Page 77 of Dirty As Puck
Compromised journalist. Biased coverage. Could this be the end of her career?
Derek sits back in his chair, sipping his coffee like he’s watching a show he’s seen a hundred times. “Beautiful, isn’t it? All that power, gone in seconds.”
“No,” I whisper, but it comes out broken.
My phone won’t stop pinging and buzzing. The headlines continue to pile up, each one worse than the last. And then the comments, people ripping me apart.
She slept her way into getting a job with the team.
Can’t trust a word she’s written. Morrison caught with a reporter seems like a classic setup.
Helplessness hits me like a physical blow. I try to call Kai, but the line goes straight to voicemail. My chest caves in at the thought of him seeing all this before I can explain it to him.
I refresh, desperate to see how bad it’s gotten, only to find a video already circulating.
Reporters crowd him outside practice, cameras flashing, and voices shouting over each other.
“Is it true you’re in a relationship with Rochelle Winters?”
“Did she compromise her coverage of you?”
The camera catches his face as he freezes mid-step. The look on his face is a mix of shock and disbelief. And then something sharper, like betrayal, before he turns away and pushes through the swarm.
The screen shakes in my hand. I can barely breathe.
Across the table, Derek smirks, perfectly satisfied. “Looks like you’re both trending, huh?”
I can’t answer. My world is crumbling in real time, and I can’t do nothing but watch.
I can’t stop pacing. My phone is still blowing up every thirty seconds, the glow of new notifications bleeding across the dark of my apartment.
I’ve tried calling Kai almost a hundred times now. I’m met with voicemail every single time. Each unanswered call lands in my chest like a weight. Where is he? What is he thinking? Is he mad at me?
I press my phone to my ear again, listening to the empty ring before it dumps me back into silence. My breath feels uneven, shallow, like I can’t get enough air.
If I’m this devastated about the leak, then what about him? He’s the one in the spotlight, the one with cameras ready to catch every flinch.
The thought makes me dig my nails into my palms. I can’t sit still. I walk from the window to my desk, then back to the window, staring down at the quiet street below as if it can offer answers. But nothing’s quiet anymore. Not online. Not in the world we live in.
I scroll without meaning to, and the headlines scream at me.
Journalist Compromised in Athlete Scandal.
Conflict of Interest Exposed: Winters and Morrison Affair.
My name is already a punchline in threads and comment sections. Some call me ambitious, some call me dirty, and some call me worse.
Each word slices deep until I can hardly recognize myself in the reflection of this mess.
The vibration of an incoming call jolts me. Relief spikes. It’s finally Kai. But no. Marcus Webb. The man who employed me for this job.
I answer with trembling fingers. “Marcus…”
“Don’t,” he cuts in. His tone is clipped, furious, the kind of voice that doesn’t leave room for explanations. “You’re fired, Rochelle. Pack your things. You won’t step foot anywhere near the hockey team again.”
The words are blunt, final, and leave no space for argument.
“Please, just listen, I can explain––” I try, but my throat is tight, the plea choking out half-formed.
