Page 6 of Dirty As Puck
Practice is supposed to be about preparation, but I find myself playing with extra aggression, throwing hits harder than necessary and fighting for every inch of ice like this is game seven of the Stanley Cup Finals instead of a Tuesday morning skate. Part of me knows I’m showing off, and that knowledge pisses me off even more.
I can see Rochelle in the stands, notebook in hand, watching everything with a focused attention that makes my skin itch. During a line change, I catch sight of her uncrossing and recrossing her legs, and the movement draws my attention to the way her pants hug her thighs.
Hell, Morrison. Get your head in the game.
But every time I look up, she’s there. Taking notes, observing, probably cataloguing every penalty-worthy hit and calculating how to spin them into whatever story she’s already decided to tell about us, about me.
When practice ends, I’m the last one off the ice. I take my time with my post-skate routine, hoping Rochelle will get bored and move on to interviewing someone more cooperative.
She doesn’t seem to get it though, she waits patiently and I growl at myself.
Jake skates over as I’m unlacing my helmet.
“Subtle as always,” he says.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Right. And I’m sure the extra hitting had nothing to do with our audience.”
I ignore him and head for the tunnel, but Rochelle intercepts me before I can escape to the locker room.
“Kai, could I get a few minutes for an interview?”
Up close, she’s smaller than she looked from across the room, but there’s nothing diminished about her presence. She’s looking up at me with those sharp green eyes, and I realize she’s not intimidated by the fact that I’m more than a foot taller and probably outweigh her by a hundred pounds.
“Coach’s orders,” I say, making it clear this isn’t voluntary.
“I appreciate your time.”
She leads me to a quiet corner near the equipment room, far enough from the locker room that we won’t be interrupted but close enough that I can make a quick escape if necessary. She pulls out a small recording device and sets it between us on a nearby table.
“Mind if I record this?”
“Do I have a choice?”
“You always have a choice, Morrison.”
There’s something in the way she says it that makes me look at her more closely. She’s sitting with perfect posture, professional and composed, but there’s a hint of challenge in her voice that suggests she’s not going to throw me softball questions.
“What do you want to know?”
“Let’s start with the obvious. You lead the league in penalty minutes this season. Care to comment on your fighting record?”
Straight for the throat. I respect that, even if I hate it.
“Hockey’s a contact sport. Sometimes contact gets personal.”
“Is that what happened in the bar two weeks ago? Things got personal?”
My jaw tightens. The bar fight is exactly the kind of story that gets twisted into whatever narrative sells the most papers, and I’m not about to give her ammunition.
“That’s not a hockey question.”
“Your public image affects the team. That makes it a hockey question.”
She crosses her legs as she says it, and the movement catches my attention despite myself. The way her pants pull tight across her thighs, the professional heel that somehow manages to look both practical and distracting...
Focus, idiot. She’s trying to get under your skin, and you’re looking at her thighs.
