Page 4 of Dirty As Puck
I need to focus. I remind myself that he’s just another entitled athlete with secrets.
At least, that’s what I keep telling myself as I drive through the rain, already planning my approach for what promises to be the most challenging assignment of my career.
2
The weight room is my sanctuary at six-thirty in the morning when the rest of the world is still pretending sleep matters more than survival. I slam the forty-five-pound plate onto the bar and feel that familiar burn in my shoulders as I position myself under the steel. Three hundred and fifteen pounds. Enough weight to crush most people, but for me it’s just Tuesday morning therapy.
My playlist pounds through my headphones. Nine Inch Nails bleeding into Metallica, loud enough to match the storm that’s been brewing in my chest since I rolled out of bed. The music drowns out everything like the distant hum of the facility’s ventilation system, the early morning traffic outside, the voice inmy head that sounds too much like my dead foster father telling me to control my temper.
But control doesn’t win games,I think, pressing the weight up until my arms lock.Controlled players get walked over.
I rack the bar and grab my water bottle, checking the clock on the wall.Seven-fifteen. Practice starts in forty-five minutes.
The locker room door bangs open, and Jake Rivera walks in, already suited up in practice gear.
Tall, lean muscles, red wild curls for hair and deep brown eyes, with a smirk that never fails to get the fan girls screaming and fainting, Jake’s been my defense partner for three seasons and the closest thing I have to a best friend on this team. He’s also the only guy who isn’t intimidated by my morning moods.
“Morning, pretty bird,” Jake says, dropping his bag next to his locker. “You’re here early, even for you.”
“Couldn’t sleep.”
“Bar fight nightmares again?”
I shoot him a look that would make most people reconsider their life choices. This bastard just grins and starts pulling on his skates.
“Actually,” he continues, because Jake Rivera has never met a topic he couldn’t beat to death, “you might want to save some of that hostility for later. Coach is introducing the new embedded reporter today.”
My hands still on my laces. “First a fucking mental therapist, and now a reporter? What embedded reporter?”
Jake raises a brow. “The one Sports Illustrated sent to document our playoff run? Didn’t you read the team memo?”
I never read team memos. Team memos are where careers go to die, buried under corporate speak about “brand management” and “media obligations.” I have exactly zero interest in participating in the NHL’s ongoing effort to turn hockey players into performing seals.
“Let me guess,” I grunt, finishing with my skates. “Some middle-aged guy with a receding hairline who thinks he understands hockey because he played beer league in college.”
“Actually, no. This one’s different. Younger. Hungrier.” Jake pauses with an ass eating grin and I know this can’t be good. “And has a V, not a P.”
I roll my eyes.
Perfect.Female journalists are either ice queens who’ve had to develop armor thicker than mine just to survive in sports media, or they’re looking for an angle that involves getting close to players in ways that have nothing to do with hockey. Neither option appeals to me.
“They’re all vultures,” I stand up and test the feel of my skates. “Doesn’t matter what’s between their legs.”
Jake shakes his head. “Wow. Your charm with the opposite sex continues to astound me.”
He doesn’t understand. Jake grew up in a hockey family with parents who still come to games and a younger sister who posts proud Instagram photos every time he scores a goal. His worst press coverage involved a reporter asking if he preferred playing home or away games.
On the other hand, I’ve watched journalists destroy careers over nothing more than a bad mood and an unfortunate camera angle. Tommy Starfall got crucified in the media aftersome reporter decided his post-game comments about ice conditions were actually coded complaints about management. Connor Hughes got labeled a locker room cancer because he wouldn’t smile pretty for the cameras after we lost the division championship.
I refuse to be their next victim.
“Who cares about charm in a world where survival matters most?”
“Right. Because being an asshole to everyone who gets paid to write about us has worked so well for your public image.”
That… is unfortunately true but before I can respond with something that will definitely get me fined by the league office, Coach Williams walks into the locker room. Dave Williams has been coaching professional hockey for longer than I’ve been alive, and he has the kind of presence that makes grown men shut up and listen without raising his voice.
So, of course, I shut up.
