Page 11 of Dirty As Puck
For a split second, I think he’s actually going to do it. Touch me, cross that professional line that we’re both pretending doesn’t exist.
Instead, his hand freezes halfway to my cheek. Something flickers across his expression––conflict, maybe, or frustration––and then he drops his hand and steps back.
“Stay away from my teammates,” he growls, then turns and walks away, leaving me standing in the empty hallway with my heart hammering against my ribs.
I touch my cheek where his hand almost made contact, annoyed at myself for wanting him to have followed through. For wanting to know what his skin would feel like against mine, whether his hands are as rough as they look.
This is bad, Rochelle. This is very, very bad.
I’m supposed to be investigating Kai, not fantasizing about him. I’m supposed to be building a case for why he’s hockey’s latest problem, not finding evidence that he’s been systematically misrepresented by the media.
And I’m definitely not supposed to be attracted to him.
But as I watch Kai disappear around the corner, I realize I have bigger problems than professional ethics. Because every instinct I have as a journalist is telling me that there’s more to this story than anyone wants me to find.
And every instinct I have as a woman is telling me that Kai is dangerous in ways that have nothing to do with his penalty record.
I pull out my phone and text Gemma:I think I’m in trouble.
Her response comes immediately:The good kind or the career-ending kind?
Me:Both.
Gemma:Want to talk about it over wine tonight?
Me:Desperately.
Because I need to figure out what I’m actually doing here. Am I investigating Kai, or am I just finding excuses to spend time around him?
And if it’s the latter, what the hell am I going to do about it?
I gather my things and head for the exit, already dreading the conversation I’m going to have with Gemma tonight. Because explaining why I’m attracted to a man who clearly sees me as a threat to everything he’s worked for is going to require more wine than either of us probably has on hand.
As I walk through the Seattle drizzle to my car, I can’t shake the memory of Kai’s eyes dropping to my lips, or the way my pulse spiked when I thought he might actually touch me.
4
Seattle-Tacoma International Airport is a special kind of hell this morning.
Fluorescent lights that make everyone look like corpses, overpriced coffee that tastes like battery acid, and the general misery of people who’d rather be anywhere else. I pull my hood up and keep my head down as I make my way through the terminal, hoping to avoid conversation with teammates, fans, or anyone else who thinks they deserve a piece of my morning.
Rochelle fucking Winters occupies the third category.
The team is scattered across the departure gate area, some guys already asleep in uncomfortable airport chairs, others scrolling through their phones or playing cards. Normal road trip energy––tired but focused, ready for two games in Vancouver that could determine our playoff seeding.
What’s not normal is the reporter sitting three rows away, typing furiously on her laptop like she’s writing the next great American novel instead of whatever hit piece she’s planning.
It’s been two days since our last encounter, and I still can’t get the memory of her defiant voice out of my head.Try me, hockey boy.The way her voice washed down places it had no business being.
Fuck. Forget about the sexy reporter.
But it’s hard to forget about someone when they’re sitting close enough that I can see the concentration on her face as she types. Hard to ignore the way she’s dressed in that white oversized sweater and blue shorts, comfortable for travels and still so fucking sexy.
Jake drops into the seat next to me, grinning like he knows something I don’t.Fucking bastard. “Morning, pretty bird. Looking forward to the flight?”
“It’s a flight to Vancouver. Nothing to look forward to.”
“Right. And I’m sure the fact that our embedded reporter is on the same plane has nothing to do with your sunny disposition.”
