Page 20 of Anatomy of a Player

Honestly, I wasn’t sure what I was thinking asking her to play pool with me in the first place. When I eventually relayed it to the guys, I’d play it off like it was part of my plan, but in truth, the library had been stuffy as hell, I’d gotten another shitty phone call, and playing pool and drinking alone seemed sad.

Whitney racked the balls, rolling the triangle into place and then lifting it with flair, almost like she was revealing a magic trick with her perfect arrangement. Yeah, it’d definitely be more fun with the girl who’d agreed to afriendlygame of pool. “So, does that going all out apply to your studies, too?”

Just the mention of my studies made my blood pressure rise. After the phone call earlier, my concentration had been shot to hell, which meant I’d gotten little out of the group study session. I gripped my pool stick tighter, anger rising again. My mom, the master manipulator, had texted that she was feeling weak. Of course I’d excused myself to call her, not wanting to be the reason she slipped and ruined her three years sober. But it was just a trick to get me to call, since I’d ignored her last few attempts to talk to me about the last thing in the world I ever wanted to talk about.

“Apparently it doesn’t apply to answering questions,” Whitney said, and I looked across the table at her.Shit.I needed to get out of my head—that was why we were here.

“Sorry, I was reflecting on everything I learned today.” I chalked the end of my stick, covering it in blue. “In case that’s not a clear enough answer, that means of course it applies to my studies.”

“I thought you jocks barely showed up to class.”

“Sometimes we miss for games, but us jocks still have to show up for classes.”Unfortunately. I grabbed the cue ball and tossed it in the air before setting it in front of the racked balls. “So, how’d a girl who clearly distances herself from ‘us jocks’ end up as a sportswriter instead of the person who covers politics?”

She straightened, her bright blue eyes widening behind those bulky glasses, and bit her lip. “Well, uh…” She gave a tiny shake of her head, the movement so small I almost thought I imaged it, a crack forming in her composure. Then she brought her hand up to her mouth. “I never played sports. Just followed them. Because of my love of the game. I guess reporting is the way I still get to participate.”

Bullshit—at least part of it—but I decided not to call her on it. There was definitely something she was hiding or holding back, but I wasn’t sure what or why. It gave me another thing to focus on, though, and I could use about a hundred of those.

“I should tell you, that pool…” Whitney leaned over the table, lined up her shot, and slammed the end of her stick into the cue ball. The balls cracked together and scattered across the green felt. The blue solid went in, followed closely by the maroon, while the yellow went into the pocket in the opposite corner. “Well, I’m good at pool.”

My pulse quickened, and every one of my senses stood at attention as she sashayed to the other end of the table and lined up another shot. On one hand, it meant I wasn’t going to get to do the move I’d planned, where I put my entire body around hers under the guise of showing her how to shoot, but with the competitive surge pumping through my veins, this game just got a lot more interesting—as did the blond walking contradiction, which upped my intrigue to fascination.

Finally she missed a shot, the ball rolling to a stop just shy of the pocket, and I moved in for my first turn. Methodically I sank one ball after another, until we had about an equal amount on the table. She put in two more, then I matched it. The last few sat in a jumbled mess that blocked every possible shot, so I made a crazy attempt that didn’t do much besides separate them. The cue ball rolled right where I wanted it, though, so that one of my striped balls blocked what would’ve been an easy shot for her.

I signaled the waitress over. “Can I get a couple beers?”

She was new—the other waitress and I had a past. I pulled out my most-wining smile in hopes she wouldn’t card us. I’d be fine, but I had a feeling Whitney was underage.

“Sure,” she said.

Now that I’d crossed that bridge, I glanced at Whitney. “Or did you want something else?”

“Beer’s fine.”

The waitress hesitated, and I could see the silent war taking place—worth asking or not? I put my hand on her elbow and gave it a light squeeze. “Thanks, sweetheart. My friend and I have had a hard day.”

She gave me a flirty grin, and then she was off to get the beers. When I glanced up, Whitney had a scowl on her face.

“What?” I asked, laying the innocence on nice and thick.

She muttered something I didn’t catch and then took a shot, swearing when she missed. “You’re up.” She perched on one of the stools as I circled the table, looking for my best shot. “So, I assume you’re majoring in hockey?”

Pool stick frozen halfway back, I abandoned my attempt at aiming and glanced across the table at her. “No, smart-ass, I’m not. As I’m sure you know, that’s not a major.”

“Oh, excuse me. Management and Leadership?”

She’d guessed the degree over half of my teammates fell into, but instead of asking her why she’d picked that one, I simply gave a small shake of my head, deciding to let her work for it a bit.

“Sports medicine? Health? P.E. Teacher—okay, I know that’s not a degree, but whatever degree you need to become a P.E. Teacher?”

“Nope, nope, and nope.”

She crossed her legs and studied me for a moment. “Fine, I give up. What’s your major?”

“Sociology.”

One eyebrow arched, and while she tried to hide it, I could see she was impressed. She probably wouldn’t be if she found out that I was failing at least one of my classes and struggling in a few others. If there was one thing I knew, it was the difference between a good social worker and a bad one. I didn’t think a degree was what made that difference, but I knew without one, I’d have a hell of a time breaking into the field.

Sometimes I wondered if I even had enough sympathy to be a social worker. I wasn’t soft, and talking about feelings wasn’t my thing. But if I knew a kid was in a bad situation, I’d fight as hard as I could for him or her. Possibly I’d also get into a fight with whoever hurt the kids, which again worried me. Would I end up with a career or in jail?

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