Page 41 of Anatomy of a Player

Hudson

As I made my way up to the stage, I could feel the ridiculously huge grin on my face, but I kept on smiling like an idiot anyway. Out of all the things I’d expect to come out of Whitney’s mouth, that microphone joke wasn’t one of them.

I’d definitely noticed the curve of her ass pressing right into my crotch, and if we’d stayed like that for another couple of seconds, it wouldn’t have been a joke at all. Every minute we spent together made me more and more aware of my growing attraction to her. With those big blue eyes, the smile that brought out a cute little indention in her cheek, and the way she fit just right against me, how couldn’t I be?

But there was more to it, an attraction that went beyond the physical—even as perfect as her ass was, and as hard a time as I was having keeping my mind off how it’d felt pressed against me, it had more to do withher.

I was so caught up in thoughts of Whitney I forgot to be star struck by the guys I was approaching. But then it hit me in a rush. These guys played professional hockey, for both the AHL and the NHL. I’d spent hours glued to the TV screen at Dane’s house, watching them play and daring to dream that one day I might be one of them.

My hope had dimmed the night at dinner when I’d confessed as much, only to be laughed at by Raymond and warned by Mom that dreaming too big would only leave me disappointed.

But once I realized that if I did nothing I’d forever be the sad boy with a mom who chose alcohol and assholes over her own son, I resolved to prove Mom and Raymond and all those teachers who’d steered me toward trade schools wrong, and that hope flickered back to life.

Now here I was, face-to-face with these amazing players and giving everything I had to make it through college and put myself in a better position to achieve my dreams.

The guys were friendly, shaking my hand and talking last year’s Frozen Four win.

I played it cool, nodding and taking it all in.

Until I met Mike Grabonski—Dane had invoked his name when we’d been selecting which college to attend, adding the fact that he’d gone to college here to the “pro” side of the list. He’d been my favorite player in those early years of hockey, when I’d first started watching the NHL games with Dane and his dad. Those nights saved me, even if they made it painfully clear what was missing at my house.

It was one reason I’d acted out so badly when a perfectly nice couple tried to step in. It wasn’t that having stable foster parents hadn’t provided a welcome change, it was that I didn’t want to lose my friend and the family who’d acted like mine when my mom couldn’t be bothered.

Shit. Now I was getting all sappy. Grabonski was just a guy. An awesome guy who’d won several awards, including the Maurice Richard Trophy for being the leading goal scorer in the NHL one year—the same year all that custody crap was happening.

He stuck out his hand and I stared at it in shock for a moment before I finally took it and introduced myself.

Other awesome stuff happened in the following minutes, but I could hardly take it in. The crowd settled down so they could hear the players talk before the game started, and I went back to the table with the rest of the team—we’d been selling raffle tickets, and the winners would be announced before the third period. Some lucky fans would be having dinner with their favorite players tonight.

The entire thing was showing me that if I did play professionally, I could do a lot of good for kids in bad situations, like the one I’d grown up in.

Out of the corner of my eye, I caught sight of Whitney. Beck’s girl was beside her, and they were whispering through the entire Q and A session. Not loud enough to be heard, but she didn’t take a single note, or even glance at the stage much.

When the crowd was instructed to go find their seats for the game, I made my way over to Whitney. “Hey. You girls are sitting next to the team, right?”

Whitney glanced from me to Beck’s girl—I couldn’t quite remember her name, although I knew I’d heard it before. And who could forget when he’d jumped onstage and sung to get her back.

“Oh, I’m not sure.” Whitney turned to Beck’s girl. “Lyla?”

Lyla—that was it. The two of them had some kind of silent girl-conversation through eyebrow raises and head nods, and then Lyla said, “I know I’m sitting by Beck, and I think he said there were extra seats.”

“Perfect,” I said. “I’m sitting by you guys, then.”

…

I let my legs fall open until my knee rested against Whitney’s thigh. She pretended not to notice, but her spine straightened another inch or two, and she raised her notebook higher.

Not the notebook with my name and number unfortunately—I wouldn’t be opposed to her advertising the fact that she had my name and number, so other guys might as well not bother trying to give her theirs. I hadn’t had much time last night when I’d been trying to subtlety jot down my info while she was distracted, but when the notebook fluttered partway open, I’d seen the words “Anatomy of a Player” underlined at the top, then something about pecs and ripped abs.

Surely she wasn’t claiming to be super-serious and uber-professional while cataloguing body parts. It didn’t seem like her, much less something you’d put in a sports article, but if she wanted to study anatomy, I’d happily volunteer. The hands-on method got my vote.

Especially if I got to study her right back.

When she relaxed a fraction and lowered the notebook, I stole a peek at the notes she’d written today. It looked like utter nonsense.

She leaned toward Lyla and gestured toward the ice. They whispered back and forth and then she scribbled something about a breakaway.

As interesting as the game was, my attention kept drifting to Whitney. To her bare neck. To the way she pursed her sexy lips. I bumped my knee into her leg, a bit harder this time.

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