Page 24 of Dirty As Puck
Focus, you have a story to write.
I open my laptop and pull up my notes from the Vancouver trip, intending to organize my thoughts into something resembling coherent journalism. What I find instead is three pages of observations that read more like a detailed catalog of Kai Morrison’s physical attributes than professional sports coverage.
“Morrison’s playing style shows remarkable intensity, particularly in the way his jaw clenches when he’s focused...”
I delete the line and start again.
“The defenseman’s approach to contact is aggressive yet calculated, his body moving with a kind of controlled violence that...”
Delete. Again.
Professional observations, not personal fantasies.
But every time I try to write about Kai’s hockey performance, my mind drifts to other kinds of performance. The way he kissed me against that hotel room wall. The way his hands felt spanning my waist. The way he looked at me in the bar like he wanted to drag me back to his room and finish what we started.
This is exactly why journalists shouldn’t get personally involved with their subjects.
I close the laptop and stare out the airplane window, watching Vancouver disappear beneath clouds. One night of sharing close quarters with Kai, and I’m completely compromised. Marcus wanted me to get close enough to uncover Morrison’s secrets, but all I’ve uncovered is my own weakness for dangerous men who kiss like they’re claiming territory.
Pull yourself together. You’re a professional. Act like one.
The Seattle practice facility feels like neutral territory after the intensity of the Vancouver hotel room. Familiar surroundings, established routines, clear professional boundaries. I can do this. I can cover Kai Morrison like any other athlete and pretend I don’t know how tender and gentle his kisses are.
Professional distance. That’s the key.
I arrive early and set up in the stands with my notebook and recorder, determined to focus on hockey instead of the way Kai’spractice jersey clings to his chest. When the team takes the ice for morning skate, I keep my observations strictly technical.
Morrison’s positioning during defensive drills shows strong anticipation skills.
His communication with teammates indicates natural leadership abilities.
The way he moves on ice demonstrates excellent edge work and…
Kai glances up at the stands during a water break, and our eyes meet for a split second. The look he gives me is completely neutral––professional, distant, like I’m just another reporter covering his team.
Okay. That’s good. It’s how it should be.
But something about his deliberate indifference irritates me more than his previous hostility. At least when he was antagonistic, I knew I was getting under his skin. This cold professionalism feels like dismissal.
You wanted professional boundaries. This is what they look like.
Practice ends, and I make my way down to the tunnel area for post-skate interviews. Most of the players are cooperative, giving me standard quotes about preparation and team chemistry. But when I approach Kai, he brushes past me like I’m invisible.
“Morrison, could I get a quick quote about tonight’s—”
“Ask Coach Williams,” he says without slowing down. “I’m sure he’ll have plenty to say about tonight’s game plan.”
Back to Morrison instead of Kai. Message received.
Coach Williams is in his office reviewing game tape when I knock on his door frame. He looks up and gestures for me to come in, pausing the video on a freeze frame of Kai delivering a bone-crushing check.
“Ms. Winters. How can I help you?”
“I was hoping to get some background on Morrison’s development as a player. His journey to the NHL.”
Coach Williams leans back in his chair, studying me with the kind of sharp attention that successful coaches develop. “What specifically are you looking for?”
“His early hockey experience. Junior career. Family support system.” The standard questions that usually reveal the privileged background most professional athletes come from.
