Page 9 of Dirty As Puck
My phone rings. Marcus Webb.
“Winters, how’s the story developing?”
“Still gathering information,” I say. “Kai’s not exactly forthcoming.”
“That’s what I expected. You’ll need to get creative. Build rapport, make him trust you. Whatever it takes to get him talking.”
The implication in Marcus’s voice makes my skin crawl.Whatever it takes.Like I’m supposed to use my gender as a weapon to manipulate Kai into revealing secrets.
“I’ll get the story,” I say because I need this job even if I’m starting to hate the assignment.
“Good. I want an update by Friday.”
He hangs up, and I sit there wondering when journalism became indistinguishable from espionage.
But I have a job to do, and bills to pay, and a career to salvage. Time to see if I can crack the wall Kai has built around himself.
The next morning, I spend an extra twenty minutes getting ready. Not because I care what Kai thinks of how I look, but because I’ve learned that confidence comes from feeling put-together. The fitted black blazer that shows my figure without being inappropriate. Dark pants that make my legs look longer. Just enough makeup to look professional but approachable.
This is strategic dressing, not peacocking for Kai’s benefit. Not using my gender to get Kai to talk.
I arrive at the practice facility early, claiming a spot in the stands where I have a clear view of the ice. When the team takes the ice for morning skate, I immediately spot Kai. He’s impossible to miss with his size and the aggressive way he moves through warm-up drills.
And when he glances up at the stands, his eyes find me immediately.
Good. Let him know I’m watching.
I pull out my notebook and make a show of taking notes, aware that Kai’s gaze keeps drifting back to me. When I uncross and recross my legs, adjusting my position for a better angle to observe practice, I catch him tracking the movement.
He’s unable to keep his eyes off me.
The smirk I feel spreading across my face is probably unprofessional, but I can’t help feeling satisfied that the attraction isn’t one-sided. Kai can be as hostile as he wants during interviews, but his body language tells a different story.
Practice is more revealing than yesterday’s session, but not in the way I expected. Kai dominates the ice like he owns it––barking orders at teammates, throwing hits that echo through the arena, playing with the kind of physical intensity that makes everyone else look small by comparison.
He’s not just big. He’s overwhelming.
During scrimmage drills, he controls the defensive zone like a general commanding troops. Players defer to him, follow his lead, adjust their positioning based on his calls. It’s impressive, sure, but it’s also exactly what you’d expect from someone with an ego the size of Washington State.
Alpha energy wrapped in arrogance. Textbook athlete narcissism.
The way he moves through contact, absorbing hits and dishing them out with equal measure, has a raw physicality that’s impossible to ignore. Every check he throws looks like it couldput someone through the boards. Every stride across the ice carries the threat of violence barely held in check.
And I hate that I find it attractive.
When practice ends, I make my way down to the tunnel, hoping to catch some of the other players for interviews. If Kai won’t talk, maybe his teammates will give me insight into what he’s actually like when the cameras aren’t rolling.
Jake Rivera is the first player I approach. Kai’s defense partner seems friendly enough, though I notice his smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes when he realizes what I want to discuss.
“Ms. Winters, right? How are you settling in?”
“Getting my bearings,” I say. “I was hoping to get some quotes about team chemistry, especially on the defensive lines.”
Jake glances around, probably checking to see if Kai is within earshot. “What do you want to know?”
“How long have you been paired with Kai?”
“Three seasons.”
