Anatomy of a Player (Taking Shots #2)

by Cindi Madsen

  Me: Sure. Have fun.

  The song ended, and Hudson and Kristen returned. “Get me a drink?” Kristen asked—or more like demanded—her hand on Hudson’s arm.

  “Sure,” he said with one of his casual smiles that had anything but casual repercussions.

  • The player will hit on your friends, even if he spent last weekend being all charming at a pool hall. No girls are off-limits.

  “…want something, Whitney?”

  Hearing my name pulled me back to the present. Even in a boring outfit, he was going to offer me a drink? “A beer would be great, thanks.”

  Hudson gave my shoulder a quick squeeze, and my stomach did a somersault before it realized that it shouldn’t. I watched him weave through the crowd, toward the drink table. Don’t go thinking this means something it doesn’t. He knows me—that’s why he offered.

  “I didn’t realize,” Kristen said, bumping her shoulder into mine.

  I turned to her. “Realize what?”

  “That you’re into him. I’ll back off.”

  I shook my head, a little too frantically probably, but I couldn’t seem to stop. “I’m not. I’m going for nice, nerdy types from now on.”

  “Mm-hm.”

  When Hudson returned, he handed a cup to me and one to Kristen. She excused herself under the pretense of seeing a friend and left us alone. I took a sip of the foamy beer and kicked at the sticky floor, not sure what to say.

  Hudson leaned back against the wall and drank his beer without comment, seemingly unsure himself. Or more likely, he was probably wishing for the return of the ditzy twins, or biding his time until another girl inevitably hit on him, one who’d have way more skin on display than I did.

  I glanced toward the crowd, then spun back to face Hudson, planning on thanking him for the drink and then moving on—surely I could find some preferential treatment going on to add to my article. But then he tilted his head and looked at me, and I saw the guy from the pool hall instead of the one from the locker room. Even though I knew better than to think that night had meant something to him, I’d reminisced about it several times during the week. Which was probably why I’d gone overboard the second I came face-to-face with him again.

  “I know I came on a little strong in the locker room,” I said. “But that’s pretty much my office right now, and in order to not be seen as weak, or a joke, I need you to treat me like you would a male sportswriter.”

  His gaze remained locked on me, the steady intensity causing me to actually have to think about how to breathe to keep doing it. “I’m afraid that’s not possible.”

  Indignation smothered the remorse I’d felt. I opened my mouth, ready to let him have it again, but he put a finger to my lips.

  “Before you get all pissed off, I’ll work on remaining professional, but I’m very aware of you whenever you’re around, and I most certainly notice that you’re female, not to mention much prettier than other reporters.”

  “You’re drunk,” I said.

  “Doesn’t make it untrue.” He punctuated the statement by tracing my bottom lip with his finger, one slow drag that made my throat temporarily close up.

  I swallowed hard, fighting through the haze to get back to our conversation. “The way I acted wasn’t very professional either. I might’ve come on a little strong.”

  “I wouldn’t mind you coming on a little stronger,” he said, the flirty edge back to his voice.

  • Players turn everything into an innuendo.

  Professionals ignored said innuendo. “I’m just trying to see if we’re still friends, but I don’t want our friendship to get in the way of being able to do my job. Do you understand?”

  He nodded—I would’ve felt a lot better with verbal agreement, but decided not to push my luck. He downed his drink in a couple of gulps, then grabbed the one I’d barely touched and handed it to one of the freshmen hockey players. I didn’t remember his name, but felt pretty proud that I was learning the players’ faces at least. “Hold this. Don’t let it out of your sight, and don’t let anyone touch it. Got it?”

  The freshman nodded emphatically.

  Hudson grabbed my hand and started toward the dance floor. I dug in my heels. “Wait. I’m not dancing.”

  “Come on, Reporter Girl. I know you can loosen up a bit—our night at the pool hall showed that. I promise that twice in your life won’t kill you.”

  With a sigh, I gave in. As soon as we were in the middle of the floor, he drew me close, so close I could feel the muscles in his torso, and I knew I should’ve fought harder. But the way he wrapped his arms around me, his hands a mere inch away from too low on my back, made it even harder to fight—hard to do anything but sway with him.

  I thought we’d make small talk. We didn’t. I wondered if I should be questioning him about classes, grades, training—anything. But the loud bass line blared through the room and vibrated across my skin, apparently wiggling my thoughts and ability to talk right out of my grasp.

  Hudson grabbed my hand and spun me out. A laugh escaped as he spun me back in, fast enough I collided into him, my free hand braced on the drool-worthy pecs.

  “Do you want to spin me now?” he asked. “I’d hate to not treat you as equal.” The curve of his mouth made it clear he thought he was pretty clever.

  I grabbed his hand and attempted to spin him. The thing about moving a tall, muscular-wall-of-a-dude was—well, you really couldn’t unless he helped. Last minute, Hudson humored me, ducking under my arm and completing a graceless spin. But as soon as our bodies met again, he put his arm behind my back and dipped me. I laughed again and he grinned.

  “See. Is having a little fun so bad?”

  “Probably,” I said, because I didn’t think I was doing a very good job of not blurring lines. I bet every journalist felt that way at one time or the other, right? Par for the course and all that?

  He didn’t seem concerned by my answer. When the song ended, we headed back to where we’d started and he retrieved my beer from the freshman. I waved it off—last weekend I’d learned that the more alcohol I drank, the more I opened up to Hudson, and I needed it to be the other way around. Not to mention I didn’t know the freshmen well enough to 100 percent trust him with my drink. Plus I had a lot of work and studying to do tomorrow, and it would go much easier without a hangover.

  Hudson shrugged and told the freshman he could have the beer, which seemed to make his night.

  We stood there in silence for a moment, and then I said, “If you need to go circulate, or whatever, I’m fine. I can find my friend—I’m sure your female fan club needs you.”

  “Maybe. But they’re not as interesting as you are.”

  I wished I could trust he meant that, but I’d fallen for lines like that before.

  “Tell you what,” he said. “You hear that cheering?”

  I strained my ears for the sound of cheering over the music and sure enough, shouts carried over from the other side of the room. “Yeah.”

  “You want to get in good with the team? Want them to answer any question you ask them?”

  My journalist senses tingled—quickly followed by a heavy dose of skepticism. Still, I answered, “Yes,” because it was the truth, and I was curious where this was going.

  “Follow me,” Hudson said, but then he used a hand on the small of my back to guide me toward the cheering, which meant there was no following going on. The shouts grew, and then I saw the two rows of guys lined up on either side of the table, a red cup in front of them. Dane, the guy they called Ox…most of the team was here, playing Flip Cup. I’d only ever watched a game in high school, but it was easy enough. Drink and then flip your cup, going down the table in relay style, and try to have your team finish before the other one.

  “Decker!” Dane shouted. “Just in time! Stewzy went to puke after last round, and we need you.”

  Stewzy? I ran through the list of players in my head. Number Ten. Jeff Stewart—that must be the puker. From what Lyla sai
d, he was also a chin-licker. Poor guy needed to get it together.

  Hudson applied pressure to my back with his hand, pushing me farther into the room. “Whitney? Why don’t you jump in?”

  The guys seemed to notice me for the first time, and they all quieted. Yeah, I definitely wasn’t in with the team. I made a snap decision, despite the one I’d made a few minutes ago to not drink any more tonight. “I’d love to. If that’s okay?”

  “Hell yeah!” Dane motioned me over.

  Hudson filled a fresh cup for me—they’d moved one of the kegs from by the drink table to the corner of the room. I was sure that was a perk of being a hockey player, if only because no one dared to stop a group of ripped guys who liked to fight on the ice, but it was rather convenient for me, so I thought I’d let it slide.

  “Wait,” Dane said, dropping his hand on my shoulder, and I tensed, worried what’d come next. “We’re probably going to act like idiots and say stupid shit during this game.”

  I looked at him and added an innocent blink. “And that’d be different than usual how?” It was a risk, but when the guys busted up, it made it worth it.

  “Touché. I just wanted to make sure this is all off the record.”

  “Of course,” I said. “As long as you guys understand that when it comes to my job, I have to draw different lines between party behavior and acceptable locker room behavior.”

  That seemed to satisfy them, or maybe they were in a hurry to drink, but either way, we lined up and prepared to play. As my turn neared, my nerves tangled themselves into knots. What was I thinking? I couldn’t chug as fast as they could, and who knew how long it’d take me to flip the cup.

  “Go!” my team yelled, and I stopped thinking and just drank. The last few gulps took way more effort than the first, but I suspected Hudson hadn’t filled my cup as full, because I managed to drain every drop. Then I slammed down my cup. It took me three times, but then it finally landed right. The guy across from me finished at the same time, and then it was down to Dane and Ox.

  I’d never seen anyone down a beer as fast as Dane did, and he got the flip on the first time. Suddenly I became a high fiver, slapping palms with reckless abandon.

  And just like that, I was in.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Hudson

  Whitney’s cheeks were flushed, and one side of her sweater had slipped down her shoulder, displaying a hot pink bra strap that provided another piece of evidence that she had a racy side that just needed to be unleashed.

  I kept telling myself to not watch her too closely, but in a sea of dudes, it was hard to look at anyone else. She had this great laugh, too, and it’d come out several times as she played three rounds of Flip Cup—good thing I’d been giving her an advantage, only filling her cup halfway each game.

  “That’s it for me, boys,” Whitney said. “Otherwise I’ll be the one saying stupid shit.” Her accent slipped out a little—I wasn’t sure why she held it back. She received several high fives and a few appreciative glances I didn’t appreciate, and then the guys rotated through, switching around the teams.

  “You playing this time, Decker?” Dane asked.

  “Nah, you guys go ahead. I’m going to make sure our friendly neighborhood sportswriter makes it back to her friend.”

  “I’m fine,” she said as she walked over to me, a little slower, but not too wobbly.

  Dane flashed me a thumbs up. At least it was semi-subtle, especially for drunk Dane, but I still wanted to sprint over and force it down so she wouldn’t see. The plan had been for the guys to see that she had a lighter side, so that she could stop worrying about professional lines and her job would be easier.

  And okay, maybe a little about getting her to loosen up so she wouldn’t freak out so much about crossing lines with me, although I suspected it’d take more time to break down that barrier.

  Too drunk, and I wouldn’t attempt to make a move. That wasn’t how I rolled, and Whitney might be close to tipping the scales on that point. I wanted line crossing, but I wanted sober line crossing.

  When she reached me she wobbled a bit, and I reached out to steady her with a hand on her waist.

  “I’m good,” she said.

  “Whatever you say, Reporter Girl.”

  She smiled, a teasing of teeth between kissable lips. “Thanks, Hockey Boy. For getting me an in with them.”

  “Sure thing,” I said, guiding her back toward the other side of the room. “But we need to talk about this ‘boy’ stuff. I’ll accept Hockey Man, Dude, Stud…Hockey God.”

  “Pfft. Dream on, Hockey Boy.” The humor in her expression faded as she looked around. The place had cleared out quite a bit, leaving the area empty enough to see most everyone left at the party. Her eyebrows drew together, and then she pulled out her phone. Her face dropped at whatever was on the screen.

  “What’s wrong?”

  She pressed her phone to her chest. “Kristen texted me, but I didn’t hear it, and apparently after try two, she left me.” She shook her head. “How do I always manage to forget her definition of wingwoman and mine are inordinately different?”

  “Inordinately? Good to see that alcohol has no effect on your vocabulary.”

  “It’s grandiloquence or nothing for this chick.”

  “Will you settle for Hennessy?”

  She blinked slowly, her confusion clear.

  “I think that you are inordinately drunk,” I said.

  “I’m not. Impaired enough to be unable to drive, though, even if I had a car.” She lifted her phone and began typing with her thumbs. She kept growling and backspacing, which I thought proved my drunk theory. “Fingers crossed I don’t have to wait too long for a cab. There’s a reason why the place I called last time has a one-point-eight star rating. It took forever to pick me up, and it was pouring rain. And like that time, of course I don’t have a coat. But maybe this other place will be better.”

  I put my hand on her wrist. “Don’t bother with the cab. I’ll take you home.”

  “You’ve been drinking.”

  “Yes, I have. Lots of Coke. I’m really awake from the caffeine, so I’ll be super alert for the drive.”

  “But I saw you getting beer from the keg,” she said, gesturing in the general direction of the drink table, “and earlier when you…when we talked about treating me as an equal in the locker room, you said you were drunk.”

  “No, you said I was drunk, because you’re apparently bad at taking compliments. I let it go because I didn’t think you’d believe me, and I choose my battles, especially where you’re involved. Everything I filled from the tap was for other people. I’m perfectly sober. See…”

  I went ramrod straight, put my finger on the tip of my nose, and began reciting the alphabet backward.

  She narrowed her eyes on me. “Seems like you have a lot of experience in doing that.”

  I flashed her an over-the-top grin. “Here I am, choosing not to fight this battle. Now come on.” I put my hand on her back, but when she tensed, I didn’t push. “You trust me, right?”

  She shook her head, but a smile broke free, making me think about her lips again. “Not as far as I could throw you, and I think my attempt to spin you made it clear how far that is.”

  I laughed. “Fair enough. But I can get you home for free, and you won’t have to wait forever for a cab to show up. The people determined to close the place down are only going to get more drunk. Then they’ll be hitting on you, and I’ll have to defend your honor, and I’m already exhausted from the game.”

  Her muscles relaxed. “Fine. I’d hate for you to have to defend my honor from all these guys too busy with puck bunnies to look at me twice.”

  I guided her toward the door, wanting to tell her I’d been looking at her all night. If it were a line, I’d throw it out there, no thinking twice about it. But I held it back…because it was a little too true.

  The streetlights filtered in through the windshield, the red from the stoplight sending a
blur of color across Whitney’s features. The girl was still a walking contradiction, one I was determined to figure out.

  “Why didn’t you cover hockey last year?” I asked. “Were you focused on stupid football instead?”

  I got an eyebrow raise that chided me to be nice about football. Not that anything was wrong about the sport in general, but hockey was better. It’d explain why she’d used “quarter,” instead of “period,” though. Almost.

  “No. Getting onto the staff of the paper is difficult—it’s really competitive. That’s why I just started. This year, I mean.”

  My instincts told me there was still something off. I had no doubt the positions at the paper were hard to come by, but she hardly struck me as the first choice pick to cover hockey. Not because she was female, but because she didn’t talk sports the way most reporters I’d met, male or female. She was unlike anyone I’d met, actually, and since it meant having her next to me in my truck right now, I didn’t care so much why she was the one covering sports.

  “I’ll admit hockey is faster-paced than football. By the end of the year, I might even declare it my favorite sport. Maybe.” She gave me a sideways glance and happiness pinged through my chest. The girl was quickly figuring out the way to win me over, which was unfair since I was still a long way from figuring her out. “How’d you get into it anyway? Are you one of those kids who had a hockey stick put in their hands as soon as they could walk?”

  Rough street games were how I’d first fallen in love with the sport, games where I’d ended up with bloody noses and scraped knees. But it was okay to hit back on the court, and it was a relief to find a way to release the aggression after years of holding it in. That answer tended to scare people—girls especially—so I kept it more kosher. “There was a group of neighborhood kids who played street hockey not too far from my house. A few of the guys belonged to a league that played on the ice, too—Dane was one of them. His dad was the coach, actually. Once I started getting good, they asked me join the team. That was when it went from a hobby to an addiction.”