Anatomy of a Player (Taking Shots #2)

by Cindi Madsen

  I signaled the waitress over. “Can I get a couple beers?”

  She was new—the other waitress and I had a past. I pulled out my most-wining smile in hopes she wouldn’t card us. I’d be fine, but I had a feeling Whitney was underage.

  “Sure,” she said.

  Now that I’d crossed that bridge, I glanced at Whitney. “Or did you want something else?”

  “Beer’s fine.”

  The waitress hesitated, and I could see the silent war taking place—worth asking or not? I put my hand on her elbow and gave it a light squeeze. “Thanks, sweetheart. My friend and I have had a hard day.”

  She gave me a flirty grin, and then she was off to get the beers. When I glanced up, Whitney had a scowl on her face.

  “What?” I asked, laying the innocence on nice and thick.

  She muttered something I didn’t catch and then took a shot, swearing when she missed. “You’re up.” She perched on one of the stools as I circled the table, looking for my best shot. “So, I assume you’re majoring in hockey?”

  Pool stick frozen halfway back, I abandoned my attempt at aiming and glanced across the table at her. “No, smart-ass, I’m not. As I’m sure you know, that’s not a major.”

  “Oh, excuse me. Management and Leadership?”

  She’d guessed the degree over half of my teammates fell into, but instead of asking her why she’d picked that one, I simply gave a small shake of my head, deciding to let her work for it a bit.

  “Sports medicine? Health? P.E. Teacher—okay, I know that’s not a degree, but whatever degree you need to become a P.E. Teacher?”

  “Nope, nope, and nope.”

  She crossed her legs and studied me for a moment. “Fine, I give up. What’s your major?”

  “Sociology.”

  One eyebrow arched, and while she tried to hide it, I could see she was impressed. She probably wouldn’t be if she found out that I was failing at least one of my classes and struggling in a few others. If there was one thing I knew, it was the difference between a good social worker and a bad one. I didn’t think a degree was what made that difference, but I knew without one, I’d have a hell of a time breaking into the field.

  Sometimes I wondered if I even had enough sympathy to be a social worker. I wasn’t soft, and talking about feelings wasn’t my thing. But if I knew a kid was in a bad situation, I’d fight as hard as I could for him or her. Possibly I’d also get into a fight with whoever hurt the kids, which again worried me. Would I end up with a career or in jail?

  More and more I was thinking the best thing I could do was get an NHL contract and make enough money to help kids and social work programs that way. The stubborn, determined-to-prove-naysayers-and-statistics-wrong side of me said I wanted that damn degree either way, though. Then maybe I’d also feel like I deserved the chance the college had taken on me.

  I scratched on the eight ball right as our beers showed up—maybe on purpose, so I could sigh and challenge her to another game. “Your distraction technique worked. Now that I know you play dirty, I think I deserve a chance to redeem myself.”

  Whitney took a swig of beer and then her mouth curved into a half smile. “Redeem yourself? That’s a tall order.”

  Before I could reply, she jumped off her stool, took up her pool stick, and leaned in nice and close, close enough I could see a small dusting of freckles across the bridge of her nose. “And you have no idea how dirty I can play.”

  Heat rose up and skated across my skin. Reporter Girl was flirting with me, which gave me permission to flirt right back. As she started toward the table, I caught her around the waist.

  “Not so fast,” I said. “You broke last time. It’s my turn, you cheater.” I shook my head and dragged my hand around her waist, drawing out the contact. Then I downed half my beer in a couple of gulps, racked the balls, and started another game.

  As we moved around the table, I wanted to dare an “accidental” brush up, but I was trying to pace myself. To go slow, so she didn’t pull away. So I kept to small talk and ordered us another round of beers.

  “Where are you from, Reporter Girl?” I asked as I debated which ball to attempt to hit. “I sense a hint of a southern accent.” It was charming as hell, too, coming out more with every drink she took.

  I lined up my shot, but glanced over my shoulder when she didn’t immediately answer. Oh yeah, she was checking out my ass—point for me.

  “You caught me,” she said, and then she flashed me a smile. “I’m from Kentucky. What about you, Hockey Boy?”

  I let the nickname go, since I figured I deserved it. “New York.”

  “Like, New York City, or just the state?” The way her voice pitched with interest was impossible to miss.

  “The Bronx.”

  “So pretty much the city.”

  I supposed it seemed that way to other people, but the neighborhood you came from, and which part of that neighborhood, made a huge difference.

  “That’s so cool.” She sat on the edge of the table, facing me. If I were serious about the game, I’d point out that she’d wiggled everything left on the table a couple of inches, enough that I needed to realign my shot. Right now, though, I was more serious about the girl and her awed expression. “I’ve always wanted to go to New York. The basic plan is to hit Boston for college and eventually work my way down—the best-circulated and oldest newspapers are there. Did you know that the New York Post is the oldest daily newspaper?”

  I braced one palm next to her thigh and moved my pool stick in front of my crotch, just in case she got carried away swinging her legs. “Can’t say that I did.”

  “Yeah, most people think the Times was first because it’s better known. Can you imagine waiting a week to get the news? Of course it was all charters and facts about butter, molasses, and cotton, but still.”

  I couldn’t remember the last time I’d read a newspaper or watched the news, but going without ESPN for very many days would be cruel and unusual punishment. “You’d choose working for the Post over the Times, then?”

  “Oh, no,” she said, shaking her head. “Times all the way. In the mid-seventies the Post turned into more of a tabloid.” She glanced at the table, like she’d forgotten about our on-going game. “Oops. I’m blocking your shot.”

  I put my hand on her leg, keeping her in place. “No worries. I can make it, even with you playing dirty and trying to block me.” I took my shot, and the ball sank in with a satisfying thunk.

  “So, why’d you come here for college?” Whitney asked when I straightened, and I could hear the unspoken How could you leave a place so great? “I’m assuming hockey, but I’d also guess that you had your pick of places.”

  Each of those acceptance letters had felt like the Willy Wonka of colleges was handing me a golden ticket, one that provided freedom and an actual shot at a better life. Worried that letting myself hope would only leave me crushed in the end, I’d almost been afraid to even dream any colleges would accept me, much less that I’d have options.

  “I needed to get as far away as possible. I wouldn’t mind even farther, but Boston had the best team, and Dane was coming here, so…”

  As soon as it left my lips, I wanted to shove it back in. I’d gotten too comfortable, answering without thinking—it was those bewitching blue eyes, the feel of her knee against my thigh, the hypnotic whiff of perfume.

  “What did you need to get away from?”

  Of course she’d ask that—I’d expect nothing less from a reporter. So…lie, diversion tactic, or honesty? Wasn’t that always the question when it came to my past? I was who I was, but that didn’t mean I wanted people knowing too many details about it.

  “Sorry,” she said. “Guess that’s a rather personal question.”

  Crap. Now she felt awkward, I could see it in the way she curled her hands around the table edge and dropped her chin. I didn’t want to ruin the easy vibe we’d built up—it proved even more successful at cutting out the noise in my head th
an our verbal sparring matches. This was the best night I’d had in a long time, actually.

  “I needed to get away from my mom for a while,” I said. “She tends to attract drama.” And assholes. “Since she chooses herself every time, I decided to choose myself for once.”

  There. Truth, even if it wasn’t the whole truth, so help me God.

  I waited to see how the girl who’d probably been pampered her whole life took the news. No doubt Whitney Porter went for mama’s boys, but that’s because she’d never met my mom. Not that anything about me fit that description.

  A hint of bitterness crept into her features. “It’s the worst when the people who are supposed to be there for you choose themselves instead.”

  Now that was a surprise. “You sound like you’re speaking from experience.”

  She shrugged, working way too hard at acting like it wasn’t a big deal—I knew, because I’d also tried that tactic before. Pretending not to care was much easier than caring. Caring involved inevitable disappointment and pain. “My mama chose to go find another family when my daddy and I weren’t the perfect one she wanted. Her definition of perfection was unachievable, too. I certainly never came close enough for her.” She ran her thumb over the label of her beer and then slowly looked up at me. “I…I don’t usually tell people about my mama.”

  That made two of us. I raised my beer. “To getting away from all that.”

  “Cheers,” she said, tapping her beer bottle to mine, and then downing the rest in a large gulp. She set the empty on the edge of the pool table and grabbed her stick. I didn’t bother telling her that it was still my turn. She leaned over the table, stretching as far as she could to try to make an impossible shot.

  Now I was the one checking out her ass—she had a nice one, too. I’d suspected, but now I knew for sure. It was one of those you could really grab on to, and I’d always been a fan.

  Since things were finally easy between us, I decided now wasn’t the time to compliment her curves or make a move, even though suddenly the only thing I could think about was how it would feel to have her body pressed against mine.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Whitney

  I did a fist pump when my ball went in, and turned around to gloat. Hudson sat on the edge of his stool, one foot on the bottom rung, the other on the floor. He had his hands linked loosely together, the pool stick casually propped in the middle of them. For a moment I got lost in the ink and the large veins in his forearms.

  Damn. I swallowed past a dry throat. I’ve obviously had a bit too much to drink, because I’m forgetting to be unimpressed by the way he looks.

  The dim lighting in the place was the kind that helped facilitate bad decisions, and suddenly I wanted to make one. I’d slipped and flirted a little, and of course he’d flirted right back. I could still feel his arm against me, that quick impression of his firm chest against my back, and the way he’d dragged his hand across my waist, his touch feather light but there.

  Electricity danced across my nerve endings, and I thought about how my former self would stroll over, say something flirty, and wait to see if he’d kiss me—er, her. Okay, now I was confusing myself, and the tingly buzz wasn’t helping.

  Out of the fuzzy mist came the reminder that I’d sworn off guys until I could figure out how to keep myself from falling for a player. I forced myself to focus on how he’d flirted with the waitress and called her “sweetheart.” Right in front of me, too, even though we were on a…well, not date, but still.

  He’s the definition of player. If anything, I should observe all of his moves and then use that knowledge to spot warning signs in guys when I do start dating again. The more I thought about it, the better the idea seemed. I’d still focus on my article for the Heights, of course, but I could learn the ins and outs of what made a player a player at the same time. It was genius!

  Ooh, I can call it “Anatomy of a Player”. I’ll publish it eventually, and women everywhere will be able to use it for good. Maybe the college newspaper’s circulation wasn’t ready for that, but I bet there were publications geared toward women who’d eat it up.

  “Earth to Whitney.” Hudson gestured toward the table, a lazy smile on his face. “It’s still your shot.”

  “Right.” I turned around and acted like I was looking for my next move, but in my head I started compiling traits.

  Smile: lazy, confident, cocky. The player has many smiles, all used to make you lose your common sense and succumb to his charms.

  I smiled to myself, a smile somewhere between basking in self-brilliance and an evil grin. Adding a unique article like that to my portfolio, which would eventually also have columns from the Heights—as long as I kept my eye on the prize and landed that exposé—would help set me apart from other applicants.

  I hit my cue ball into one of my solids, which bumped another in on its way, and both of them dropped into the pocket. Two in one—seemed to be the theme of the night.

  Hudson and I had played until we were sober, then he dropped me off at my car. As soon as I returned home, I grabbed my laptop. It was early enough that I could still call Kristen and get the happy-haps on what parties were going on, but I was too focused on my shiny new idea.

  I opened up a blank document and transcribed what I’d typed in my notes app on my phone—Hudson asked who I was texting, and even though I’d honestly answered, “No one,” I could tell he hadn’t believed me.

  In a way, I guess you could say I was texting my future readers. Don’t get me wrong, the goal was still blowing lids off scandals, but landing a spot at the Times right off the bat was a hundred-to-one shot. I fully planned on working my way up—whatever paper, whatever articles—and a diverse range would only make me a more impressive candidate.

  Anatomy of a Player

  • Face: From pretty boy to preppy to bad boy, players know how to work what their mamas gave them.

  Don’t let their casual-sexy-cool appearance fool you, either. These guys spend plenty of time grooming themselves.

  I’d gotten close enough to Hudson to see the gel in his hair. While his facial hair fell into the longer-scruff range, he clearly kept it trimmed, keeping it from crossing into mountain-man level.

  Lyla had mentioned that they usually stopped trimming for playoffs, because there was some no-shaving superstition, but I was focusing on the usual.

  I pulled up Google and typed in “types of beards” so I’d know what to call Hudson’s perfectly sculpted one. Seriously, it highlighted his jawline, his lips, and hinted at a barely-contained bad boy.

  Not that I let it affect me or anything. Nope, I wasn’t fooled.

  I clicked on the images tab and magnified the first picture. For some reason it had moustaches, even though I’d clearly indicated “beards,” and I wrinkled my nose at the gross ones, especially the “chevron,” “dali,” and “fu manchu.” Not that I dug the “imperial” or the pencil ones either.

  Hmm. The circle beard is close to Hudson’s, but the chinstrap would have to be added. I leaned my elbow on my knee and rested my chin in my cupped palm, taking a moment to think about the odd places my research was taking me.

  Then I bit back a grin. Surely this was how every good documentary started. Facial hair one minute, discovering new exciting information on Vikings the next. I clicked on the next image, wanting the perfect answer. I laughed at the “rap industry standard,” a super thin, barely-there goatee.

  It made me think of this guy I dated in high school, who shaved designs into his beard. Nothing says I-care-more-about-myself-than-anything-else like spending that much time on facial hair sculpting. Talk about douchey.

  There it is… I leaned closer. Short boxed beard. Definitely the closest to Hudson’s. For good measure, I typed the term into the search bar and was rewarded with scruffy pictures of bearded Chris Pine, Chris Evans, Ryan Reynolds, and the perfection that was Ryan Gosling.

  “I bet you are all players, too. All you Chrises and Ryans.” Not that
I really thought their names had anything to do with it, but there was something about them that added to it.

  “Hudson Decker.” I let the name echo through the room. It was like his mama knew he’d be irresistible trouble and that he’d need a name to match. What was she doing? Reading romance novels for name inspiration?

  I laughed at myself, but then I remembered what he’d said about needing to get away from his mom—his relationship with his mother might be as complicated as the one I had with mine. I wondered if he pretended to be cool with the choices his had made, the way I sometimes did with mine, because it was easier than resenting her every time we were in the same room.

  Hudson’s words echoed through my head. To getting away from all that.

  Maybe a semi-tragic past was in every player’s makeup. I’d have to do further research on that, because part of me thought they might just know how to spin their pasts to have an excuse to treat girls like crap.

  I turned back to my document, hands hovering over the keyboard for a moment. Journalists can’t let their personal feelings get in the way of a good story.

  Fortifying my resolve, I shut down my empathetic side and focused on writing. I tapped my phone so my note would light back up and got busy transcribing and inputting bullet points.

  • Smile: Lazy, confident, cocky. The player has many smiles, all used to make you lose your common sense and succumb to his charms.

  • Names: Strong-sounding monikers that roll off the tongue. The kind that turn you into a teenage girl who wants to scribble your first name with his last one.

  My next observation didn’t quite match my other format. I knew I’d need more than one category for player moves, so I separated it out, going back to type “Features” above my first bullet points, and then adding a second subheading for “Moves and Characters Traits.” That way I could add, switch things around, and organize as I went.

  Moves and Character Traits

  • Calls girls by nicknames, everything from “sweetheart” to “reporter girl.”