Anatomy of a Player (Taking Shots #2)

by Cindi Madsen

  My stomach dropped. I knew she thought I fit there, and on some aspects, I couldn’t totally disagree.

  Players that fit in both of those categories often get away with things other students might not. The fact is, colleges—like 99% of institutions and businesses out there—are going to follow the money. While some student funds go to the athletics department, those funds also funnel back into the college, so in the end, what we have is a symbiotic relationship.

  So while we might not always agree, I’m hoping we’ll get our symbiotic on and try to close the canyon that’s opened between the two groups. By all means, let your voice be heard. Just remember that well-thought-out honey letters will win more flies than the hate-filled vinegar ones. Since these flies happen to decide where our college funds go, this is one instance where you actually want to catch some. As for me, I’ll keep cheering on our championship hockey team, even if I’ll be writing articles and sneaking in a few minutes of studying between periods.

  I lowered the paper and startled when I noticed Dane was next to the coffee table again, getting ready to raise his second burrito to his mouth before he even finished scarfing down the first.

  “She said she’d keep cheering for us,” Dane said through his food.

  “Yeah. That was a surprise.” More than a surprise, actually. I’d been prepared for scathing words and insults about me personally, and to be mad on behalf of my teammates. I’d thought I would feel justified, that this would only provide more proof that she and I would’ve never worked out anyway, regardless of what I’d done.

  I read that last line again.

  I wanted those words to mean she’d forgiven me—I even wanted to read something into her use of periods instead of quarters, but that just meant she’d learned the terminology.

  “So, what are you going to do?” Dane asked.

  “Look, this doesn’t mean she forgives me, and it definitely doesn’t mean she wants me back. She was just trying to do the fair and balanced thing, because that’s what good journalists do.” I needed to tell myself that before I went and let the hope that I’d snuffed out Saturday night relight long enough for my heart to get stomped on all over again.

  Dane sat on the other end of the couch and licked greasy cheese sauce off his fingers. “Come on, you’ve got to try.”

  “I did,” I said, folding the paper in half two times. I knew it’d be torturous to look at, yet I was going to do it anyway. I’d stare at her picture and read her words again and again and probably even look for hidden meaning that wasn’t there. I’d been reduced to that, and I didn’t even care.

  “But did you really?” Dane placed his empty plate on the coffee table and faced me. “What did you do?”

  I’d honestly planned on taking it to the grave, but the guy had come home and given me a speech I needed, so I gave in. “I told her I loved her. She slapped me.”

  “Damn, that’s harsh! She’s even more feisty than I gave her credit for.”

  I glared at him.

  “Okay, so you told her you loved her, but what else did you do?”

  I groaned and rolled my eyes to the ceiling. “I seriously can’t believe we’re talking about this.”

  “Deal with it. When did you tell her? Right after she found out about the bet?”

  “Yeah. Well, after she told me that she knew about the bet—she’d heard you going on and on about it.”

  Dane at least had the decency to look guilty. “Sorry about that, bro. For the record, I never would’ve taken your jersey—I know how much it means to you. Like I said, I just wanted you to get out of your rut. I knew something was going on with your mom and—”

  “Let’s focus on one problem at a time,” I said, holding up a hand.

  Dane gave one sharp nod. “Right. So Whitney tells you that she knows we’re all a bunch of assholes who made a stupid bet, and then you just blurted out that you loved her?”

  “First I told her I was sorry, and that I wanted to fix it.”

  “But you didn’t do anything to fix it,” Dane said. Or maybe it was a question. I couldn’t really tell.

  I scowled at him. “I’m back to wanting to hit you.”

  “You have to do something big, bro! Remember how Beck made a fool of himself at that party? That was classic. And it obviously worked.”

  Oh, I remembered the party, and the worst rapping I’d ever heard in my life. We brought it up often on the road, too, teasing Beck that we needed him to serenade us. “I’m not singing.”

  Shit, I’d do just about anything else, though. Honestly, I’d sing if that was what she wanted. “Do you think…?” The words snagged in my throat for a second, that was how much I’d lost my mind over this girl. “You really think I have a chance at winning her back?”

  “I think you’d be stupid not to try.”

  The hope I’d done my damnedest to smother sparked. It coughed and sputtered from everything I’d thrown on it, but it relit and gave off a tiny glow. Was it enough? Enough to make a total fool of myself, complete with a big gesture and begging?

  But another question rose to my mind, one that Beck had planted there. Could I live without her?

  I’d tried it for six of the longest, worst days of my life. It felt like part of me had died, and not even hockey made me happy anymore. I saw my life without her, and the emptiness I’d envisioned echoed through my hollow chest.

  Fuck that. I needed her. She was everything I wanted, and I knew if I didn’t try to get her back, I’d regret it forever. “Okay, I’m in. I’ll do whatever it takes.”

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Whitney

  “What’s all this?” I asked when Lindsay and Will greeted me with champagne in the newsroom on Friday afternoon.

  “This is congrats on one front page story, plus double congrats for another one scheduled for Monday.” Lindsay placed a half-filled red plastic cup in my hand. “Also, if any faculty come in, hide all traces of drinking, because it’s a big no-no.”

  I took a sip and the tingly bubbles slid down my throat. It turned out that Calvin Wagner and his roommate were running quite the cheating ring. After gaining access to test banks and solution manuals, they started their own tutoring business. They, as well as their ten employees, knew exactly what would be on every test, so they tailored the tutoring sessions to fit them. Which made them look like the best tutors ever, and with such a high success rate to brag about, they were able to charge more.

  If the students weren’t picking up the information even with that tailored help, they dropped a few hints to see how open they’d be to “other guaranteed means,” and if the students weren’t opposed, they’d sell them the tests and manuals.

  On the side, they also had an email address for people who forewent the tutoring route altogether, passed Go, paid their two hundred dollars, and collected their cheat sheets.

  Adam McCaffrey, the academic advisor for the hockey team, gave out both email addresses to players. At first he claimed they were both for tutoring, but he’d finally admitted to knowing and even encouraging some of the players to buy the tests to keep themselves eligible. He swore that the coaches had no idea that it was going on and then he turned in his resignation. As much as I tried to tell myself cheaters were cheaters, my heart went out to the players who’d bought tests. When your academic advisor advised you to cheat so you wouldn’t let down your team, it’d be pretty hard to resist taking the easy way out.

  While several students—both athletes and non-athletes, who I also felt sorry for—had paid for tests, Calvin’s inbox revealed that the email Dane sent simply asked for a tutor to help Hudson in his Sociology Statistics class. I assumed Dane had stepped in because Hudson was too stubborn to email and ask for help, but I couldn’t confirm it, since I wasn’t talking to him right now. Which made me want to start crying, and it was getting ridiculous already.

  Of course, if anyone asked, I’d never seen that email and neither had Will. Instead, we used the set up Will already ha
d with Calvin and paid for a test to a class none of us had, which gave us enough legally-obtained proof to turn it over to the Dean of Students. Calvin and his team had folded pretty quickly, and the scoop would be in the next edition of the Heights.

  Two front-page articles in a row, and the first was already getting a good response. It was what I’d dreamed of since I’d picked up my first glittery pink journal and decided to report stories.

  But it felt empty.

  I’d called my daddy, and he’d told me he always knew I’d make it. When he asked how everything else was, I told him I was great and quickly turned the conversation back to him. He’d shocked me by telling me he was dating someone. Since he sounded happy, I’d fought the urge to book a flight to go see for myself if she was worthy.

  Which had made me think of Hudson. I’d wanted to call him—if anyone knew about dating drama involving parents, it was him. Honestly, I’d been desperate for an excuse to talk to him anyway, and I’d even pulled out my phone and scrolled to his name before the logical side of my brain kicked in. I’d never be able to move on if I kept talking to him. Cutting all ties was my only option—my playdar might be non-existent, but at least I had some sense of self-preservation.

  “Whitney?”

  I yanked myself back to the present and looked at Lindsay. “Sorry. I’ve been keeping late hours and I didn’t get much sleep the past few nights, what with all the writing.” I took another sip, wanting to show her I appreciated the trouble she’d gone through to get our contraband champagne.

  When I noticed her pointed finger, though, I spun around—and choked on the fizzy bubbles. They burned my nose and my eyes watered, blurring the outlines of the hockey players who’d entered the office.

  If they’ve come to complain about what I wrote, they should’ve read the first version. The urge to send Lindsay the meaner version had been strong—and considering her bitterness toward the team, she probably would’ve printed it. But I’d realized it was an angry attack, not journalism. Deciding to be professional, I’d stripped it down to facts and presented both sides.

  Now, if these guys were upset about my posing as a sportswriter in order to write said article, that I deserved. I was actually surprised it took them this long to show.

  Of course, I automatically looked for Hudson, but he wasn’t one of the four players standing in the entrance of the newspaper office. Dane and Ryder were among them, though, and the spot between my shoulder blades tightened. I’d thought they were nice guys, and it bothered me I’d been fooled by them, too.

  Lifting my chin, I walked toward them, determined to let them speak their piece, but to also hold my ground if it became more of an attack. At least without Hudson looking on, I had a chance of holding it together.

  Dane stepped forward. “Whitney, we need you to come with us.”

  “Um. No thanks,” I said.

  “I’m afraid we’re going to have to insist on it.”

  I took a step back, suddenly not feeling quite so bold anymore. “Look, I’m sorry if you guys feel betrayed, and I certainly never meant for that to happen, but if you’d like to express your opinions about the article, letters to the editor are really the best way to do it.”

  Dane glanced toward the doorway. “Where is he?”

  Ryder shrugged. “He said he was on his way.”

  “Who?” I asked, my neck prickling. If Hudson came in, then the likelihood of tears was, well, more like a sure bet.

  Ugh, stupid “bet” word. Why’d my brain pick it?

  Beck burst into the room. He had my heaviest coat draped over his arm, and my gloves and Lyla’s purple beanie dangled from one hand. “Took a bit longer than expected,” he said. “Did she refuse to come?”

  “Yeah, and we don’t have much time. I’d grab her, but I think those two are about to call the cops as is.” Dane jerked his chin at Lindsay and Will, who wore twin expressions of concern mixed with oh-holy-crap.

  Lindsay placed a hand on the receiver of her desk phone, darting a silent dare at each hockey player. If this were the Wild West, someone would draw and the place would erupt in gunfire. Luckily, the only thing the guys seemed to be armed with was my winter gear.

  “Beck, what’s going on?” I asked.

  “We need you to come with us,” he said. “You trust me, right?”

  I hesitated for a second. I did, but did I trust him and the four other guys in the room?

  “I get it,” Beck said, approaching me like one would a flighty woodland creature. “The way college guys sometimes act is the reason why I nearly have a heart attack thinking about my little sister coming here next semester. If a guy made a bet about sleeping with her, or even looked at her wrong”—he shot daggers at the other guys in the room and they straightened—“there’d be some broken bones involved. So trust me, I don’t take what happened lightly. But Lyla helped me gather your stuff”—he raised it as proof—“and you know she wouldn’t have unless she was onboard.”

  Admittedly, that did make me feel better, but not as good as if she were here to tell me what the hell was going on. “Where are we going?”

  Beck put his arm around my shoulders, guiding me toward the exit, and the rest of the hockey players followed. “For all intents and purposes, New York.”

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Whitney

  “Are we going to the airport?” I asked from the passenger seat of Beck’s Land Rover, my nerves stretching even tighter as we cruised east. The four other guys were crammed in the back two rows, and they managed to make the large SUV look small. They, as well as Beck, were being very cryptic, not to mention freakishly quiet.

  When no one answered, I spun in my seat to face Beck. “You do know that ‘all intents and purposes’ isn’t the same as ‘literally,’ right? I can’t fly anywhere right now, much less New York.”

  Saying the place aloud set off another alarm. “Did something happen to Hudson? Is he hurt? Is it his mom?”

  If he was hurt, physically or emotionally, and the last thing I’d done was slap him, I’d regret it forever. Panic flooded my system, washing away all rational thought. Obviously it was bad, or they’d tell me. They’d said there wasn’t much time.

  Cold filled me, the kind that couldn’t be taken care of with coats and gloves.

  “Whitney. Hey.” Beck’s steady voice forced my attention back to him. “He’s okay. I mean, he’s not okay, okay. But he’s not hurt. Just… We’re almost there. You’ll see, and then it’ll all make sense.”

  I glanced back at the guys for confirmation.

  Dane opened his mouth, but then he clamped it shut again. Once I confirmed with my own eyes that Hudson was okay, I was going to kill the entire hockey team for doing this to me. My heart had been beat up more than enough this past week.

  Instead of getting on I-90 like I’d expected, Beck turned onto the bridge that would take us across the Charles River. More confused than ever, I decided to ignore the silent soldiers and watch the river drift past outside my window.

  When Beck turned onto a side road, I studied the surroundings. Lots of brick office-type buildings with rows upon rows of square windows. Even though I’d lived in Boston for a year and a half now, I didn’t venture that far from the college area, and I had no idea what was over in this one.

  Thanks to yesterday’s snowstorm, clumps of snow clung to naked tree branches and shoveled piles remained here and there.

  “You’re probably going to want at least the coat and gloves,” Beck said.

  I slipped the coat over the lighter jacket I’d worn all day, back when the sun had been out. “Lyla’s cool with whatever this is?”

  “She’s the one who told me I better get your winter gear so you wouldn’t freeze, because apparently—” He cut himself off and shook his head. “See, this is why we aren’t talking. I almost said the wrong thing. Just know that she didn’t want you to be cold.”

  He parked the SUV in a small side lot and then all the guys filed out of th
e vehicle, hulking silent dudes who kept giving miniscule nods to each other. I felt like I was in the witness protection program or something. If it weren’t for Beck, it would feel more like I was being taken to the Godfather, after which I’d conveniently disappear and never be heard of again.

  We crossed the street, and I caught flashes of twinkling lights between the branches of now-leafless bushes. As soon as we walked through the shrubbery, I saw the skating rink. The trees circling it were draped in white lights that sent a soft glow across the ice and lit up the face of the guy standing at the entrance.

  Hudson. My heart squeezed as his name zinged through me, awakening every inch of me from head to toe. A crookedly erected Christmas tree stood to the right of him, one of the longer tree branches barely clearing the backward baseball cap on his head. Whereas the other trees looked like they’d been lit up for a while, this tree looked…well, the lights and ornaments were haphazardly placed, no rhyme or reason, and the huge silver star on top was flopped forward, looking like it might crash down at any moment.

  Hudson took a large step toward me, his eyes locked onto mine. “I know that it’s not quite Rockefeller Center, and the star isn’t over five hundred pounds, but it was the biggest one I could find, and obviously it’s heavy enough that we couldn’t figure out how to make it stay the hell up. Someday I’ll take you to the real one, though. If you’ll let me.”

  I glanced over my shoulder, only to find that my entourage had already receded into the bushes. Good. I didn’t want an audience for this. “It means a lot to me that you’d go to so much trouble, but I’m not sure that even the real Rockefeller Center would be enough to save whatever this was. I miss you, I do…” Shit. Tears were forming; air was becoming harder and harder to come by. “But you swore you wouldn’t hurt me, and you did—you hurt me worse than anyone ever has.”

  The same pain that had flashed across his features the other night showed up and echoed through me.

  “I know I messed up, too,” I said, before I lost the ability to talk. “I wasn’t completely honest, and I even wrote up this whole “Anatomy of a Player” thing on you—I won’t use it, but it started as a way for me to show all the reasons girls shouldn’t fall for a player, and while it’s too late to avoid that, I just don’t know how I can get past everything that’s happened. I mean, the only reason you went for me was because of that bet.”