Page 7 of Dirty As Puck
“My public image is what people like you make it,” I say, forcing myself to meet her eyes instead of letting my gaze wander. “I can’t control what gets printed.”
“You can control what you say to me right now.”
“Can I? Because it seems like you’ve already decided what story you want to tell.”
“What story do you think I want to tell?”
The question makes me pause and I realize she’s not just asking about the article. She’s asking what I think she sees when she looks at me. And the honest answer––that I think she sees exactly what everyone else sees, another hockey player withanger issues and a reputation for trouble––isn’t something I’m willing to give her.
Instead, I stand up, using every inch of my height advantage to loom over her. Most people back down when I do this. Most people remember that I’ve put guys in the hospital and decide they’d rather not test my patience.
Rochelle doesn’t even blink. She keeps looking up at me, steady and unflinching.
“That won’t work on me, Kai,” she says. Her voice doesn’t waver, doesn’t show even a hint of backing down.
I lean closer, close enough to see the pulse at her throat. “You sure about that?”
For a moment, neither of us moves. The air between us is charged, like the moment before lightning strikes. I can feel the heat radiating from her body, can see her pulse beating at the base of her throat, and I realize that what I’m feeling isn’t just irritation.
She’s not backing down because she’s not afraid of me.
She’s not afraid of me because...
Because she feels it too. Whatever this is––attraction, challenge, the pull of something dangerous. It’s not one-sided.
This woman, this journalist who’s here to dig up dirt on my life and serve it to the public, is looking at me like she wants to know what I taste like.
And I’m looking at her the same way.
This is bad. This is very, very bad.
I step back abruptly, breaking the moment and hopefully breaking whatever spell just tried to settle over us. Rochelleblinks, and I see disappointment flash across her face before her professional mask slides back into place.
“This interview is over,” I say.
I walk away before she can respond, muttering something about ballsy reporters under my breath, but I can feel her eyes on me until I disappear into the locker room.
Jake takes one look at my face and whistles low. “That went well.”
“Shut up, Rivera.”
“Did you just storm out of an interview with the reporter who’s going to be shadowing us for the next eight weeks?”
I don’t answer, but Jake’s expression tells me my silence is answer enough.
“Kai, what the hell are you thinking?”
I was thinking she smells good and has the kind of mouth that would look perfect wrapped around––
“I wasn’t thinking anything,” I lie. “She asked stupid questions, I gave her stupid answers, end of story.”
“Right. And the part where you looked like you wanted to either kill her or kiss her?”
Both. Definitely both.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Jake shakes his head and starts pulling off his gear. “This is going to be a long eight weeks.”
