Page 61 of Dirty As Puck
The phone dings again. This time, the message is worse.
Unknown:Your girlfriend is pretty. It would be a shame if her career suffered.
Rochelle.
A sharp pulse of fury shoots through me. It’s hot and blinding. He’s been stalking her.
The thought of Derek’s eyes on her, tracking her every move the way he’s doing with me, makes my skin crawl. I want to smash the phone, hunt him down, and make him regret even saying her name.
But I don’t move. Because the fear is crippling, gluing me to the spot. If he has pictures of her, what else does he have? How close has he gotten without us knowing?
I pace my apartment, my heart pounding, my fists clenched. Pay him, and maybe he stops. Confess everything publicly, andmaybe he loses leverage. I want to fight him, but I don’t know how to do that.
He’s been two steps ahead of me for years, pulling strings from the shadows.
The clock ticks past midnight. Then one. Then two. Sleep doesn’t come. My mind runs in circles, always slamming into the same walls. There’s no path forward that doesn’t cost me something.
By the time dawn’s first light slips through the blinds, my eyes burn, and my body is exhausted. Derek has me cornered, and the sick part is, he knows it.
I stare at the phone, waiting for the next text message, the next knife to twist.
No matter which way I turn, I lose. No option leaves me whole.
I skate onto the ice, stick in my hand, but it feels like I’m moving through a sticky floor instead of ice.
The sound of pucks clanging against boards, skates screeching on ice, and my teammates shouting drills washes over me, but none of it sticks. I miss a slap shot that should have been easy, letting it breeze past me into the net. A groan escapes my throat out of frustration.
“Kai!” Coach Williams’ voice pulls me back, but I can’t focus on the correction. I can’t focus on anything this morning. Every movement feels off. It’s either I’m too slow or too clumsy. My hands are slick with sweat that doesn’t belong there, my mind on Derek’s texts instead of the puck.
Another puck whizzes past, and my teammates exchange looks I can almost read. Concern? Confusion? Frustration? Whateverit is, I don’t care. I just skate, trying to force my muscles to remember the routine, but it’s no use.
Jake slides up beside me, his eyes narrowing. “What’s wrong? You look like hell,” he says quietly, voice low enough that no one else hears him.
I shake my head, forcing a shrug. “Just playoff pressure,” I mutter, keeping my tone casual, but it tastes like a lie even as I say it.
Jake doesn’t buy it. I can see it in the slight furrow of his brow, the way his jaw tightens. But he doesn’t press for more. At least not right now. He knows me too well to poke until I’m ready, but he’s close enough to catch every tremor, every slip, every clumsy act of mine.
I can feel the heat rising under my helmet, from my anger at myself, at Derek, at everything I can’t control. I’m supposed to channel energy, to dominate, to be the anchor for this team and I can’t even hold the puck. I can’t hold myself together.
Practice continues, a blur of movement and noise, but I’m not part of it. I’m isolated in my own head, replaying Derek’s smirk, his words, the photos of Rochelle he claims to have. Every shot I let slip is a reminder that I’m slowly falling apart.
When the drill ends, Jake comes up to me again, giving me a look that doesn’t need words.
I nod, trying to appear fine, but my chest feels heavy. The locker room starts to fill up with players whose heads were actually in the game.
I skate off alone, hearing Jake call after me, “Kai… we’ll figure it out.”
I know he means it, but right now, there’s no fixing this. Not without losing something, or someone I can’t afford to lose.
The café is crowded for a weekday afternoon and is really noisy. The sounds of ceramic cups hitting surfaces and chattering from several conversations fill the room.
I spot Rochelle at a corner table, a notebook in front of her, pen tapping against the page. She looks up the second I walk in, and even with exhaustion dragging me down, I feel the heat of her gaze like a shot of adrenaline.
She smiles, but it fades when I get closer. “You look like you’re not sleeping,” she says softly, knitting her brow in concern.
I force a shrug, sliding into the seat across from her. “Practice was tough. You know how it is.”
The lie slips out too easily, but I can tell she doesn’t believe me. Her eyes narrow, sharp and perceptive, like she’s studying me for the truth I’m not offering.
