Page 40 of Dirty As Puck
“Just locked in,” I say, but the words taste hollow, like an easy lie.
When Coach finally calls the end of practice, my jersey is plastered to my skin, my breath coming rough. I duck into the tunnel, peel off the gear piece by piece until it’s just me and the echo of blades fading down the hall.
The shower room is all fog and blur by the time I step under the spray. Hot water drums against sore muscles, but it does nothing to wash away the heat coiled under my skin. I brace my palms against the tile and drop my head, letting the steam crawl up my neck.
And there she is, lurking around the corners of my mind again. Damn Rochelle Winters. Her soft gasp when I pushed her against that conference table, the sound of her breath hitching as my hands mapped her skin, the way her thighs parted in total surrender. It’s all still there, under my fingernails, behind my eyelids.
I should be thinking about the coming games. About forechecks and line changes. Instead, I’m reliving the drag of her nails down my back, the taste of her breath against my tongue.
The water runs hotter, almost scalding my skin, but I don’t move. Because the truth is, the ice can’t cool this down. And if I keep skating like this with the ghost of her haunting every corner of my mind, I’m going to burn right through the damn playoffs.
The bar isn’t exactly loud tonight, just the low thrum of music, the clink of beer bottles, and the easy banter of my teammates blowing off steam after a good game. It’s supposed to be a simple night. Minor victory, good energy, and celebratory music humming in the background. But the second I see her the whole damn room narrows.
Rochelle is in the damn bar tonight. She’s by the far table, notebook tucked under her arm as usual, and her hair falling in a clean sweep over one shoulder. Black pants and a fitted blouse that makes look professional, but the kind of professional thatturns heads. And she knows it, or maybe she doesn’t. Either way, it’s working.
I catch the way a couple of guys, both teammates and the team staff, as the let their eyes linger on her legs while she moves through the room. It’s a harmless look, a quick and casual checking out, but it sets something sharp loose in my chest. I have no claim on her. Absolutely no right. And still, my grip tightens around the glass in my hand until the condensation slicks my palm.
Jake elbows me. “You’re staring like she owes you rent, man,” he says, voice low, smirk cutting through the noise. “How about you approach her like a man should?”
I force a short laugh, shake my head like it’s nothing. “Focus on your beer, Rivera.”
“Yeah, sure,” he mutters, but his eyes are already drifting toward the group by the corner table.
I stay where I am, leaning against the high table, sipping a drink that has long gone warm and watching her work the room with that polite smile and clipped pen strokes.
Every time she laughs at something another guy says, it twists a little tighter in my gut. And when her gaze sweeps the bar and lands on me, just for a split second, everything else goes quiet.
She looks away first.
Of course, she does.
Professional, always.
But that one second is enough to crack the restraint I’ve been nursing since the conference room.
A few minutes later, I see her slip out toward the hallway by the bathrooms. Her steps are casual and unhurried. I wait two beats, long enough to make it look like coincidence and then I follow after her.
The hallway’s dim and lined with framed photos and the flickering neon light from the bar’s sign. I wait until she’s out of the ladies restroom before I catch up with her, my fingers brushing her elbow before I can even think about what I’m doing.
She spins, startled, but her expression flickers just for a second, somewhere between irritation and something hotter.
“Kai,” she breathes, barely above a whisper.
I step in, close enough that her back meets the cool wall behind her. The smell of her hits me. It’s warm, clean, that same mix of citrus and skin that has been haunting me. My hand lands flat against the wall by her head.
“You’re supposed to be celebrating,” she says, voice steady, but her pulse is jumping at her throat.
“I am,” I murmur, eyes locked on hers.
Her lips part. I don’t wait for an invitation. I’ve been fantasizing this moment all day. The kiss isn’t careful, it’s fast, rough, the kind of kiss that steals your breath and sense in the same stroke. She gasps against my mouth, one hand catching the front of my shirt like she’s deciding whether to push me off or pull me closer.
I make the choice for her as she hesitates.
My fingers find her waist, pulling her flat against me, her back scraping gently against the wall as our mouths move in similar rhythm of teeth, tongue, heat. It’s messy, unplanned, the kindof kiss that tastes like everything we’ve been pretending doesn’t exist.
She breaks it first, breath hot against my cheek. “Kai,” she whispers, “this has to stop.” Her hand on my chest betrays her words.
I don’t move back. Not yet. My forehead presses to hers, voice low, almost a growl. “Then stop looking at me like you want more.”
