by Cindi Madsen
I lifted my phone, opened up my email, and looked from the screen to the note so I could make sure I had the address right and then hovered my finger between “cancel” and “send.”
Thinking about Whitney right now, and how passing my class meant being around her more, was completely crazy. But there was only about a month and a half left in the semester, and even if I took the girl making me lose my mind out of the equation, there was my team—my true family—to worry about. McCaffrey didn’t need to add the reminder that they were all relying on me, because I was well aware, and I didn’t want to let them down.
My waffles popped, making me jump, because everything made you jump when you were feeling guilty.
Before I could rethink everything, I tapped the screen, shoved the phone in my pocket, and then crumpled up the note and tossed it in the trash.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Whitney
For two days I felt the imprint of my phone against my thigh every time I took a step, the picture of that note on Hudson’s fridge burning a hole through my pocket. I wished I hadn’t seen it, that piece of possible evidence I should dig into but hadn’t brought myself to examine yet.
I’d gone back and forth on whether or not to use it. After all, there was no proof that Hudson or Dane had used the email address.
Of course, I wouldn’t know that unless I investigated it.
Part of me thought I had enough information about athletic perks with or without knowing if cheating was going on in addition to everything else, but lately I’d had a hard time working up passion for my exposé in general.
I wasn’t sure I wanted to expose everything anymore. Not the hockey team’s everything, and not mine.
I swore my phone grew hotter the instant I walked into the newsroom. Was that a sign I should use the information? Or a sign I should hit delete and forget that I’d seen it? A serious journalist wouldn’t ignore a clue like that.
A girl who liked a boy wouldn’t use a night he’d actually been open and amazing against him.
“How are we today?” Will asked, and I jumped, sure guilt was written across my face.
“Nothing,” I said, before realizing that didn’t make sense. “I mean fine.” I took a few steps toward my tiny, ancient desk. For now it’d do, but someday I wanted a bigger one that my computer would actually fit on, with enough space to spread my research out around me, a fancy nameplate, and…other vital reporter things.
I thought about Professor Jessup telling me that all I’d ever be was a pretty face in front of a TV camera—if I was lucky—and his jab about getting emotional. Then I thought about that article I’d read about politics holding women’s health hostage, and the type of stories I hoped to write someday. The documentaries that impacted me the most came about from people asking why, people who wouldn’t stop until they’d unveiled the truth—the good, the bad, and the ugly.
If I messed up this opportunity, I might not get another chance to prove that I could handle a big story. And if I wanted to make a difference, I couldn’t ignore possible leads.
It hit me that while I’d left the pageant world behind to focus on truth-finding and becoming a journalist, several of those girls were out spreading awareness about their causes, making an impact, and I was holding back.
I spun around and walked toward Will. “Actually. I was wondering… If I gave you an email address, could you find out who it belonged to? Maybe even who’s emailed him or her in the past few months? I think this person is selling tests to athletes, but I want to be sure so I don’t end up wasting time chasing a dead end.”
If several of the hockey players’ names came up, that’d help me know if it was worth pursuing. Then I could decide what to do with it. The jumbled knot in my gut unfurled a bit, allowing me a modicum of relief.
“Depends on how smart the person is and how hard they’ve tried to protect their identity,” Will said. “I can take a bash at it, though.”
“That’d be awesome.” My phone snagged on my pocket as I tried to pull it out, and then it fell to the floor.
I scrambled to pick it up and ran my hand across the screen, saying a silent prayer to whoever was listening that it didn’t break. Crap. Is this a sign that I shouldn’t go through with it?
I shook my head at myself. I’d never believed in signs before, and suddenly I was seeing them everywhere? And how many times had I dropped my phone for no reason other than sometimes it was slippery? Three broken cases were proof enough of that.
Before I could play twenty questions with my conscience again, I pulled up the picture and rattled off the email address.
There. I’d done what I was supposed to. I’d found a source, and I was digging for the truth. Once I had cold hard facts, I could decide what to do with them.
Whitney Porter, first class procrastinator.
Will turned back to his computer and I headed to my desk. I dug out my notes and pulled up the article I’d started all those weeks ago. It was rough and written with a lot of seething and scathing that made me think of how ugly my online survey had become.
Speaking of… I pulled up the survey and scrolled to the bottom to see how many new comments we had, and if they were of the nonsensical ranting or well thought out argument variety.
Very few were of the latter. Some of the commenters were still fighting amongst themselves. With the usual tact of online arguments, they called each other hateful slurs and made suggestions to each other that were physically impossible.
Footsteps echoed across the room, a common occurrence in the newsroom, but when they grew louder, I glanced up. Lindsay stopped in front of my desk. “With all the controversy you’ve stirred up with your survey, I was thinking you should write up your article now rather than later.”
The controversy I’d stirred up? I didn’t want to be responsible for the hate slurs or for the grand-canyon-esque divide that had opened up between athletes and the rest of the student body. I’d only asked a question—my pursuit was truth, not animosity.
Once the article’s written, though, I’m not sure I can still claim innocence.
“So?” Lindsay perched herself on the edge of my desk, but stood when it wobbled instead of holding her slight weight. “When do you think you could get me a rough draft?”
A rough draft? I quickly closed out of the version I had onscreen—it was a mess and nowhere near ready. Honestly, it read more like a rant than an informed article. “I thought I was going to dig all semester and write it up at the end. It’s a big article and I’m already undercover and set up to gain even more information on the hockey players.”
Panic and guilt formed an ugly combination, and at least one of them had sharp teeth that dug into my gut with the intention of ripping it apart.
“But people are fired up now,” Lindsay said, a hint of exasperation to her voice. “I overheard several students talking about it on campus, and we want to take advantage of that and get it out there before interest wanes and becomes old news.”
Shit. Logically I knew I needed to follow through with the article if I wanted to become the journalist I’d dreamed of becoming, but I needed more information and more time and right now I was questioning every word I’d written or even thought about writing. With the reality of the article now suddenly upon me, I didn’t know which slant to take or where I hoped that email address would lead me, but I wanted the improbable outcome of finding a way to write an amazing article without anyone getting hurt in the process.
While that might not be entirely feasible, I hoped I could at least buy more time. “Will’s checking on one thing for me and it might take awhile for him to crack it. I can start writing, but I’ll need at least a couple of weeks to get my notes together and then put it into an organized—”
“You’ve got one week—well, technically, six days. Have it in my inbox by next Saturday night, along with your write up of Friday’s hockey game. Then stay glued to your computer all weekend, because we’re going to have to
do edits quickly. I want it in the Monday edition and I want it to pack a punch.”
What else could I do but nod?
…
I scrubbed a hand over my face and rubbed at my eyes, blinking until the words on my computer screen sharpened, and then I wanted them to blur again. I’d started my article from scratch, written two pages, only to delete it all and start from scratch again. The pressure of going from a story due in six weeks to six days built and built until my brain threatened to explode from the stress.
My phone chimed from its exiled spot on the coffee table—when it had been close to me, the distraction to do anything but write my article proved too great. I’d even turned my wifi off in the name of getting crap done.
The text chimed again, though, tempting my attention back to the unread message.
When I shifted on the couch, papers scattered and my laptop tried to make a dive off my lap. Gripping it with one hand, I stretched my arm farther and picked up my phone. Butterflies swarmed my stomach when I saw Hudson’s name.
Hudson: Just wanted to tell you that I’m still thinking about my night with Katy Perry.
I debated my next move, but I couldn’t help but tease him a little—I figured it was my job to keep his ego in check.
Me: Is this the cute football player I met? I had fun with you, too!
I waited for his comeback, but my phone just sat there for a couple of silent seconds. I set my laptop aside and shifted positions, cursing the messy couch and how uncomfortable it’d become. My bed called to me, but I’d learned that if I set up there to work, the only thing I ever accomplished was falling asleep, usually at a weird enough angle to end up with permanently kinked muscles.
Hudson: Who is this?
Me: Who do you want it to be?
Hudson: Jeez, Reporter Girl! For a second I thought I had the wrong number. Not cool. And the football player comment? REALLY NOT COOL!
I laughed, my bad day fading to the background.
Me: Are we using the liking dinosaurs = coolness scale?
Hudson: Dinos = BADASS. Don’t make me come over there and show you.
I panicked at the thought of him coming over now, damning evidence for my article surrounding me. Sure it’d been like this when he’d shown up that night we’d watched the documentary, but there was twice as much now. Enough it’d take two trips to hide it. Not to mention I wanted to at least be a little made up the next time I saw him.
Crap. That probably meant I cared too much, didn’t it?
Me: This was the day from hell and I’m totally dead tonight, but someday I’ll take you up on that offer. How’s the ankle, btw?
Hudson: Better. I’m hoping they’ll clear me for practice tomorrow.
Two seconds later…
Hudson: Actually, it’s bad. I need you to help me walk. You should come over.
My grin rivaled the ones I used to paste on during pageants, but unlike those Vaseline-enforced smiles, my current one didn’t take any effort. I cleared a space on the couch and rolled onto my stomach, staring at my phone screen. Leg-kicking might’ve even been involved.
Me: Nice try. I’m about to go to sleep. I’ll catch you later.
There. Look at me being all smooth and light, no neediness in sight.
Hudson: Night, Sexy. If you don’t catch me soon, I’m coming for you.
I shook my head. Seriously, the guy could talk his way out of a lesbian firing squad. I knew he’d said some genuine things during the time we’d been together, I just wished I knew how genuine, and exactly which things.
• An expert-level charmer, the player has perfected every line and knows how to flirt his way in and out of every situation.
• Emotions: Often unreadable. Those who try to dive deeper will get swept away and forget what they were looking for in the first place.
Occasionally a player will show you a rare glimpse at a softer side, one that makes you think this guy might be different. Studies are currently under way to prove if this theory has any validity, and we’re cautiously hopeful.
I tapped my phone and Hudson’s last text lit up the screen. Oh, I want to catch you all right. Or he could come for me. Either way, as long as his lips were on mine again, I’d count it as a win.
“That’s certainly a big smile,” Lyla said—I hadn’t even realized she’d come out of her bedroom. “You’ve seemed so stressed lately. Happy looks good on you.”
I admired her self-control. If the tables were reversed, I would’ve already asked who she was texting and what he’d said. “Hudson was texting me.”
She nodded. “I guessed as much.”
I sat up, making room for her on the couch. “I was thinking… Maybe it’s time for me to end the sex part of my sabbatical? I mean, how can I fully describe his anatomy if I don’t see it all?”
“Oh boy,” Lyla said, no doubt seeing through my poorly constructed argument.
“Okay, obviously it’s not about the Anatomy of a Player article. But it can just be about sex.”
Lyla sighed. “In my experience, it never ends up being just sex. And I’m afraid you’re being a little…overly optimistic that you can keep it to only that. Is no-strings really what you want?” She looked me in the eye. “Be honest.”
I shrugged, even as my body fought the too-casual gesture. “As long as I’m in control, he won’t be playing me. It’ll feel empowering, actually. I won’t have to worry about what we are to each other. This time I’ll know going in that it’s casual sex, and if it keeps happening cool, and if it doesn’t work out, so be it.”
When I dared to meet Lyla’s gaze again, her expression made it clear she thought it was the dumbest idea on earth. “I don’t know a tactful way to say this, so I’m just going to say it sounds like a good way for you to get hurt again.”
“But everything’s changed,” I argued, unwilling to let the idea go now that I’d had it. “I won’t think he’s more than he is. I’ll be the one to hit it and choose when to quit it. Guys have been doing it since the dawn of time.”
“I don’t really think there’s significant enough proof that guys have—”
“Lyla, I love you, but now is no time for semantics. Just have faith in me that I can pull it off. That I can call him up when I want sex, enjoy it, and not deal with the rest of the relationship stuff that I suck at anyway.”
She exhaled, an exhale that apparently weighed a hundred pounds because it went on forever. “I think you can do anything you put your mind to, Whit. But I’m not sure you can keep your emotions from coming along for the ride, even if that’s what you think you want now. So just…be careful, okay? If you feel yourself becoming attached—regardless of what you know and how strong you are—quit it. We’ll go out and cut off those feelings before they take root.”
I was pretty sure the roots had already sunk in. They were twining around my heart and wrapping tighter each time I interacted with Hudson. I knew he had more dimensions to him, parts he hid the same way I did. There was something that connected us, even though I was smart enough—and had more than enough experience—to know that it probably wasn’t enough to make him change his ways.
In spite of all that, I still wanted to explore the connection instead of running from it. I couldn’t help it.
“Whitney?”
“I hear you,” I said.
“Just wanted to make sure you know what you’re doing.”
I didn’t have the slightest clue. But if it was between keeping things casual and getting more of Hudson, or being too needy and scaring him away, I chose more Hudson. “I’m not sure I know what I’m doing, but I want to at least keep the no-strings-attached thing as an option.”
Lyla gave one sharp nod. “Okay. If you ever need me, you know I’m never more than a phone call away.”
As if both of us knew the other needed it, we leaned in for the hug at the same time. “Love you.”
She squeezed me extra tight. “Love you, too.”
Maybe I was being ov
erly optimistic about things on the Hudson front, but it didn’t keep me from thinking that I’d probably need to make that phone call someday.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Hudson
I’d been avoiding my mom’s calls for days, and she’d left me alone after I’d snapped, but today I felt like I could take on anything. The swelling in my ankle was gone, I could walk without limping, and then there was the real reason I almost fucking skipped to campus.
My night with Whitney had been seared into my mind and I brought it up whenever I felt frustration rising—I used it pretty much every time I studied. Sure that I’d need it extra now, I conjured up her smile, the taste of her lips, and held on to that happiness for a moment before hitting the call back button on my phone.
“Hudson?” The surprise in Mom’s voice carried over the line—she hadn’t thought I would call her back, even though she’d left a message asking me to.
“Yeah,” I said.
“How was your hockey game last weekend? Did you win?”
She obviously didn’t follow the games, or she’d know I didn’t play. “We won,” I said, because it was true, and easier than mentioning my injury. She hadn’t cared when Raymond had broken my ribs, which made it hard to think she’d care about a sprained ankle.
“Look, I know you don’t agree with all of my decisions, but can’t you see how badly I want you to be part of my life? I don’t want to drift apart again, right when we finally fixed things between us.”
“Every single time, you choose him,” I said. “Things were good because I thought you were done with him. I’ve had years of proof that you’ll never stop running back to the prick, yet somehow I’m still disappointed.”
“Someday you’ll fall in love and see that it’s not that easy.”
“If that’s love, I’ll pass.” Even though I went out of my way to avoid relationships, I thought maybe one day, way, way down the road, I’d settle down because that’s what you did, and I liked the idea of having a son and teaching him hockey. I didn’t delude myself that I’d fall in the kind of love that people glamorized and sang songs about. But for some reason, at the mention of love, a certain journalist came to mind. This time, instead of bringing happiness, worry rose up and took out a bite.