Page 5 of Dirty As Puck
“Morning, boys,” he says, scanning the room as other players filter in for practice. “Before we hit the ice, I want to introduce you to someone who’s going to be around for the next several weeks.”
This is really happening.
A woman steps into the locker room behind Coach Williams, and every assumption I’ve made about female sports reporters goes straight out the window.
The first thing I notice is, this person is utterly breathtaking.
She’s not what I expected. Not ice queen cold or obviously predatory. She’s wearing the usual journalist fit, navy blazer anddark pants, but the way she carries herself has nothing to do with her job.
Sensual, hot and so fucking edible.
My throat goes dry.
Her dark hair is pulled back in a way that’s supposed to be severe but somehow makes me notice the sexy, creamy line of her neck instead. And her eyes...
Son of a bitch.Her eyes are sharp and green and looking directly at me.
It’s almost as if she can see all the impure thoughts I have in my head.
“This is Rochelle Winters from Sports Illustrated,” Coach Williams continues, his own eyes meeting mine as well in warning. “She’ll be embedded with the team for our playoff run. Full access, so I expect everyone to be professional and cooperative.”
Rochelle steps forward, and I catch myself tracking the sultry movement of her hips before forcing my attention back to her face.Shit, shit, shit. This is bad.
“Thank you, Coach Williams. I’m looking forward to working with everyone,” she says, and her voice has a soft huskiness that immediately puts me on edge. She sounds like someone who’s used to getting what she wants, and what she wants right now is clearly access to our lives.
Her gaze sweeps the room and lands on me again. For a split second, I see awareness shine in her eyes, maybe, or calculation. Then it’s gone.
I should be scared of this one.
“Any questions for Ms. Winters before we get started?” Coach Williams asks.
Ms.notMrs.Noted.
The room is quiet. Most of the guys are probably too busy trying to figure out how to act around a female reporter to think of anything intelligent to say. I should keep my mouth shut, maintain the minimal cooperation Coach expects, and get through this without incident.
Instead, I hear myself asking, “What’s your angle?”
Coach Williams glares at me, but Rochelle doesn’t seem fazed. If anything, she looks like she was expecting the question.
“I’m here to tell the story of this playoff run from the inside,” she says, still looking directly at me. “The real story, not just what happens on the ice.”
“And what makes you think there’s a story worth telling?”
“Every team has a story, Mr. Morrison. Some are just more interesting than others.”
The way she says my name––not dismissive, not intimidated, just matter-of-fact–– irritates me. If she knows my name, this can’t be good.
“Call me Kai,” I say, then continue after she nods. “Interesting is one word for it.”
“What word would you use?”
Complicated. Fucking exhausting. None of your business.
Coach Williams claps his hands together before I can figure out how to respond without giving her more ammunition. “Alright, that’s enough getting acquainted. Everybody on the ice in five minutes.”
The room explodes into motion as players finish gearing up and head for the tunnel. Rochelle steps aside to let everyone pass, but I can feel her watching as I grab my helmet and gloves.
Fucking hell, this is not what I need right now.
