Page 9 of Puck Off, She’s Mine

He has me obsessing without doing a single thing. Hell, maybe that's part of his plan. He'll wear me down through anticipation and expectation, so when he does finally reappear, I'm so relieved, I cave.

Except, I'm made of sterner stuff than that. I'm not dating him. It doesn't matter how many times I've dreamed of him this week. It's not happening.

I actually like my job, and there's no freaking way I'll be able to continue doing it if I'm nursing a broken heart after Phoenix shatters it into pieces. That's not going to happen.

"It's going to be bad when they find out what he did," a man murmurs from further down the hall. "Coach is furious."

"Of course he is," someone else, a woman, replies. "I mean…he's lucky he isn't in prison already. Can you just imagine what'll happen if word gets out?"

Eavesdropping is bad, I know this. But…I'm a reporter, and this smells like gossip. So I do what any good reporter would do. I duck into an alcove and eavesdrop like my life depends on it.

"I hope it doesn't get out," the man says. "We can't afford to lose him right now."

"What are they going to do?"

"No idea," his companion says. "But he was in Coach's office early this morning. Louie said he heard Mitch yelling from the PT suite."

What the fuck? Who was in his office? And why was he yelling? And who is lucky they aren't in prison right now? I'm suddenly dying to know, not just because I'm a reporter, but because I'm desperately nosy. Who fucked up?

"Just imagine what his dad will say," the man says.

"Right? It's a shame, really. To just throw it all away after he's put in so much work to…"

I strain to hear more, but all I catch are footsteps heading away from me. Dammit. I briefly consider trying to follow them in the hopes that I catch a name or more info, but quickly decide I do not have the skillset for that.

God made me nosy. He didn't make me stealthy.

But Corey's question about rumors suddenly makes a lot more sense. And I now have a lot more questions.

I pull my phone from my pocket and type out a quick text to my boss, letting him know that a story came up, and I'll be back later than anticipated. I have players to grill and rumors to chase. There's no time for the office today.

By the following morning, I've reached exactly two conclusions. One: hockey players love to gossip. And two: Someone is definitely in trouble.

Unless I'm way off base, that someone is Phoenix.

From what I've been able to piece together from his somewhat-helpful teammates, he's in serious trouble for something highly illegal. They were more than willing to fill me in on that much, but no one is talking about what he did in anything more than vague terms. Every time I try to dig for specifics, they shut down. I only managed to confirm it was him by process of elimination and a stealthy game of "tell me something about each of the first line skaters".

I'm a genius for that one, I might add. Everyone was happy to share some ridiculous story about everyone else. But when it came time to talk about Phoenix, they all clammed up. I got no less than four "he's a great guy" responses, two "he's one of the best," and one "I don't know him" that would make Mariah proud. Not even Corey was willing to talk. I'm impressed by that one, honestly.

And a little annoyed that I have to go directly to the source of the trouble. I am not emotionally prepared to speak to Phoenix right now. I also have no choice. Like I said, his teammates were only somewhat helpful. And I need details.

So I sit myself on the bleachers to watch the last few minutes of practice, my eyes on him. He seems tense, but there's no denying that he's a damn good skater. He handles the puck like he was born to do it, whipping across the ice as if it's easy. I almost envy the way he moves. I've never been that graceful or moved that beautifully. He makes it look easy.

He glances up at me once, our eyes locking. Even from a distance, I see the heat blazing in his gaze, and my stomach clenches. Visions from my dreams spill out behind my eyelids, a dozen different erotic images all playing out at once—him above me, moving like a song. Him below me, his head thrown back, whispering praise. Him on his knees, ruining me. He's all over me, unraveling me from the inside out every damn night.

Does he know it? The look on his face says maybe he does.

I'm the first to look away, unable to hold his gaze when he's naked in another dream-memory, fucking me so deep it feels real.

"Get it together," I whisper to myself, expelling a heavy breath. "You aren't sleeping with him." I keep hoping if I say it enough, it'll register in the deepest recesses of my brain, and I'll stop dreaming about him. So far, no dice.

My only hope at this point is that whatever he did is bad enough to render him completely unattractive. Somehow, I have a feeling that isn't going to happen, though. It's an infuriating problem to have, believe me.

I wait until practice is over to make my way toward the back. After fifteen minutes or so, players begin filing out of the locker room. A few greet me as they pass. At this point, they've gotten used to me lurking around. I'm haunting the arena, using my job as an excuse.

"Twice in one day, huh?" Corey says, drawing to a stop in front of me as soon as he steps out of the locker room, his bag over his shoulder. His lips curve, his dimples popping out. "Damn, beautiful. I'm getting real lucky here."

"I'm not here to see you," I say, rolling my eyes at him. He never stops, does he? It's like his factory setting is shameless flirt, and there's no turning it off.