Anatomy of a Player (Taking Shots #2)

by Cindi Madsen

  I flipped him off, but a small part of me worried it was true. I’d felt off in general ever since the phone call from my mom. First school, which I’d always sucked at balancing with hockey, but short-term, mutually-beneficial fun was one area where I usually excelled. I needed the release, not to mention the proof that my entire life wasn’t morphing back to what it used to be.

  “Nah,” said Ryder. At first I thought he was coming to my defense, then he added, “That girl’s just out of your league, not to mention hell-bent on proving she’s not here to try to date the hockey players. You didn’t stand a chance, even before she talked to you.”

  Most of the guys had gone to hit the showers, and the hot, steamy water was calling my name, too. But my pride wouldn’t let me leave it alone. “A little time, and I could get that girl to change her tune.”

  “Care to make it more fun with a wager?” Dane asked.

  A prickling sensation worked its way across my neck, warning me this was a bad idea, but I couldn’t help myself. I had a rep to keep up, and it was especially important now, so that all the shit in my life wouldn’t rise up for everyone to see. “By the end of the semester, I’ll have slept with that girl. If you want to lose money on a bet, be my guest.”

  “I was thinking about making it more interesting than money. If you fail, I get your signed Lundqvist jersey.”

  Keeping my expression neutral wasn’t easy, but I held it in place. I’d gotten that jersey at a Rangers game on the very same day I’d found out that I’d landed a full-ride to play hockey at Boston College. Lucky days didn’t come along very often, especially when I’d lived in New York, and that jersey represented a future I never thought I’d have a chance at, both with college and a possible hockey career. It was my most prized possession, which Dane damn well knew. But backing down was never my strong suit.

  “Fine. But if I win, you owe me five-hundred bucks and you attend the final hockey party with my name and number painted on your face and torso as proof that I’m superior at hockey and with the ladies.” There. Now he’d have to take a risk, too. I couldn’t replace the jersey with that amount, but it’d come close. Add the possible humiliation, something Dane’s pride would have a hard time swallowing, and it’d seem like a more even bet, at least.

  He hesitated, then he stretched out his hand. “It’s a bet,” he said as we shook on it.

  That zing of energy I’d been missing lately pinged through me, awakening my competitive side, even more than the hockey game had. My interaction with the reporter might’ve been brief, but she’d made everything else disappear for a little while. I had a feeling that breaking through her icy exterior would prove both challenging and fun, which was exactly what I needed to push all the problems plaguing me to the back of my mind.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I caught sight of that blond bun. A quick glance revealed the girl was looking my way. I flashed her a big smile that usually got me my way and she rolled her eyes.

  My smile stretched wider as she promptly turned and marched out of the locker room.

  Just like that, I was back.

  Chapter Nine

  Whitney

  What had Lyla said about winning them over and then infiltrating?

  I fell into the driver’s seat of my Mini Cooper, locked the door behind me, and slumped back against the worn fabric.

  I was pretty sure I hadn’t won Hudson Decker over. One day on the job and I was already making a horrible mess of this undercover thing. I’d nearly swallowed my tongue when I’d realized the dude I’d accidentally lusted after on the ice was the same cocky guy who’d hit on me at the party the other night.

  He’d flashed me a canary-eating grin that said he knew all my secrets, and I’d been sure my cover was totally blown. Despite the frigid AC blasting the locker room—which, hello, another extravagant expense in October—I’d broken out in sweat, testing the limits of my deodorant as my mind spun, looking for a way to explain away my appearance at that stupid party.

  At first I’d thought he was just playing it cool, waiting to spring it on me—after all, how could you forget a girl who told you that the amount of alcohol it’d take for her to sleep with you would kill her?

  Then again, judging by the way he’d been slurring and swaying that night, he’d had about that much to drink.

  It was dark, too. I glanced down at my dull duds and frowned at the way the shirt puckered out. Maybe my reporter disguise was better than I thought. Plus, a sportswriter could go to a party, even one heavily populated with hockey players.

  Still, it was insulting he didn’t even remember me. Just proved he was one of those guys who went through girl after girl, like they were disposable napkins, good for one use only. Ugh.

  While the lights of the party had been dim, the locker room lights had been turned up nice and bright, accentuating his deep brown, mischief-filled eyes, perfectly scruffy chin and jawline, and the kind of lips that could land a playdar-lacking girl like me neck-deep in trouble.

  I’d tried to glance away before I got caught up in his good looks, but my gaze had snagged on the dark swirls of ink that peeked out from under his hockey pads and dipped and curved their way down and around his ripped arms.

  That was about the moment I’d heard T Swift singing, “You look like my next mistake.”

  The “sweetheart” had snapped me out of it, and since he obviously wasn’t taking my serious-journalist look seriously enough, I’d hit him extra hard, to the point that I now worried I’d gone way too far.

  He’ll probably never talk to me again.

  I pushed up the non-prescription frames that I couldn’t get used to, telling myself that it didn’t matter because there were plenty of other hockey players on the team, and I had more pressing matters to worry about at the moment.

  Namely, how I was going to force five pages of rambling hockey nonsense into a decent sports article for the paper. Which of course meant figuring out how to write a sports article in general. Man, when I jumped into the deep end, I really jumped in, no life vest or knowledge on how to swim.

  I’m sure every good reporter’s felt this way, I told myself, because while I was drowning, I might as well heap on a good dose of denial.

  When my phone chirped, I jumped.

  Lyla: How’d it go?

  Me: I told Hudson Decker that he had no grasp of the English language, and then it was hard to get anything out of the players around him.

  I wished I could see Lyla’s expression—even though it’d probably only confirm that I’d blown it—but the dots floating across my phone’s screen made it clear she wasn’t sure how to respond. Finally a blue bubble appeared.

  Lyla: That’s one way to do it.

  Me: Do what? Ruin my career before it starts?

  Lyla: I’m sure it’s not that bad. Hudson needs a dose of humility now and then. His ego’s big enough that he’ll be fine. Plus, now the guys know not to hit on you, and they’ll treat you with more respect. It’ll be fine, you’ll see.

  I certainly hoped so. Her reassurances at least made my muscles loosen up enough that driving home no longer seemed like an impossible challenge.

  As I maneuvered the streets of Boston, my brain decided to betray me and drift to the way one corner of Hudson’s mouth had twisted up after I’d landed that first blow, halfway between bewilderment and a smirk. The guy obviously thought he was all that and a bag of Flamin’ Hot Cheetos, and whether or not he ever talked to me again, I couldn’t wait to put him and the rest of his teammates in their place.

  …

  When I walked into the newspaper office Monday afternoon, Lindsay did a double take. “You look different.”

  I figured that for now there was too big a risk of running into a hockey player on campus to drop the look, so until the story was written, I was stuck with it. “Yeah, well, I want to be taken seriously. Plus my roommate informed me I looked like a puck bunny in my usual clothes.”

  Lindsay laughed, but there was some
thing slightly off about it. Not quite fake, but uncomfortable. “It’s good to hear that you’re taking it so seriously. I was afraid that I’d send you in and you’d end up being one of those dumb blondes who fall for hockey players’ charms and muscles.”

  “Nope, not me,” I said, although inside I was thinking, Jeez, why don’t you tell me what you really think. In a way, I envied her for just putting it out there, no holding back like I tended to do. “I’m not even dating right now. My entire focus is on my classes and this story.”

  “Good. I’d hate to put all this effort into training you, only to have you end up being the token pretty girl on SportsCenter.”

  Considering my miniscule sports knowledge, I was fairly certain I was safe from that fate. Lindsay’s only comment on my write-up from the hockey game had been that it was good, but I needed more voice in the next one, and for it to be a couple of paragraphs longer. So between my research and my classes, I needed to find a voice before the next game.

  No biggie, right? I’ll just order one off Amazon. Two-day shipping, for the win!

  A tall guy with a mop of sandy-brown curls walked in and Lindsay motioned him over. “Whitney, this is Will, our tech guy. He keeps up the website and formats the online articles, and if you need help digging for information, or you find a lead that you need researched through more…let’s go with thorough methods, he’s your guy.”

  “Delighted to meet you,” he said in a delicious British accent. Since I’d had people mock and mimic the hint of southern accent I’d tried to rid myself of, I didn’t mention it, and I made a mental note to be careful of accidentally imitating it. For some reason, I couldn’t be around someone with an accent without subconsciously adopting it, usually poorly. Even now I had the urge to say things like “cheerio,” “bloody hell,” and “loo.”

  Before I made a fool of myself, I settled into the tiny desk Lindsay had asked a janitor to dig out of who-knew-where—the 1900s from the looks of the genuine chipped wood. Not that I was complaining. It matched the old-school brick architecture of most of the buildings on campus.

  I opened my laptop and continued on with my research. Finding instances of jocks thinking they were above the rules was almost too easy. There was that NFL quarterback everyone here loved, who’d cheated in a playoff game but got special treatment despite a judge’s ruling. At Auburn University, their curriculum committee tried to discontinue the “Public Administration” major, stating it added little to the school’s academic mission. But then top administrators overruled the decision, because Auburn’s athletic department had been funneling their football players through the cakewalk program. The athletic department even offered to fund it so that their football players could keep up their counterfeit GPAs.

  Then there was the UNC scandal, where the athletes took fake “paper classes.” A quick email would result in a passing grade.

  Must be nice.

  The big kicker was the way they’d boasted about their ability to maintain high academic standards while running one of the top sports programs.

  Next, I spent a good hour on scholarship information. The Flynn Fund for athletes at Boston College offered two hundred and seventy-two scholarships totaling nearly fifteen million dollars. All the applicants really needed to be was good at sports.

  On the other hand, the Presidential Scholars—awarded to about fifteen students—required nearly perfect grades, stellar SAT scores, and well-written essays. Seemed pretty unbalanced if you asked me.

  As for other scholarships and the money put into them, I kept hitting dead ends when it came to exact statistics. With Boston College being a private school, they didn’t have to report that funding the way other universities did.

  When I hit a wall a few hours in, I packed up my laptop and notes so I could go to the library to do the rest of my homework. I took the long route, deciding to walk by the Conte Forum building. A stone eagle statue stood outside the giant athletic facility. I paused near it, noting the modern design, vastly different from the gothic spires of the older buildings that I loved.

  Showy, just like the athletes inside.

  “Reporter Girl, is that you?”

  I whirled toward the voice and my stomach hit my toes. Not Hudson—anyone but him. But there he stood, his damp brown waves and the whiff of soapy-freshness making me think he’d recently showered.

  I reached up to run a hand through my own hair, but instead I hit the stupid tight bun, which left my arm hovering in midair. I tried to cover the awkwardness by pushing up my glasses.

  “I was just, uh, coming from the newspaper office, and admiring how this place looked all lit up.” Why did I add that stupid “uh”? Mama used to harp on it when I slipped and said it during my pageant interviews. She told me it made me sound like a dumb hick, and that I should be glad I wasn’t competing in Alabama, like she’d had to, where the competition was even steeper.

  Hudson glanced back at the building like he’d never thought about it before. Big surprise, he took the state-of-the-art facility for granted. Probably thought he deserved nicer.

  “Yeah, I guess,” he said. “It is a really nice facility—nicer than any I thought I’d ever play in—but once in a while I miss the old and simple. And I definitely miss pick-up games, where there weren’t so many rules.”

  Crap. That was actually kind of a great answer. I swore he was analyzing me as much as I was analyzing him, though, like he was wondering if I liked his response. Which made me wonder if it was even genuine. Plus he’d admitted to not liking rules, which was a red flag. He’d called me Reporter Girl, too. I bet he didn’t even remember my name.

  Be tough, Whitney. No falling for his charming answers.

  Hudson looped his thumb through the strap of his bag. “So, you said you came from the newspaper office? What made you want to go into journalism?”

  “The desire to see through bullshit.” I flashed him an over-the-top grin. There. Let him analyze that. No matter what I said, I’d probably never get in good with this particular hockey player. There was something about him that prickled my defenses.

  Probably because I knew if I dropped them—even a little—I’d start thinking about how his brown eyes had a way of sucking me in. Or how he was only a few inches taller than me but twice as wide, the T-shirt stretched tight across his chest making it clear that it was all muscle.

  “I like that straightforwardness,” he said, and for a frantic second I thought he meant my staring. “But you look a little stressed. After I hit the weights I usually go soak in the hot tub.”

  “Cool story,” I said, and I was glad that my voice came out calm, because my internal alarm was flashing red. Hot tub? Partial nakedness? Bad idea all around.

  Amusement flickered across his features. “I thought you might want to join me. It’d help with that stress.”

  “Somehow I don’t think you’re that worried about my stress. In fact, I’d guess you’re more interested in my bikini.”

  His eyebrows show up.

  That’s right. I’m not the girl who falls for smooth lines anymore. Point one to me for breaking his casual demeanor, too. I wanted someone else around, just so I could high five her, and I wasn’t usually the type to participate in hand-slapping gestures.

  “I’m actually surprised you own one,” he said. “I assumed you were more of a repressed, one-piece swimsuit girl.”

  I gritted my teeth. That stung more than I liked, especially since it only meant that my make-under was a success. “You know what they say about assuming. It makes an ass out of you.”

  “And me,” he added.

  “Yes. And you again. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got somewhere to be.”

  Chapter Ten

  Hudson

  What the hell? Not that I thought every girl would fall at my feet, but with most girls all I had to do was ask a few questions and get her talking about herself, and after that I was in. I’d thought we’d had a little moment while talking about the Conte Forum.
Then I’d asked her about her degree and somehow we’d gone from that to Whitney insulting me.

  I probably shouldn’t have made the jab about the swimsuit, but she’d clearly thought she’d gotten one over on me, and I couldn’t have that. No girl slept with a guy she thought of as weak, unless it was a pity fuck, and I definitely didn’t want that.

  As I watched her storm away, though, I thought I might’ve bitten off more than I could chew. But that’d never stopped me before, and I wasn’t going to let it stop me now. Not with my prize jersey and my pride on the line. Not to mention that thinking of my next run-in with the girl was doing exactly what I’d hoped it would—keeping me nice and distracted from thinking about everything else.

  I might need a new strategy, though. No flirting or innuendo, and lots of killing with kindness. Once I got closer to her, then I’d come on slower—she’d checked me out, I’d seen it, so the interest was there, and I could work with that.

  As I started toward my truck, I rehashed the tug of war of emotions that’d played across her face during our conversation. No doubt she was the rule-follower-type, and she’d probably decided flirting with a player crossed ethical boundaries.

  But boundaries were made to be broken¸ and I didn’t mind putting a little work into making her cross lines, not when the girl was so entertaining.

  …

  I wandered into the bathroom, blinking at the bright light that I was sure I hadn’t left on—I liked it dark, and often didn’t bother turning the lights on until after my shower, when I was more awake. The name and number written in lipstick across the mirror solved the mystery.

  I’d stayed on track most of the week—no more drinking and lots of studying. We didn’t have a game until Sunday, though, and the allure of a Friday night out had been too tempting to resist. I’d needed a distraction, and the pretty blonde I’d met at the bar had seemed like the perfect one at the time.

  Man, I barely remember her leaving last night. I only had one beer, so I’d passed out from exhaustion, not alcohol. I did remember being relieved that she hadn’t tried to stay or unearth personal details. But now there was her number, so maybe the implication of it being a simple one-night stand hadn’t been strong enough.