Page 13 of Anatomy of a Player

I wished I could see Lyla’s expression—even though it’d probably only confirm that I’d blown it—but the dots floating across my phone’s screen made it clear she wasn’t sure how to respond. Finally a blue bubble appeared.

Lyla:That’s one way to do it.

Me:Do what? Ruin my career before it starts?

Lyla:I’m sure it’s not that bad. Hudson needs a dose of humility now and then. His ego’s big enough that he’ll be fine. Plus, now the guys know not to hit on you, and they’ll treat you with more respect. It’ll be fine, you’ll see.

I certainly hoped so. Her reassurances at least made my muscles loosen up enough that driving home no longer seemed like an impossible challenge.

As I maneuvered the streets of Boston, my brain decided to betray me and drift to the way one corner of Hudson’s mouth had twisted up after I’d landed that first blow, halfway between bewilderment and a smirk. The guy obviously thought he was all that and a bag of Flamin’ Hot Cheetos, and whether or not he ever talked to me again, I couldn’t wait to put him and the rest of his teammates in their place.

…

When I walked into the newspaper office Monday afternoon, Lindsay did a double take. “You look different.”

I figured that for now there was too big a risk of running into a hockey player on campus to drop the look, so until the story was written, I was stuck with it. “Yeah, well, I want to be taken seriously. Plus my roommate informed me I looked like a puck bunny in my usual clothes.”

Lindsay laughed, but there was something slightly off about it. Not quite fake, but uncomfortable. “It’s good to hear that you’re taking it so seriously. I was afraid that I’d send you in and you’d end up being one of those dumb blondes who fall for hockey players’ charms and muscles.”

“Nope, not me,” I said, although inside I was thinking,Jeez, why don’t you tell me what you really think. In a way, I envied her for just putting it out there, no holding back like I tended to do. “I’m not even dating right now. My entire focus is on my classes and this story.”

“Good. I’d hate to put all this effort into training you, only to have you end up being the token pretty girl on SportsCenter.”

Considering my miniscule sports knowledge, I was fairly certain I was safe from that fate. Lindsay’s only comment on my write-up from the hockey game had been that it was good, but I needed more voice in the next one, and for it to be a couple of paragraphs longer. So between my research and my classes, I needed to find a voice before the next game.

No biggie, right? I’ll just order one off Amazon. Two-day shipping, for the win!

A tall guy with a mop of sandy-brown curls walked in and Lindsay motioned him over. “Whitney, this is Will, our tech guy. He keeps up the website and formats the online articles, and if you need help digging for information, or you find a lead that you need researched through more…let’s go withthoroughmethods, he’s your guy.”

“Delighted to meet you,” he said in a delicious British accent. Since I’d had people mock and mimic the hint of southern accent I’d tried to rid myself of, I didn’t mention it, and I made a mental note to be careful of accidentally imitating it. For some reason, I couldn’t be around someone with an accent without subconsciously adopting it, usually poorly. Even now I had the urge to say things like “cheerio,” “bloody hell,” and “loo.”

Before I made a fool of myself, I settled into the tiny desk Lindsay had asked a janitor to dig out of who-knew-where—the 1900s from the looks of the genuine chipped wood. Not that I was complaining. It matched the old-school brick architecture of most of the buildings on campus.

I opened my laptop and continued on with my research. Finding instances of jocks thinking they were above the rules was almost too easy. There was that NFL quarterback everyone here loved, who’d cheated in a playoff game but got special treatment despite a judge’s ruling. At Auburn University, their curriculum committee tried to discontinue the “Public Administration” major, stating it added little to the school’s academic mission. But then top administrators overruled the decision, because Auburn’s athletic department had been funneling their football players through the cakewalk program. The athletic department even offered to fund it so that their football players could keep up their counterfeit GPAs.

Then there was the UNC scandal, where the athletes took fake “paper classes.” A quick email would result in a passing grade.

Must be nice.

The big kicker was the way they’d boasted about their ability to maintain high academic standards while running one of the top sports programs.

Next, I spent a good hour on scholarship information. The Flynn Fund for athletes at Boston College offered two hundred and seventy-two scholarships totaling nearly fifteen million dollars. All the applicants really needed to be was good at sports.

On the other hand, the Presidential Scholars—awarded to about fifteen students—required nearly perfect grades, stellar SAT scores, and well-written essays. Seemed pretty unbalanced if you asked me.

As for other scholarships and the money put into them, I kept hitting dead ends when it came to exact statistics. With Boston College being a private school, they didn’t have to report that funding the way other universities did.

When I hit a wall a few hours in, I packed up my laptop and notes so I could go to the library to do the rest of my homework. I took the long route, deciding to walk by the Conte Forum building. A stone eagle statue stood outside the giant athletic facility. I paused near it, noting the modern design, vastly different from the gothic spires of the older buildings that I loved.

Showy, just like the athletes inside.

“Reporter Girl, is that you?”

I whirled toward the voice and my stomach hit my toes. Not Hudson—anyone but him. But there he stood, his damp brown waves and the whiff of soapy-freshness making me think he’d recently showered.

I reached up to run a hand through my own hair, but instead I hit the stupid tight bun, which left my arm hovering in midair. I tried to cover the awkwardness by pushing up my glasses.

“I was just, uh, coming from the newspaper office, and admiring how this place looked all lit up.” Why did I add that stupid “uh”? Mama used to harp on it when I slipped and said it during my pageant interviews. She told me it made me sound like a dumb hick, and that I should be glad I wasn’t competing in Alabama, like she’d had to, where the competition was even steeper.

---