slowly, deliberately. His gaze tracks the gesture like it’s a play call. “Fine,” I say. “Why did you leave the Minnesota team after only two seasons? The official story doesn’t add up.”
He straightens, rolling his shoulders as if loosening a knot. “Doesn’t it?”
“No,” I shoot back a little too quickly. “You were at your peak. Then you just… disappeared into the background before the trade. And now I hear Brad Hutchinson’s been feeding the tabloids. You want to comment?”
His jaw ticks. That’s the first real reaction I’ve gotten all day.
“Brad talks too much,” he mutters, almost to himself.
I lean in. “So, he’s babbling?” I pause and add, “Lying?”
His eyes snap to mine, and for a second, the space between us isn’t a table and a few feet of linoleum. It’s a live wire, yet I’m tempted to take one step forward.
“Does it matter?” he says. “Would it change what you write?”
“Yes.” My voice comes out steadier than I expect. “Because I’m not here to ruin you, Kai. I just want the truth.”
He exhales sharply, a humorless laugh. “The truth, huh? You think you can handle it?”
That’s when he steps closer. Not enough to touch, but enough that I catch the faint mix of sweat and cedar on his skin, the heat rolling off him in waves.
“You don’t know anything about me, reporter, so I don’t know what you keep digging for,” he murmurs.
My pulse betrays me, hammering in “Why, are you scared of what I’ll find?” I counter, because if I don’t push back, I’ll fold.
His eyes darken, slow and deliberate as they drop to my mouth. “I have nothing to be afraid of.”
Taunting him, I say, “Except being in this room alone with me.”
Kai shakes his head, but he doesn’t move away. “Not even close.”
Silence stretches, thick and heavy. My recorder is still untouched. The air smells like leather and adrenaline.
I rise without meaning to, matching his stance. We’re inches apart now, his height casting a faint shadow over me. I tell myself to keep it about the story, about his past, about Brad Hutchinson and fabricated dirt. Anything to remain within our professional limits, but my body doesn’t care about journalistic integrity right now. All it cares about is the way his breath catches when I tilt my chin up.
“Let’s start again,” I whisper. “Tell me why you keep running from your own narrative.”
His lips curl. “Maybe I’m just waiting for the right person to write it.”
And then neither of us moves. Not forward, not back. Just circling, both of us teetering on the edge of a line that had already been blurred a long time ago, but neither of us want to admit it.
I should hit the record button. I should walk out, put some much needed distance between me and this man, whose entire demeanor screams danger. Instead, I stand there, heart sprinting, every nerve tuned to the electricity humming between us.
