Page 36 of Dirty As Puck
The worst part? It wasn’t just physical. It was how he looked at me, like he already knew I’d come undone for him, and hewanted to watch every second of it happen. Like he enjoyed watching every moment of it.
I shove the chair back and stand, the sudden movement rattling the empty coffee cup on the table. My body aches faintly in the places where his grip had been the most possessive. My hip, my wrist, the soft skin just below my collarbone. It’s maddening, how easily a memory can make my whole body heat up like this.
The bathroom is still fogged from the shower I ran half an hour ago and didn’t use. I strip off my T-shirt and underwear and step in this time, letting the hot water hit my shoulders, run down my spine. It doesn’t rinse away anything. If anything, it makes it worse.
Steam fills the small space, and suddenly I’m back there in the conference room. His mouth at my neck, his voice low against my ear. My hands brace against the cool tile, and my eyes squeeze shut. I tell myself it’s just an echo. Just a chemical reaction, and my hormones tangled with adrenaline and the rush of doing something I absolutely shouldn’t have done.
But my skin tingles like it’s waiting for him again.
I turn the water hotter, almost too hot, until the sting distracts me enough to breathe normally. This is what happens when you cross the line, you start wanting more.
By the time I wrap a towel around myself and walk back into the room, the sunlight has shifted, but the document is still blank. I sit, hair dripping against the fabric of the chair, and type a single line.The hardest part of telling a story is deciding which truths to keep to yourself.
Then I delete it. Because it’s too close to the truth, but not the one I’m meant to share.
The hotel restaurant is filled with low chatting and the faint clattering of silverware. Sunlight spills through the tall windows, catching on polished coffee pots and the backs of chairs pushed too close together.
I sit at a corner table, half-hidden behind the flimsy shield of my laptop, though I haven’t typed a word. My fork hovers over scrambled eggs that have long since gone cold. Across the room, the team is scattered, some in sweats, with some still looking half-asleep. And then there’s him.
Kai Morrison.
He’s at a table with Jake Rivera, and two other teammates, head bent over a mug, that same infuriating profile cutting against the morning light. Broad shoulders, relaxed posture, like yesterday never happened. Like I didn’t come apart under his hands in a locked conference room.
My pulse betrays me, jumping the moment his gaze lifts and goes straight to mine. It’s brief, just a second, but it lands like a punch to the ribs, heavy, hot, and impossible to shake off.
My phone vibrates against the table, and I sigh at the welcome distraction. Gemma. Perfect timing or divine sabotage, I’m not sure which. I swipe to answer and lift it to my ear. “Morning,” I murmur, trying to sound like I haven’t been staring holes into a hockey star player’s skull.
“Morning? Try noon where I am,” Gemma says, voice thick with mischief and sleep. “Rough night?”
I freeze, my fork suspended midair. “Define rough.”
“Oh, don’t give me that reporter voice,” she drawls. “Your texts went from ‘heading to a late meeting’ to radio silence, so spill.Did you finally get him to open up? Or did he just…” she pauses for dramatic effect, “open you up instead?”
I nearly choke on my coffee. “Gemma!”
“What?” she says, her voice filled with mock innocence. “You’ve been circling this guy for weeks. I figured something had to give in.”
I glance toward Kai again and he’s talking to his teammate now, but his eyes flick my way like they’re on a string. Heat climbs my neck, betraying me. “It’s complicated,” I whisper.
“Complicated as in bad complicated or the kind that makes your legs sore the next morning?” she teases.
“Gemma,” I hiss, trying not to laugh, or scream. “I’m at breakfast.”
“With him?”
“No. Well… yes. Kind of. He’s across the room.” I rub my forehead, trying to sound more in control than I feel. “Listen, nothing you’re imagining is official. It’s all blurred lines and messy. And I have work to do.”
She hums knowingly. “Mhm. So, blurred lines with a six-foot-four, headline making hockey player who probably looks like sin in a hoodie. Tell me more about how you’re keeping it strictly professional.”
I push my eggs away and reach for my notebook instead. “Gemma, I can’t. This story, it’s already on thin ice. If anyone even suspects I’m…”
“A human with natural feelings?” she cuts in. “Rochelle, you sound like a woman trying to convince herself she’s fine whenshe’s absolutely not. Just… be careful. And maybe have an actual breakfast. You sound tense.”
I glance back up just in time to see Kai stand, stretch, and head for the exit. He doesn’t look back this time, but I feel the echo of his gaze all the same.
“I’ll call you later,” I say quickly.
“Uh-huh,” Gemma replies. “And maybe next time, give me more details.”
