Page 25 of Anatomy of a Player

“Well, I happen to be an expert on positions,” I said, letting that hang in the air for a second—I’d told myself to hold back the innuendos until I’d won her over, but the gloves were obviously off tonight, and sometimes I couldn’t help myself. “And I think if you take too firm of one, all you’ll ever get are stiff, generic answers.”

I closed the gap between us, getting lost for a second in the smell of her perfume or shampoo or whatever she’d used to make me crave a taste of her skin that much more, and lowered my voice so only she could hear. “You might not believe me, but I am trying to help. Plus, maybe if you spend time getting to know the team better, you’ll be less likely to slip and use terms that don’t apply to hockey.”

I retreated, giving her space now that I’d said my piece. Before, I’d enjoyed going toe-to-toe with her, but I didn’t like how things had gone from easy to convoluted.

I turned and grabbed the stuff I’d need to hit the showers. By the time I spun back around, Whitney was pushing out of the room. I watched her go, trying to sort out what had been for show and what had been real jabs. Maybe I’d pushed too far, even if she’d pushed first.

And maybe I was an idiot for spending so much of the past week thinking about her. Already it seemed she wanted me to fall in line, and I didn’t play that game.

Dane whistled and slapped my back. “Whew, you’ve certainly got your work cut out for you.” He laughed under his breath, the sound heavy with a “you’re so going to lose” implication.

Whatever. I was over it. This week had been a killer, andIknew how to cut loose and have fun, which was exactly what I planned to do. I’d needed the reminder that thiswasa game, though. So I’d make sure to focus on the bet side of it instead of getting caught up in Whitney for real. No losing my head over one great night. The thing about great nights was they gradually faded into expectations and arguments, and then all you were left with was a mess. No thanks.

Time to take off a night and figure out my next move with Whitney later. There’d be plenty of other girls at the party.

While that thought was supposed to amp me back up, the restless, unsettled feeling I’d become all-too-familiar with reclaimed me instead.

Luckily, I had years of experience at faking my way through.

Chapter Seventeen

Whitney

Of all the stupid things I’d done, this was probably near the top. But the way Hudson had lowered his voice and told me he was trying to help had replayed on a loop since I’d left the arena. The image of him shirtless was on a pretty constant loop, too.

The body of a player is ridiculously ripped from hours of cardio, weights, and slamming into guys on the ice. It looks especially impressive when covered in a sheen of sweat, which should be gross but makes you want to touch it.

• Chest: Carved, drool-worthy pecs

• Abs: Ripped AF

Was it any wonder that I’d short-circuited a bit in the locker room? After I’d recovered as much as anyone can recover from being faced with a wall of muscles that radiated power and testosterone, I’d tried to convey to him that our interaction needed to be strictly professional. I wasn’t sure he’d gotten it, though, and maybe I’d come on too strong. I still couldn’t figure out the right line to walk to get the information I needed, but both aspects of my job would be difficult if the hockey players froze me out.

So I’d called up Kristen and asked her to go with me to the Quad. I’d thought it’d be less nerve-racking with her by my side, but she’d taken one look at me and said, “Whoa. What in the hell are you wearing?”

The loose sweater I’d abandoned the button-down for might not be form fitting, but I didn’t think it wasthatbad. It was at least navy and gray instead of plain white or solid gray. My jeans were devoid of fancy designs on the pockets, and they didn’t fit me quite right—they were from before I’d found the perfect brand, and in order to fit my butt, they were a few inches too big in the waist. I usually wore them for cleaning, or on days when I felt bloated.

I closed the door to my apartment behind me and locked up. “I told you I’m working on a story. I can’t dress in my normal party gear.”

“I just didn’t realize that you were posing as a Midwestern housewife who’s had three kids,” Kristen said, as we started down the stairs to the parking lot.

I smacked her arm and she laughed. Of course, she had on her lacy, low-cut tank top, skinny jeans that made it clear she was wearing a thong or you would’ve seen it, and heels. Next to her, I felt like the “before” image in every makeover movie.

The only thing I had working for me still was my hot pink underwear, but no one would see that. There was no reason for me to change from the boring white bra I’d worn under my white button-down, really, but after wearing a push-up bra for so long, I couldn’t help feeling like my boobs had gone from okay to non-existent, and I needed to feel like I hadsomethinggoing on, even if the sweater canceled out the boost the bra gave me.

Kristen unlocked her car doors and we climbed inside. “And the glasses?” she asked. “Real or fake?”

“Non prescription. Just for the story—they make me look more serious.”

“If serious is the look you’re going for, you definitely achieved that.”

Yep, this was definitely a stupid idea, and with my confidence nice and squashed like a bug, the thought of the party was even more intimidating. But once we pulled up to the Quad, I knew it was too late to go back. Kristen would never leave a party she’d barely arrived at unless it was lame. Judging by the noise coming from the Quad, lame didn’t apply.

We headed inside and I scanned the crowd. I spotted hockey players here and there, and most of them had girls wearing very little circling around them, vying for attention—puck bunnies, as Lyla called them. I’d like to roll my eyes and judge them for being so pathetic, but I’d worn similar outfits and shamelessly pressed myself against guys to get their attention plenty of times.

My first year of college, I’d taken full advantage of being on my own and making my own rules. And by my own rules, I meant I’d had none. I drank way too much and placed a great deal of importance on always having a guy. If I didn’t have a date during the weekend, I considered it a complete failure. Even now, the imprint of thinking like that remained, and I reminded myself there was nothing wrong with choosing myself.

And my future career.

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