Page 90 of Dirty As Puck
The noise around us fades. For the first time, I feel the weight lift, not just of the scandal or the betrayal, but of the fear that I’d lost myself.
Now I know exactly who I am. And I know exactly who I love.
By morning, the world feels different. It’s not lighter exactly, but everything feels clearer, like the fog has burned off after a storm.
I sit curled on the couch with Kai beside me, the remote still warm in his hand. Every channel, every headline, every scrolling leads us to the same thing.
Arrest Warrant Issued for Derek Delaunay.
Clips roll on repeat, with police cars parked outside his downtown condo, officers carrying boxes of confiscated files, and neighbors being interviewed on the sidewalk.
News anchors summarize the charges: conspiracy, blackmail, obstruction of justice. It’s all out there now, undeniable and public.
I should be gloating. After everything he put us through, part of me wants to savor his downfall. But mostly, I just feel… tired. Tired and relieved. Justice isn’t complete yet, but at least the truth is no longer buried under his lies.
Kai leans forward, elbows on his knees, eyes locked on the screen. His jaw is tight, but I can see the war in his expression––rage, grief, maybe even pity for the half-brother who tried to control every inch of his life.
“It doesn’t feel real,” he mutters.
“It is,” I whisper, slipping my hand over his. His fingers curl around mine instantly, as if he needs the contact.
The reporters keep dissecting the evidence, citing my article, and quoting witness testimony. Derek’s name dominates the news cycle, but for once, it isn’t about power or control, it’s about accountability.
Kai exhales, slow and shaky. He turns to me, his hand still holding mine tight.
Side by side, with the morning sun filtering into the room, we watch Derek’s empire crumble.
And for the first time in a long time, I let myself believe we’ll be okay.
36
The roar hits me the second I step out of the tunnel. It’s almost deafening, sticks banging against the boards, fans stomping in the stands, my name echoing in the crowd.
For the first time in weeks, it doesn’t feel like they’re jeering. It feels like they’re waiting.
My skates cut across the ice, sharp and steady. The arena lights sting my eyes, but I’m locked in. I’ve been benched, dragged through headlines, accused of things I didn’t do, but tonight I’m here. And she’s here.
I glance up to the press box and spot her. Rochelle. Even from this distance, I feel the weight of her eyes watching me, and the quiet strength she carries.
The woman who bled her career dry just to give me back my life. My chest tightens. I can’t let her down. Not now.
The puck drops. First shift. I explode off the line, fighting for position. My legs burn, lungs already raw, but my focus feels different. Clean. The noise fades, and the chaos dims. I play my game, not theirs.
A blocked shot, a clean pass, a controlled hit into the boards. Nothing spectacular yet, but no mistakes either.
Every time I hit the ice, I hear the commentary buzzing: “Is Morrison distracted? Can he handle the pressure after the scandal?” I shut it out. Let them talk.
Tonight isn’t about proving anything to them. It’s about proving something to myself, and to her.
The game speeds up, bodies colliding, sticks clashing like swords. I can feel the edge in the air, the storm waiting to break. And underneath it all, the shadow of Derek Delaunay lurking around.
Even when I’m flying down the rink, I can’t shake his face, all the lies, his obsession with tearing everything apart.
But this time, I’m ready.
As the horn blares for the first period break, I skate to the bench, my chest heaving. I don’t look up at the cameras. I don’t look at the reporters scribbling notes. Instead, I lift my head just once, finding Rochelle again in the glass above.
This game isn’t just hockey. It’s survival. And I’ll fight for it, with her watching every move.
