Anatomy of a Player (Taking Shots #2)

by Cindi Madsen

  I backspaced, deleting the “reporter girl,” because it was too telling and too specific. I thought for a moment about everything I’d been called by player types. When it came to relationships, graduating to a “babe,” “baby,” “hon,” or even “sweetheart” was only natural. But the guys who started with them were bad news.

  • Calls girls by nicknames, everything from “sweetheart” to “baby” to other generic terms of endearment. In part to hide forgetting a girl’s name or to keep from calling her the wrong one, but also to create a sense of intimacy before it’s even there, thus fast-forwarding to the sex part.

  I pulled my shoulder blades together, cracking them before rereading what I’d written. The “thus” was a nice touch that made me sound super informed and fancy, if I did say so myself—throw in an “indeed” and I might as well be wearing a monocle.

  • Never has to work for phone numbers.

  When Hudson had paid for our drinks tonight, I’d seen that the waitress had left her number on the receipt. Basically that meant he’d worked two girls at once—or he thought he did, ’cause again, I wasn’t falling for it.

  Of course, more research would be needed, and there’d be exceptions to the rules, but I thought that I had a pretty good start.

  Oh, Hudson Decker, you don’t even know what you’ve started. You’re the perfect specimen to help me complete this profile—indeed—and I can’t wait to prove that I’m no longer the kind of girl who gets played.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Hudson

  Another game and another win. I headed to the locker room and pulled off my helmet. I eyed the door, waiting for Whitney to come through it. Ever since our night at the pool hall, I couldn’t stop thinking about her. Everything about her was so…unexpected. She was still a challenge, but not in the way I’d thought she’d be.

  I was hoping to go out as soon as everything wrapped up here, possibly with Whitney. My reasoning for wanting to spend more time with her wasn’t only for the bet, either. Not that I planned on admitting that to the guys, especially since Dane had finally backed off a little. This past week had been busy, tons of study sessions crammed into the barely-there spaces between classes and practice. I’d fallen asleep with my headphones on the past few nights, studying until my eyes literally gave up and closed. It was one thing to act like a bookworm during the week, but the weekend was for slamming guys into the boards and letting loose, and I was more than ready to let loose.

  A tight blonde bun entered my peripheral vision—Whitney had stepped into the hubbub and was talking with the guys nearest the door.

  I stripped off my jersey and pads and, after debating a moment, stripped off the shirt underneath. We’d dealt with one other female sports reporter during the playoffs last year, and she’d insisted we treat her just like a guy. No covering up required, her interest was only professional, and she’d even added that it wasn’t like she’d be checking us out.

  Which was ridiculous. Not only because most of us got plenty of female attention wherever we went, but if the tables were turned, there wasn’t a single straight guy who could walk into a woman’s dressing room without being affected. Women liked to pretend they could draw the line between professional and personal, but I didn’t buy it. They were as into looks as guys were, they just didn’t like to admit it.

  Whitney turned to me and her mouth dropped open a few inches as she ran her gaze up my torso. That’s right. Take it all in. Shirt off was definitely the right decision.

  She swallowed and rearranged her features into her neutral, all-business expression. “Number Nineteen. You had quite a game tonight.”

  Warmth unfurled in my chest. She was covering the accent, but her voice had a smooth honey quality, and it brought the other night back to the surface. “You remembered my number. I’m honored.”

  I took a step toward her and dipped my head. “Hey, I was wondering—”

  “See, it’s my job to ask the questions,” she said, taking a step back. “That’s how this works.” She seemed to be trying to tell me something with her eyes, making them go comically wide and adding a head bop. Did she really think I was going to figure it out?

  “Oh, does it?”

  She lifted her chin, her signature don’t-give-me-crap move, and one fist even went to her hip. “We’re not going to have another problem like last time, are we?”

  “No, ma’am,” I said, and I couldn’t hold back my smile.

  She pressed her lips together, and I could tell how badly she wanted to come up with a retort to that. This was almost as fun as the pool game. I took another step forward, and she retreated one. The urge to chase her around the entire locker room like that was strong. Not conducive to my objective, but I wanted to see how far she’d go to stay out of my orbit.

  Her eyes flicked down to my chest for the briefest second before rising back to my face. She licked her lips and lifted her notebook. “Now, before you interrupted, I was—”

  Dane draped an arm over my shoulders, but his gaze was on Whitney. “Hey, you know about the after-party at the Quad? You should come. Decker will be there.”

  The grip on her pen tightened, and like on her first visit to the locker room, I worried she’d snap it and ink would go everywhere. “Why would that matter to me?”

  Dane eyed me, and the tilt of his head and arched eyebrows made it clear he thought I should throw out a flirty line right about now. While it might be my usual move—one with an extremely high success rate, I might add—I knew enough about Whitney to know that would bring out the angry reporter from last home game. I thought things would be different now, but my guess was that she’d been attempting to warn me to act professional and pretend our night at the pool hall had never happened.

  Finally, when the silence stretched to the awkward point, Dane said, “No reason. I just thought you might want to come have fun.”

  “I’m not sure she knows how to have fun,” I said. I was pretty sure this version of her didn’t, either. I’d heed her warning, but if she thought I was going to stand here and be her puppet, she was dead wrong. Since she thought we could communicate silently, I lifted a challenging eyebrow. Your move, Reporter Girl.

  A flame flickered in the depths of her blue eyes. “I’m not here to talk about fun. I’ll get to you later, Dane, but I need to finish up here first.” She shot him a look that made him drop his arm and back away. I swallowed the chuckle that wanted to come out, but then she turned the look on me, and I automatically straightened. “As I was saying, you had quite a game, Decker…”

  The way she enunciated my last name kind of turned me on. That meant she was in on the game, right?

  “…but you did lose that fast break during the last quarter,” she said, adding a tight, cutting smile.

  My defenses prickled. “I might’ve— Wait. During the last quarter?”

  “When Number Twelve from the other team stole the puck? Do I really need to refresh your memory? Don’t you think you might’ve kept hold of it, and maybe even scored, if you hadn’t been showboating?”

  Damn. I’d thought we were playing around, pushing each other’s buttons more as a front than anything else, but she’d pulled out the hard-ass reporter. “I’ll admit I got carried away on that fast break, and while I didn’t see that defender, I made sure to keep him from scoring after my screw-up. That was in the last period, though, as hockey doesn’t have quarters.”

  “I…” The tough girl facade crumbled, and she glanced around quickly, as if to see who else had heard her mistake. Most everyone had backed away, though, probably not wanting to be the next recipient of her death glare. “I cover other sports, too. It was just a slip of the tongue.”

  “Ah.” I took a large step forward and looked down at her, using the opportunity to get back on top. “Speaking of slips of a tongue…”

  The flame in her eyes spread, a blazing anger-fueled fire now, and I got exactly what she was conveying: Don’t you dare try one of your lines on me, o
r there will be hell to pay.

  “I think what Dane was trying to say was that we’ll all be at the party, and we’d be happy to answer further questions you had there, in a more relaxed environment.” I gave her a wide smile. “You know what relaxed means, right?”

  “Better than you know what ‘behave’ means,” she said, taking a step back. Then she sighed. “Look, I’m trying not to do anything that undermines my ability to conduct my interviews, or makes me look less serious about my position.”

  “Well, I happen to be an expert on positions,” I said, letting that hang in the air for a second—I’d told myself to hold back the innuendos until I’d won her over, but the gloves were obviously off tonight, and sometimes I couldn’t help myself. “And I think if you take too firm of one, all you’ll ever get are stiff, generic answers.”

  I closed the gap between us, getting lost for a second in the smell of her perfume or shampoo or whatever she’d used to make me crave a taste of her skin that much more, and lowered my voice so only she could hear. “You might not believe me, but I am trying to help. Plus, maybe if you spend time getting to know the team better, you’ll be less likely to slip and use terms that don’t apply to hockey.”

  I retreated, giving her space now that I’d said my piece. Before, I’d enjoyed going toe-to-toe with her, but I didn’t like how things had gone from easy to convoluted.

  I turned and grabbed the stuff I’d need to hit the showers. By the time I spun back around, Whitney was pushing out of the room. I watched her go, trying to sort out what had been for show and what had been real jabs. Maybe I’d pushed too far, even if she’d pushed first.

  And maybe I was an idiot for spending so much of the past week thinking about her. Already it seemed she wanted me to fall in line, and I didn’t play that game.

  Dane whistled and slapped my back. “Whew, you’ve certainly got your work cut out for you.” He laughed under his breath, the sound heavy with a “you’re so going to lose” implication.

  Whatever. I was over it. This week had been a killer, and I knew how to cut loose and have fun, which was exactly what I planned to do. I’d needed the reminder that this was a game, though. So I’d make sure to focus on the bet side of it instead of getting caught up in Whitney for real. No losing my head over one great night. The thing about great nights was they gradually faded into expectations and arguments, and then all you were left with was a mess. No thanks.

  Time to take off a night and figure out my next move with Whitney later. There’d be plenty of other girls at the party.

  While that thought was supposed to amp me back up, the restless, unsettled feeling I’d become all-too-familiar with reclaimed me instead.

  Luckily, I had years of experience at faking my way through.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Whitney

  Of all the stupid things I’d done, this was probably near the top. But the way Hudson had lowered his voice and told me he was trying to help had replayed on a loop since I’d left the arena. The image of him shirtless was on a pretty constant loop, too.

  The body of a player is ridiculously ripped from hours of cardio, weights, and slamming into guys on the ice. It looks especially impressive when covered in a sheen of sweat, which should be gross but makes you want to touch it.

  • Chest: Carved, drool-worthy pecs

  • Abs: Ripped AF

  Was it any wonder that I’d short-circuited a bit in the locker room? After I’d recovered as much as anyone can recover from being faced with a wall of muscles that radiated power and testosterone, I’d tried to convey to him that our interaction needed to be strictly professional. I wasn’t sure he’d gotten it, though, and maybe I’d come on too strong. I still couldn’t figure out the right line to walk to get the information I needed, but both aspects of my job would be difficult if the hockey players froze me out.

  So I’d called up Kristen and asked her to go with me to the Quad. I’d thought it’d be less nerve-racking with her by my side, but she’d taken one look at me and said, “Whoa. What in the hell are you wearing?”

  The loose sweater I’d abandoned the button-down for might not be form fitting, but I didn’t think it was that bad. It was at least navy and gray instead of plain white or solid gray. My jeans were devoid of fancy designs on the pockets, and they didn’t fit me quite right—they were from before I’d found the perfect brand, and in order to fit my butt, they were a few inches too big in the waist. I usually wore them for cleaning, or on days when I felt bloated.

  I closed the door to my apartment behind me and locked up. “I told you I’m working on a story. I can’t dress in my normal party gear.”

  “I just didn’t realize that you were posing as a Midwestern housewife who’s had three kids,” Kristen said, as we started down the stairs to the parking lot.

  I smacked her arm and she laughed. Of course, she had on her lacy, low-cut tank top, skinny jeans that made it clear she was wearing a thong or you would’ve seen it, and heels. Next to her, I felt like the “before” image in every makeover movie.

  The only thing I had working for me still was my hot pink underwear, but no one would see that. There was no reason for me to change from the boring white bra I’d worn under my white button-down, really, but after wearing a push-up bra for so long, I couldn’t help feeling like my boobs had gone from okay to non-existent, and I needed to feel like I had something going on, even if the sweater canceled out the boost the bra gave me.

  Kristen unlocked her car doors and we climbed inside. “And the glasses?” she asked. “Real or fake?”

  “Non prescription. Just for the story—they make me look more serious.”

  “If serious is the look you’re going for, you definitely achieved that.”

  Yep, this was definitely a stupid idea, and with my confidence nice and squashed like a bug, the thought of the party was even more intimidating. But once we pulled up to the Quad, I knew it was too late to go back. Kristen would never leave a party she’d barely arrived at unless it was lame. Judging by the noise coming from the Quad, lame didn’t apply.

  We headed inside and I scanned the crowd. I spotted hockey players here and there, and most of them had girls wearing very little circling around them, vying for attention—puck bunnies, as Lyla called them. I’d like to roll my eyes and judge them for being so pathetic, but I’d worn similar outfits and shamelessly pressed myself against guys to get their attention plenty of times.

  My first year of college, I’d taken full advantage of being on my own and making my own rules. And by my own rules, I meant I’d had none. I drank way too much and placed a great deal of importance on always having a guy. If I didn’t have a date during the weekend, I considered it a complete failure. Even now, the imprint of thinking like that remained, and I reminded myself there was nothing wrong with choosing myself.

  And my future career.

  Kristen started flirting immediately, and had guys fetching her drinks in no time. In my conservative garb, I didn’t get a single drink offer, even when I smiled and made small talk, which sent a mix of insecurity and irritation through me. Weren’t there any guys who’d offer a nice girl a drink? Was it really only about scoring? The here and now?

  I thought high school guys were immature, but at least they were willing to go to dinner and the movies without assuming there’d be sex at the end. College guys are the worst.

  It was a good thirty minutes before I spotted Hudson. Two girls flanked him, both of them wearing Boston College hockey shirts, only they’d cut off the bottom half and their shorts took the “short” part of their name very seriously. He said something, they both laughed, and one leaned her hand on his arm, as if she might laugh hard enough to fall over otherwise.

  His eyes met mine across the room. Held for three long heartbeats. Then he turned his attention back to the ditzy twins.

  “Holy shit, Whit,” Kristen said. “Why didn’t you tell me all the hockey players were so delicious? I would’ve made
sure to catch every one of their parties.”

  Before I could form a response, she strolled right up to Hudson and introduced herself, not giving a second thought to the other girls. I’d thought I had confidence before I met Kristen—I’d never seen a girl so sure of herself and her ability to land a guy. Sometimes to the point that she’d leave me behind to do so, like now. Which was how a lot of my friends were in high school. I hadn’t realized there was another option until Lyla and I became so close.

  It’s not like I told Kristen that Hudson was off-limits. And he’s not, except if he’s hooking up with her all the time, it’ll make it hard for me to finish my Anatomy of a Player article.

  I tried to flip it, telling myself that it could actually be good research, because I could see what moves he used on her—she wouldn’t fight or resist them like I was trying to. Er, doing. I could compare. See if his tactics differed based on the girl. Note how long before he lost interest.

  No matter how I flipped it, though, that interior dig of jealousy grew, a biting edge of misery to it.

  I slowly walked over, and Kristen linked her arm through mine and tugged me next to her. “This is my friend Whitney.”

  “We’ve met,” Hudson said.

  Unsure how he felt about me after our minor altercation, my words caught in my throat, and I ended up lifting my hand in a tentative wave.

  “Cool. Come dance with me.” Kristen clamped on to his hand and tugged him to his feet. The ditzy twins glared daggers at Kristen’s back as she led Hudson to the floor, where people were dancing and grinding. They left with a huff, and I leaned against the wall, thinking once again that coming had been a stupid idea.

  My phone chimed, and I pulled it out of my pocket to see that Lyla had texted me. I’d texted earlier to ask if she was going to be at the party, but she’d said she and Beck were heading to his place for the night instead.

  Lyla: Hey, I fed Einstein double before the game, but if he gets to feeling too picked on, do you think you could give him a few extra snacks when you get home?