Anatomy of a Player (Taking Shots #2)

by Cindi Madsen

  I grabbed a wad of tissue paper, but hesitated over the S in Samantha. Maybe the number was more for continuing the no-strings-attached fun than a hope for something deeper…

  After a moment of going back and forth, I wiped it off, smearing the name and digits into two messy pink streaks. Repeats weren’t my thing. Relationships were just another form of addiction that gradually made you lose who you were. People claimed they wanted love and companionship, but what they really wanted was to change and control each other. To have a distraction from being alone so they wouldn’t have to take a hard look at themselves. In the name of love, people made stupid decisions and held on to things that were obviously broken—and even hazardous to their health.

  Despite seeing how toxic they could be, I’d still attempted two relationships in my life, thinking maybe it didn’t have to go down that way. Big surprise, both times had gone pretty badly, so I’d returned to what I was good at. One and done. No getting in too deep, no wrapping my life up in someone else’s until both of us ended up losing pieces of ourselves.

  I turned on the shower, stepping in when the water was nice and hot. For some reason, Reporter Girl popped into my head. Something must be wrong with my brain because I wanted to go head-to-head with her again. A big part of why I’d made the stupid bet with Dane was so that he’d stop hovering and giving me a bad time for not acting like myself.

  The fact of the matter was, falling in line and getting good grades was hardly acting like myself. My usual M.O. alternated between lashing out and disengaging entirely. Every few years I switched, thinking the other was better, only to find it didn’t do much good, either. I’d hoped moving away from home would change things, and for a while it had.

  Until all the complications hit at once, reminding me who I was.

  Without Reporter Girl to distract me, I needed something else to focus on. With my scholarship in jeopardy, I knew it should be my stupid statistics class. I wished school came easy, or that I liked it, but I had to force every bit of information into my head the hard way, with hours of study. Between attending classes and hockey practices and games, I hardly had an hour, much less several.

  Which probably meant I didn’t have time for blondes in bars, much less one that’d take so much time and effort. But I was quickly becoming addicted to the way interactions with Whitney pushed everything else to the background, and I figured as far as addictions went, it was on the healthier end of the spectrum. After all, it helped my mental state, which might clear enough space in my brain to actually take in whatever I studied. So, good idea or not, I couldn’t give up the interplay we had going right now.

  I’d have to make a game plan for winning her over after today’s study group. If the time I put in there didn’t go well, then I’d have no choice but to try to charm some answers out of the TA, or a girl from my class, or—hell, anyone. As foolish as the pursuit might be, though, I wanted to know the material myself because I’d need it to get through the rest of the classes and earn my degree.

  Most of the guys on the hockey team wanted to go pro, and I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t something I dreamed of, too. But I’d learned how seldom dreams actually came true, and I wanted a backup plan. I never wanted to be in the position to have to rely on someone else for money ever again—it was a promise I’d made myself years ago, and that meant job options once I graduated, NHL contract or not. I wanted to be paid enough to really make it, too, not simply scrape by.

  I toweled off, threw on clothes, then picked up my textbook for my statistics class. A few intense hours of studying with people who actually understood the material was what I needed. So despite what I wanted to do instead, I shoved my book in my backpack and hoped that by the time I finished grabbing a bite to eat, I’d be in the right mindset for a boring-ass cram session at the library.

  Chapter Eleven

  Whitney

  At the crack of noon on Saturday morning, I dragged myself out of bed, showered and dressed, and then headed into the kitchen, my sights set on the coffeemaker. I wasn’t much of a coffee person, but I knew I was going to need a lot of caffeine to get through my day. I wished I could say I was exhausted because I’d been living it up on Friday night, but no. I’d been at home researching and studying my butt off.

  The coffeemaker gurgled, and I covered a yawn, silently chanting for it to brew faster. As happy as I was to have the spot at the paper and this huge chance at a cover story, research ate away hours of my day. I’d dive into the Google Time Vortex, thinking I’d only look up a few things, and emerge hours later, wondering how so much time had passed.

  Then there were my classes to worry over. Technically my degree was in Communication with a minor in American Studies and a concentration in Journalism. While I was a lover of facts, my many history classes involved a lot of memorization, and because I’d lost my mind for a few optimistic minutes during registration, I’d decided to take an extra class this semester. The theory was that between it and my extra summer credits, I could pull off having a minor as well as a concentration and still graduate on time. The reality was that my GPA would take a serious hit if I couldn’t find a better way to multitask.

  Good thing I’ve given up guys, because I don’t have time for them anyway.

  Despite what I told myself, a hint of longing crept up. I missed even the possibility of a crush—the anticipation of when you might bump into the person next, and how it might be the catalyst that started something amazing.

  The gurgling of the coffeemaker quieted, and I filled my mug, dumped a bunch of creamer and sugar into it so that I could actually stand the taste, and then took a cautious sip to keep from burning my tongue.

  It was sad that my muscles protested something as little as lifting my cup—between having to cart around my laptop, and multiple trips to the newspaper office taking up what used to be my down time, my shoulders and back ached from my backpack straps, and my legs had tried to go on strike more than once.

  When I heard the front door open, I rounded the counter to greet my roommate. Lyla had spent last night at Beck’s, and between that and both of our crazy schedules, we hadn’t had a real talk in days. Funny how we used to go that long and I didn’t think twice about it. Now it gave me withdrawals.

  “I got you a present,” Lyla said, producing a stack of newspapers.

  “Thanks?” When I realized it’d come out as a question, I quickly added, “Not that I’m not crazy about the news, because you know I am, but I’m not sure if I’ll have time to read those for a while.” I was already a couple of editions behind on the New York Times. They were just sitting on my Kindle, waiting to be read.

  “Well, not every article, of course. You said that your editor wanted you to add more voice and length to your next article, and when I asked Beck what made a good sportswriter, he went on and on about this guy who covers the Bruins.” She kicked off her shoes by the couch and then steadied the wobbling pile of newspapers with a hand on top. “I’m not going to lie, I kind of tuned out for a bit, because I didn’t understand half of what he was saying. But then he showed me these”—she lifted the bundle a couple of inches—“and, after I made a Howard Hughes reference he didn’t get… You’d know what I meant if I said ‘This collection is drifting into Howard Hughes territory,’ wouldn’t you?”

  “Eccentric recluse filmmaker who became obsessed with things and hoarded them,” I said, setting my mug on the coffee table. “I got it.”

  “See. I told him you’d get it. Anyway, he gave me permission to borrow a stack so that you could read the sports articles and try to figure out what makes them so great. I thought it might help.”

  I took the unwieldy pile and hugged them to my chest, sure I’d end up with gray smudges across my pale blue button down. Silver lining—it’d at least match my pants. “Awesome. Thank you—with an exclamation point this time. I’ll take these with me to campus and see if I can’t sneak in a few. I’m going to set up in a high traffic area and ask people
how they feel about the hockey team; if they feel athletes get preferential treatment, and the like. I figure going on a Saturday will give me a pool of the more school-minded students, and then I’ll do one mid-week to get a cross section of the rest, and see how much they differ.”

  I jammed the papers into my backpack, along with my yellow legal pad and a pack of multi-colored pens and highlighters—the laptop was going to have to stay home today, because I couldn’t fit it in. My back and shoulders needed a break anyway.

  I retrieved my mug and downed the last of my coffee, sticking my tongue out at the end. I better grab a Coke, too. More caffeine, and it’ll wash away the coffee taste.

  After grabbing a cold can, I turned to Lyla, who was pouring a bowl of cereal. “Hey, while I have you, I wanted to talk to you about something.”

  “Shoot,” she said before popping a blue Crunchberry in her mouth.

  “It’s…Hudson.” I’d told her about Monday’s encounter already, so she was up to date on our interactions. “I need a sure way to shut down his faux advances but not attack him and look like a crazy emotional reporter.”

  Lyla put the milk back in the fridge and picked up her bowl. “Faux advances? I doubt they were fake.”

  “I was wearing a pantsuit the first time, Lyla. The second time I had on a white polo and khaki pants—I looked like I was wearing a school uniform.”

  Lyla circled her spoon over me. “Exudes sex appeal, remember?”

  I cracked a smile at that. “More like I was female and there, but thanks. Now, about this sure way to deal with him… You’re good at experiments. How do I figure out how to walk the right line with him? And the rest of the guys, of course.”

  “The problem is, people have too many variables. That’s why I prefer to work with elements. If you’ll remember, my social experiment wasn’t exactly a raging success, although I did learn to be more confident, and some of my new social skills have come in handy.”

  “Not to mention it landed you Beck,” I said.

  “Yes, let’s always mention that.” A dreamy look crossed her face, and I’d officially lost her. She came back a few seconds later. “Like I said before, just go as all-out nerdy as you can. Spout facts. Make it awkward. Of course, that’s a bit trickier while you’re doing interviews, because you want to come across as professional.”

  “Therein lies the problem. No matter what I say, Hudson doesn’t seem to understand what treating me like a professional entails.” Of course, the way I stared at him wasn’t entirely professional either. I’d have to figure out a way to shut down my hormones around him, so that I wouldn’t have to work so hard to shut him down.

  “Well,” Lyla said, leaning back against the counter and crossing one ankle over the other. “You landed pretty great slams the past few times. I’m sure he’ll give up on flirting with you and move on.”

  A strange sensation tugged on my gut. The thought of him moving on didn’t bother me. Or it shouldn’t. As frustrating as he was, a teeny tiny, obviously mentally unstable part of me craved our interactions and the challenge of coming up with a retort. My blood pumped faster around him. I said things I normally didn’t. With him, speaking my mind was easy.

  More than once, I wondered if I’d been too harsh the other night. But he’d assumed I’d be desperate to jump into the hot tub with him—and that jab about my swimsuit sent a spike of irritation through me every time I thought about it. Just, like, once. Okay, three times, maybe four. I stacked the night of the party against him, too, with his smooth line and accompanying wink. Every inch of him was player, player, player.

  I couldn’t let myself forget that.

  Even if that tiny part of me wanted to play right back.

  I set up in front of the library, and if getting my nerd on was the goal, well then the flutter I felt about conducting my first poll meant I could cross that off my list.

  The flutter died pretty quickly once I tried to get students to answer my questions. People didn’t even slow down. In fact, they saw me and sped up, like I was one of those pushy salesmen in the mall that sold sunglasses, lotions, and flat irons.

  Finally I gathered enough courage to be bolder. When a couple of girls started toward the library, I stepped into their path. “Hey, would you mind answering a few questions? It’ll only take a few minutes of your time.”

  The reluctance was clear in the way their shoulders sagged, but I’d snagged them—I just needed to keep them. “Do y’all think that athletes at the college get preferential treatment? Do you think they have different rules than the rest of the student body?”

  The girls looked at each other, like the other would know the answer, then they gave uniform shrugs. “We don’t really pay attention to sports,” the one with curly dark hair said.

  “Yeah, I could care less,” her brunette friend echoed.

  “But don’t you think it’s unfair that they get preferential treatment, just because they know how to score in a game that has little bearing in the real world?” Okay, I was trying to sway them toward my side, and I wanted to be unbiased, but maybe they needed a little push to get them started.

  The curly-haired one glanced at her friend again and then readjusted her backpack. “Sorry. I really don’t care. I’ve got a huge exam coming up, so I need to hit the books. Good luck.” With that, they both left.

  Okay, so I might’ve idealized how amazing it’d be to jump in and ask the hard-hitting questions. Not that mine were especially hard-hitting. But this impacted the lives of students here on campus. Didn’t they care?

  I wondered if having a camera pointed at me and a microphone in my hand would make people more or less likely to answer. The attention hogs would probably come over, but who knew if their answers would be coherent, much less helpful. I wonder how long most journalists ask questions before they get a response they can even use.

  Determined to not let the lack of passion of my last two participants—and I used that term loosely—get me down, I tried again. I spotted a nice-looking girl with a cute pixie-cut, and decided I’d try her next. I almost felt bad interrupting her impressive speed-walking, but as soon as I asked her about unfair treatment, the speed transferred from her walking to her words.

  I scribbled her answers as fast as I could, unable to keep up with her spiel against athletes. “…and did you know that there are studies proving that high school students would learn more after ten a.m.? But you know why America still has them start so early anyway?”

  I had an idea where she was going, but this time, I was going to be unbiased—I thought this girl might be biased enough for the both of us. “Tell me.”

  “So that the athletes can fit sports in after school. The entire country is obsessed with sports players. I’m up to my eyeballs in student loans, but they slide in and get early registration, and have everything paid for.” She huffed at the end of her sentence and shook her head. “There are people out there making medical breakthroughs, and athletes get more attention and money. I mean, soldiers are out there fighting for our country, and we barely pay them enough for their families to scrape by. I seriously get so angry when I think about it.”

  She shook her head again, and I could tell she was fighting to calm herself, which made me hesitant to ask anything more. My questions had been answered and then some, anyway.

  “Thank you so much for stopping, and for your opinion.”

  She nodded and then wandered away, but instead of taking up her speed-walking, she moved slowly and looked a bit lost. Oops. I think I messed up her concentration. Maybe even her entire afternoon.

  I spotted a tall, bespectacled guy and spun around to grab his attention—I wanted to have as wide a demographic as possible. “Excuse me, could I ask—”

  He shook his head and walked on. I blew out a breath. That’s okay. You can’t get me down.

  Now, to just figure out which student to stop next.

  Chapter Twelve

  Hudson

  On my way into the l
ibrary, I spotted Reporter Girl herself. She had a yellow legal pad under her arm, and she spun in a slow circle, glancing from passerby to passerby. She lifted an arm as if to wave one of them down, hesitated, then slowly dropped it.

  I eyed the door to the library—where I really needed to go in order to not be late—then at her again. I can spare five minutes to lay some groundwork.

  That challenge-fueled excitement I experienced around her zinged through my veins as I strolled over. She spun at the sound of my approach, and her eyes widened for a second before a stern, no-nonsense expression took shape. “Surprised to see you near a library on a Saturday,” she said.

  “I’m not surprised at all that you spend your Saturdays here.”

  The haughty tilt of her head kicked up a notch. Don’t laugh, don’t laugh. It was almost too easy to get a rise out of her, but I needed to break through her barriers, not make her erect even more. I poked her arm and shot her a smile. “I’m only teasing. It’s a nice surprise.”

  She pressed her lips together, her eyes narrowing.

  “Come on, Reporter Girl. We’re going to be seeing a lot of each other this season. Can’t we try to be friends?”

  “Friends know each other’s names.” A syrupy-sweet smile spread across her face.

  “Fair enough, Whitney.”

  Surprise flickered through her eyes. The glasses gave her that hot librarian vibe, but the reflection of the locker room’s lights had hidden the different blues swirling through her irises. I got a little lost in them for a moment, then remembered I’d been trying to convince her to be friends.

  “Yeah, I remember your name. That makes us halfway there, right?”

  “Halfway sounds right. Since…” She grimaced. “I’m totally blanking. All I remember is that you’re number fourteen.”