Page 59 of Dirty As Puck
But I’ve been a reporter long enough to recognize when a story is clawing to the surface. And I’ve been around Kai long enough to know I can’t just let this go.
The café is vibrant with background chatter, but my head is too occupied for me to notice. I’m staring at my laptop screen, my latte going cold beside me, as my mind replays Kai’s behavior this morning like a loop I can’t switch off. The way his eyes darted to his phone, the clipped answers he gave to my questions, the way his shoulders tensed when a door slammed down the hall it wasn’t just stress. Something deeper is eating at him.
Normally, I’d chalk it up to game pressure. Professional hockey players live under constant scrutiny, and Kai thrives in chaos. But this feels different. Like it’s personal and private. Something he’s not letting anyone in on, not even me.
And that unsettles me more than I want to admit.
I pull my laptop closer, my fingers hovering over the keyboard. My instincts, the ones that got me this job and have saved me more than once, are screaming at me that something’s wrong. And if Kai won’t tell me what it is, maybe I need to find out for myself.
I start my search small, checking public records, old articles, roster profiles. Nothing unusual. Then I broaden the search by checking connections. Anything that might explain the tension shadowing his face.
After half an hour of digging, I stumble across a name I’ve never seen linked to him before: Derek.
It’s buried in an old public record from Ohio, tied to a family name I recognize immediately. Kai’s mother’s maiden name. My stomach dips, and my fingers freeze on the keyboard.
Coincidence? Maybe. But this doesn’t feel like one.
I dive deeper, my heart thudding louder the more I scroll. Derek, born in the same place as Kai. Same county. Same thread of a name that links back to his mother’s side.
I sit back, as my pulse starts to quicken.
It’s nothing more than a breadcrumb right now, just a name, a birthplace, a connection thin enough to dismiss if I were being rational. But my gut tells me it’s the start of something bigger.
Something Kai doesn’t see coming, that’s big enough to ruin him.
I close my laptop, pressing my palms flat against the warm surface. The café noise seeps back in, and it’s the sound of clinking cups and low laughter, but it feels like I’m drowning in the midst of it.
All I’ve got is a name. Derek. And for some reason, it already feels like a storm cloud hanging over both of us.
By the time I’m back in my apartment, the city outside has gone quiet, but I can’t switch my brain off. The name Derek keeps circling around my mind, and I can’t shake off the urge to find more.
I curl up on the couch with my laptop and a mug of tea that’s now lukewarm, promising myself I’ll just check a few things before going to bed.
Deep down, I know that’s a lie.
Within minutes I’m buried in old court records. Derek Delaunay’s name shows up more times than I’d like to see. He has misdemeanor charges, unpaid debts, the kind of messy paper trail you expect from someone that’s drowning. Next, Ifind the gambling cases. Two different lawsuits filed against him by betting agencies. One dismissed, another one still pending.
A pattern starts to take shape, and I study the pattern, trying to piece together something concrete.
I push into his social media. His profiles aren’t private, probably because he doesn’t think anyone cares enough to look.
Photos of poker nights, sports bets, captions dripping with pretense and desperation. Beneath it, comments from “friends” egging him on, knowing they’ll ghost him when the debts start to pile high.
And then, I see something worse.
Screenshots, his own, bragging of messages to gossip outlets. “Exclusive info,” he writes. “Guaranteed to sell.” My throat goes dry as I scroll. Rumors about Kai. Pieces of stories I’ve already seen online, whispers that fueled scandals, and headlines that nearly derailed his career.
It wasn’t some random reporters or paparazzi digging this up. It was Derek.
The ground tilts beneath me. Derek Delaunay, the man with his father’s last name, the man born in the same place as the star hockey player, a man whose shadow lines up too perfectly with Kai’s timeline… he’s not just some parasite. He’s Kai’s family. And he’s the blackmailer.
I slam my laptop shut, my heart hammering in my chest. The realization feels too big, too dangerous to even say aloud. Kai doesn’t know. I don’t think I can bring myself to tell him.
Because how do you tell someone the person tearing their life apart isn’t a stranger at all, but their own blood?
I press my palms against my eyes, fighting back the ache in my chest. I should tell him immediately. But the journalist in me, the woman who’s built a career on facts, knows I need more than snippets and breadcrumbs before I drop a bomb like this.
For now, all I have is proof of a predator. And the sickening certainty that the predator is his brother.
