Page 3 of Dirty As Puck
Either he was a late bloomer, or something happened in his junior career that scared teams off.
My phone buzzes with Marcus’s email. Credentials, hotel confirmations, a schedule that makes my head spin. This is really happening.
But buried in the details is something that makes my stomach drop. The assignment doesn’t just want me to write about Morrison––it wants me to get close enough to uncover his personal secrets. The kind of access that comes from building trust, then breaking it for a story.
I’ve never done a hit piece before. Sure, I’ve written unflattering articles about corrupt youth league officials and overzealous parents, but this feels different. This feels like using my gender and his potential attraction to manipulate him into revealing things that could destroy his reputation.
My phone rings. Gemma.
“Okay, spill,” she says without preamble. “What’s got you overthinking so hard I can feel your anxiety from across town?”
I explain the assignment, the access, the expectation that I’ll dig up dirt on Morrison for public consumption. When I finish, there’s silence on the other end.
“So basically, they want you to be a sports journalism honey trap,” Gemma finally says.
“That’s... actually a really good way to put it.”
“And you’re having ethical concerns.”
“Massive ethical concerns.”
“But you’re also broke, and this could make your career.”
“Also, yes.”
Gemma sighs. “Look, you know I support you no matter what. But maybe the real story isn’t what they think it is. MaybeMorrison isn’t the villain they want him to be. Maybe the real journalism is finding out the truth, not just confirming their bias.”
This is why Gemma is my best friend. She has a way of cutting through my spiral of overthinking and pointing me toward what I actually believe.
I close the laptop and lean back in my chair, watching Seattle drizzle against the coffee shop windows. Eight weeks ago, I was writing about community college basketball. Now I’m about to get unprecedented access to one of professional hockey’s most controversial players.
There’s a voice in my head––the same one that got me through journalism school and three years of freelance rejection––whispering that this is my chance. My opportunity to prove I can hang with the big leagues, to write the kind of stories that matter. Sure, Marcus wants dirt on Morrison, but maybe there’s more to the story. Maybe there’s actually journalism to be done here.
Or maybe I’m just trying to justify taking an assignment that feels a little too much like tabloid hunting for my comfort.
“I have to take it,” I tell Gemma. “Even if it makes me uncomfortable. I need this.”
“I know you do. Just promise me you’ll trust your instincts. If something doesn’t feel right about Morrison or the story, don’t ignore that feeling.”
“Promise.”
“Good. Now go home and pack some cute outfits. If you’re going to be around professional athletes for eight weeks, you might as well look good doing it.”
I laugh for the first time all day. “There’s my superficial best friend.”
“Someone has to balance out your noble journalism ideals.”
I gather my things and head for the door, already mentally preparing for the next eight weeks. Research Morrison’s background, study his game film, learn enough about hockey to ask intelligent questions. Find the story behind the story, even if it’s not the one Marcus wants to hear.
The rain hits my face as I step outside, and I can’t help but smile. For the first time in months, I have somewhere to be that isn’t this coffee shop or my increasingly questionable apartment.
Kai Morrison has no idea what’s coming for him. Then again, I’m not entirely sure I do either.
But I’m about to find out.
I pull my jacket tighter against the Seattle rain and unlock my beat-up Honda Civic. The engine turns over on the second try, which I’m taking as a good omen. Time to go home and pack for what could either be the assignment of a lifetime or a career-ending disaster.
Eight weeks to get close to hockey’s most notorious bad boy and uncover the real story behind the headlines. Eight weeks to prove I belong in the big leagues.
