by Cindi Madsen
Now I was the one narrowing my eyes, trying to read if she genuinely couldn’t remember my name or number—not that I was deterred either way. “Ouch. I’d suggest learning the hockey players’ names if you’re going to be covering the games. Or are you one of those girls who only claim to know about hockey?”
“I know hockey,” she insisted. “I’ve been watching it for years, and I’m fully qualified for my job, thank you very much.”
I sensed movement behind me, and Whitney’s oh-shit expression made me wonder who in the world it could be. But when I spun, it was just an unassuming girl with a boy haircut.
“I forgot to add something,” she said. “They also think that they can ask me for notes and I’ll just give them to them, because they can’t possibly be bothered to come to their classes. They think I’m desperate for attention, but the joke’s on them, because I give them wrong answers every time. They’re too stupid to even know it.”
I glanced from the girl to Whitney and raised my eyebrows, silently asking what that was all about. A nervous laugh sputtered from Whitney’s lips, and she stepped forward and put her hand on the girl’s shoulder. “Could you give me just a second to finish up here? I want to keep the answers confidential, so I’ll meet you…” She looked around and muttered about how the Tree of Life sculpture was a bit far.
“How about that bench over there?” Whitney pointed. “Then I can add to your answers and keep everything more organized.” There was a panicked edge to her words, and she nearly pushed the girl away from us.
Boy Haircut glanced over her shoulder at me, scowled like I’d ruined her life, and then strode toward the bench.
“What was that?” I asked. “She’s all fired up.”
Whitney reached up the way girls did when they brushed their hair out of their face, only hers was all pulled up in that ever-present bun. I wondered if she ever let it down. One day, I was going to liberate the blond strands and run my fingers through them.
“It’s… It’s nothing. I mean, it’s…confidential. So I better go talk to her. I’ll see you later…?” She pointed at me, like she really needed me to fill in the blank.
“Hudson,” I said. “And it’s number nineteen—I’d hate for you to get it wrong in your column.” I was going to stick to killing her with kindness, even if she was going to play games. In fact, that’d make it all the more fun. Another wave of excitement hit, washing away everything else. Bring it, blondie.
“Right. I’ll make sure to remember that—it’s just that I’ve been covering football, too, and those guys really stick out in my mind, you know?”
“Those guys haven’t won a game all season, and they’re definitely not league championships like we are.”
“So you think you should get special treatment for winning the NCAA playoffs last year?”
“Hell yeah,” I said. A triumphant smile curved her lips, and I felt like I’d walked into a trap. No matter. I could tell by the way she couldn’t stop staring that she was attracted, and that was all I needed to seal the deal eventually. “I’ve got to get to my study session, but I’ll catch you later. Whitney.”
I’d really wanted to call her Reporter Girl and show her that I could play her little game better any day, but then I’d undo what progress I hoped I’d made.
She spun around and headed over to the girl with verbal diarrhea. Despite the stuffy clothes, Whitney had a hell of a sassy sway to her hips, which proved I was right about there being a hot, feisty girl underneath.
Oh, yeah. Unleashing her was going to be fun. In fact, our heated interaction might just be enough to get me through the next few hours.
Chapter Thirteen
Whitney
Two hours in, and I’d had a dozen students slow down long enough to answer my questions. I’d thought the study-minded would care about the perks athletes received, but it was more like most of them were oblivious that sports were even being played.
Three people told me they were big fans, one of football, one hockey, and one said “all the sports.” She even bragged about our hockey team winning the NCAA playoffs last year.
Four thought that athletes—especially the hockey and football players—probably received special treatment, but few cared passionately about it. No one had been as passionate as Anna, the girl with the pixie haircut. I’d been terrified she’d blow my cover, and my entire article would be at risk once Hudson knew what I’d been asking, but part of me wished he’d known her scathing remarks had been about athletes—maybe that’d give him the dose of humility he needed.
Probably not, though.
Enthusiasm was hard to keep up, especially when the next three people I waved down refused to stop long enough to answer my questions. My energy waned, and I set up under a tree and pulled out the stack of newspapers Lyla had given me. The sun broke through the clouds, and a gentle breeze rattled the dried leaves overhead, shaking a few loose.
A bright yellow one drifted down, and I picked it up and spun the stem between my fingers as I started reading through sports articles. One blurred into another, goals and stats and recaps and quotes. It helped me see the voice aspect, though, as well as ways to lengthen my next column. Then I got distracted and started reading an article about how politics were holding women’s health hostage. I mean, how could I not read on? It was the kind of story I wanted to write someday.
After I finished it, I wanted to sort through the other papers and find more columns written by the woman—she had the voice I wanted for my exposé. But several people had passed by, and I should try to get a few more opinions. Especially of the male variety, even if they ended up being all go-team, sportsting is the best! After all, I wanted a fair cross-section in order to make the results more conclusive.
The first guy I smiled at ducked his head and rushed on, giving me wide berth. Nope, that’s not bad on the self-esteem at all. Thanks, buddy.
I’d never had so much trouble attracting male attention, and I couldn’t help but wonder if more would’ve stopped if I were dressed in my usual clothes.
Another guy started down the sidewalk that would lead him past me, and I decided if he answered, I’d call it a successful-enough day and head home. Which meant it was time to pull out all the stops. I unbuttoned the top two buttons of my shirt—so sue me. I still looked like a school teacher.
This time, in addition to the smile, I didn’t just let my southern accent loose but amped it up, coating my words with sugar, the way Mama coached me to do for the pageant judges. “Pardon me. Would you mind if I asked you a few questions?”
He did a double take, and after running his gaze over me, he slowly approached. I raised my notebook, recited my questions, and then lifted my pen to jot down his answers.
He didn’t speak for a moment, and I looked up to see a disgruntled scrunch to his eyebrows and his lips set in a puckered line. “Everyone tells you that when you graduate high school, it’ll be different, but it’s not. College is just high school on a bigger scale. But eventually, most of the athletes will still end up has-beens who mop the floor for companies like the one I’m going to run.”
The gleam that entered his eye could only be described as vengeful. “That’s when it will finally be different.”
Yikes. Not that I thought it was exactly fair they got better grades for doing less work—if that was the case, something I still needed to prove—but wishing for guys like Hudson to be mopping floors…?
Something didn’t sit right with that image, and I worried it was because I had too much sympathy for hot guys in general, which was what landed me broken heart after broken heart.
The guy blinked at me, like he was waiting for me to agree. Then he leaned in, his gaze locked onto mine like we were in a staring contest, and I repressed a shudder. I couldn’t pinpoint what set off my flee instincts, just that they screamed loud and clear to get away from him.
I took a small step back and dropped the accent. “Thank you for taking the time to answer my questio
ns. Now if you’ll excuse me, I didn’t realize how late it was and I really should get going. ”
He still hadn’t blinked, and the hinted dismissal didn’t land, either, only adding to the creeper vibe radiating off him. “Where do you live?” he asked, scratching at his arm. “I’ll walk you home.”
“Oh, I live off campus.”
“I can drive you.”
My heart began palpitating, the irregular rhythm pushing the panicky sensation further through my body. “Um, thanks so much, but my car’s parked in the garage.” Then, realizing he’d probably offer to accompany me there, too, I quickly said, “But actually, I need to go into the library. Thanks again for answering my questions!”
Without bothering to shove my stuff in my backpack, I looped the strap into the crook of my elbow, scooped everything else into my arms, and tried to balance it all as I rushed toward the library, eyes locked on the glass doors.
The newspapers slipped against each other, and I gripped them tighter and quickened my pace—I was probably only being paranoid, but when my instincts screamed like that, ignoring them wasn’t an option.
I made it three steps into the library before the first newspaper fell from my grasp. That seemed to encourage the rest to go ahead and join in on the fun, and by the time the papers settled, I had my fistful of pens and highlighters in one hand and a smear of newspaper ink across my forearm.
I crouched down to pick up the mess, pretty much blocking the exit, although the person who stepped over me didn’t seem to mind—he actually sighed, like it was such a hardship for him to lengthen his stride, when he could’ve gone to the next set of doors.
Usually I was the picture of poise—I could float-walk, spin, and pose in five-inch heels on a slippery stage!
Other hands joined mine, and I caught sight of lots of tattoos, ones I’d been trying to subtlety check out earlier today. A quick glance revealed that, sure enough, my helper was none other than Hudson Decker. He gathered the bulk of the newspapers into a pile, lifted them, and then extended a hand to me. Gripping my tiny stack, I took his hand and let him pull me to my feet and off to the side, out of the way of the main library doors.
“Thanks,” I said, a ping of guilt going through me, since I’d pretended to not even know his name earlier. Like I could possibly forget anything about him.
As I reached for the papers in his hand, I noticed the way his wavy hair stuck up right in the middle—it was a different messy than after the hockey game, less smashed-by-a-helmet and more like he’d repeatedly run his fingers through that one spot. The cocky expression he usually wore was gone, too, one of frustration etched in its place.
I might’ve thought it was because of me, but his gaze was far away, off in that place gazes went when worry took hold of your every thought.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
He jerked his attention back to me. “Yeah. Fine.” He seemed to realize I was trying to take the newspapers from him and extended the bundle toward me. But then he paused and tilted his head as his eyes scanned the top page, which happened to be folded to the non-sports article I’d read. “Politics, huh? Pretty heavy stuff.”
“Yeah, well, once in a while I take a break from sports.”
“Not sure why anyone would want to do that.” His half-smile hinted he’d been teasing, but he clearly had other things on his mind still. “Anyway…” He handed the papers over to me, and I tried not to notice the way even the tiniest gestures made the muscles of his arms stand out, which made his tattoos stand out, which made my head go a little fuzzy.
I shoved the newspapers into my backpack and glanced out the windowed doors. I really wanted to go home, input what I’d learned, and call up my friend Kristen to find out if there was anything worthwhile going on tonight, but I didn’t know how long I needed to wait before Creeper Dude was gone.
When I looked back at Hudson, I tried to tamp down my sympathetic feelings, but the guy seriously looked like he had the weight of the world on his shoulders. “Did the study session go that badly?”
“Do you want to go play some pool?”
I didn’t know where that came from, but then the full impact of his brown eyes hit me, the desperate intensity making it hard to breathe, much less refuse.
Getting to know the hockey players was part of my job, right? And if it cheered him up temporarily… “Sure. I could use a friendly game of pool.”
This time he actually smiled, no halfway about it, and my heart skipped a couple of beats.
“Cool. I know just the place.”
Chapter Fourteen
Hudson
Whitney looked out of place in the bar, the stained-glass light fixtures and the walls yellowed from the years they’d allowed smoking clashing with her uptight business getup. I’d liked the place from the first moment I’d wandered in freshman year—it wasn’t trying to be something it wasn’t. It was an old-school pool hall, nothing more.
Despite not quite fitting in with the surroundings or the rest of the well-worn crowd—if the five people at the bar could be called a crowd—Whitney walked with an air of confidence that somehow made the look work for her, even if I still thought she should undo a few buttons and let down her hair. At first I’d taken the lift of her chin as a sign she was stuck-up, but it was more self-assurance than superiority.
There was something about the way she held herself and her ultra-conservative clothes that didn’t quite match, though, and I found myself more and more intrigued, soaking in every little nuance. She moved to grab a pool stick, that same sway to her hips I’d seen earlier.
Instead of waiting for her to get her stick, I reached over her shoulder, barely brushing it as I did so, testing to see how flustered she got. She tensed a bit, holding perfectly still, but then she spun the other way.
“You know, I assumed we’d be playing on campus,” she said.
I twisted the heavy base of the pool stick in my hand, making sure it was on nice and tight. “No way. Those tables are wobbly and the places are always so crowded.”
“I didn’t realize you took your pool so seriously.”
“I go all out with everything I do,” I said, throwing in a wink that she rolled her eyes at.
Honestly, I wasn’t sure what I was thinking asking her to play pool with me in the first place. When I eventually relayed it to the guys, I’d play it off like it was part of my plan, but in truth, the library had been stuffy as hell, I’d gotten another shitty phone call, and playing pool and drinking alone seemed sad.
Whitney racked the balls, rolling the triangle into place and then lifting it with flair, almost like she was revealing a magic trick with her perfect arrangement. Yeah, it’d definitely be more fun with the girl who’d agreed to a friendly game of pool. “So, does that going all out apply to your studies, too?”
Just the mention of my studies made my blood pressure rise. After the phone call earlier, my concentration had been shot to hell, which meant I’d gotten little out of the group study session. I gripped my pool stick tighter, anger rising again. My mom, the master manipulator, had texted that she was feeling weak. Of course I’d excused myself to call her, not wanting to be the reason she slipped and ruined her three years sober. But it was just a trick to get me to call, since I’d ignored her last few attempts to talk to me about the last thing in the world I ever wanted to talk about.
“Apparently it doesn’t apply to answering questions,” Whitney said, and I looked across the table at her. Shit. I needed to get out of my head—that was why we were here.
“Sorry, I was reflecting on everything I learned today.” I chalked the end of my stick, covering it in blue. “In case that’s not a clear enough answer, that means of course it applies to my studies.”
“I thought you jocks barely showed up to class.”
“Sometimes we miss for games, but us jocks still have to show up for classes.” Unfortunately. I grabbed the cue ball and tossed it in the air before setting it in front of the racked
balls. “So, how’d a girl who clearly distances herself from ‘us jocks’ end up as a sportswriter instead of the person who covers politics?”
She straightened, her bright blue eyes widening behind those bulky glasses, and bit her lip. “Well, uh…” She gave a tiny shake of her head, the movement so small I almost thought I imaged it, a crack forming in her composure. Then she brought her hand up to her mouth. “I never played sports. Just followed them. Because of my love of the game. I guess reporting is the way I still get to participate.”
Bullshit—at least part of it—but I decided not to call her on it. There was definitely something she was hiding or holding back, but I wasn’t sure what or why. It gave me another thing to focus on, though, and I could use about a hundred of those.
“I should tell you, that pool…” Whitney leaned over the table, lined up her shot, and slammed the end of her stick into the cue ball. The balls cracked together and scattered across the green felt. The blue solid went in, followed closely by the maroon, while the yellow went into the pocket in the opposite corner. “Well, I’m good at pool.”
My pulse quickened, and every one of my senses stood at attention as she sashayed to the other end of the table and lined up another shot. On one hand, it meant I wasn’t going to get to do the move I’d planned, where I put my entire body around hers under the guise of showing her how to shoot, but with the competitive surge pumping through my veins, this game just got a lot more interesting—as did the blond walking contradiction, which upped my intrigue to fascination.
Finally she missed a shot, the ball rolling to a stop just shy of the pocket, and I moved in for my first turn. Methodically I sank one ball after another, until we had about an equal amount on the table. She put in two more, then I matched it. The last few sat in a jumbled mess that blocked every possible shot, so I made a crazy attempt that didn’t do much besides separate them. The cue ball rolled right where I wanted it, though, so that one of my striped balls blocked what would’ve been an easy shot for her.