Playing to Win

by Taryn Leigh Taylor

  “It’s not that simple. We both work for the team.”

  Paige sighed. “Stupid ethics. They get in the way of all the best stuff. Can’t you guys have a secret affair or something?”

  Holly laughed at the wording, so similar to her own. “That’s what I love about you, Paige. You’re always full of ideas.”

  She smiled back. “Please. You held my hand throughout my divorce. Getting you laid is the least I can do.”

  “You don’t think it’s wildly unprofessional of me?”

  Paige shook her head so hard that her ponytail swung side to side. “No way! First of all, they called you because you’re a YouTube sensation and they wanted to hitch a ride on your star. They know they’re beyond lucky to have you. And secondly, this is a temporary job, not your career. So if there’s a hot guy who will get you back in the game, then I see nothing wrong with that.”

  “Back in the game?” Holly laughed as Paige took a dainty sip of espresso. “What, you’re sporty now?”

  “My inspirational speech, my metaphor. All the men I work with are gay. I’m living vicariously through you here.”

  “Excuse me?” said a voice from above them.

  Holly and Paige glanced up to find a woman standing beside their table, a young girl in tow. Holly pegged the girl at around nine. She looked very nervous, the pen and napkin clutched in her fingers shaking enough to betray the tremor in her hands. “Aren’t you Holly Evans?”

  “Yep, that’s me. Can I help you?”

  The woman’s smile turned radiant.

  “I’m Lydia, this is my daughter, Teagan. We just love your show! Teagan was actually hoping to get your autograph.” Lydia gave her daughter a little shove, and the girl held the napkin and pen out in front of her.

  “Of course!” Holly made herself speak through the shock. She accepted the napkin and smiled at Teagan. “So you like sports?” she asked, scrawling a quick little message and adding her signature to the bottom. The girl just shrugged shyly and took the napkin Holly held out to her.

  “Can I get a picture of you two?” Lydia asked, holding up her phone.

  “Oh, sure!” She leaned in closer to Teagan, surprised when the little girl tucked right in beside her.

  “Oh, that’s a nice one! Thank you so much. Teagan, say goodbye to Holly.”

  Teagan threw her little arms around Holly’s neck, and Holly was so surprised, it took her a moment to hug the girl back.

  “Thank you for making my mom yell less about my daddy watching sports,” she whispered. “I want to be just like you when I grow up.” Then Teagan pulled away and gave Holly a timid smile before she hurried to her mom’s side again.

  “How adorable was that?” Paige gushed. “What did she say to you?”

  “She said she wants to be like me when she grows up.”

  Paige placed a well-manicured hand over her heart. “I think I just died a little from cuteness!”

  The shrill ring of her phone shook Holly out of the surreal moment, and she grabbed it from the back pocket of her jeans. “Jay, what’s up?”

  Her tablemate made a face and Holly rolled her eyes at the childish gesture. Grow up, she mouthed, and then said into the phone, said, “I’m just having breakfast with Paige—hey. Be nice.”

  Paige frowned at the unheard insult.

  “What? Are you serious? When? Oh my God. Thanks for the heads-up! Yes, of course I’m going to submit my résumé right now. Yeah. I’ll talk to you later. Thanks again.”

  “What? What’s going on?”

  “Jim Purcell finally retired!” The announcement came out a little high-pitched and squealy, but Holly was so stoked she didn’t even care.

  “Oh my God!” Paige seal clapped with glee. “Who is that and why do we care?”

  Holly laughed. She and Paige might be polar opposites, but she couldn’t ask for a better, more supportive friend. “Jim Purcell is the sports anchor on Portland News Now.”

  “Right! The old guy with the bad toupee.”

  “Exactly. And if he’s retiring, that means that the one and only Corey Baniuk is most likely getting promoted to the anchor desk as we speak. And that means...”

  “That they will be looking for an amazing, knowledgeable, well-spoken replacement—who is you!” Paige’s seal clap was genuine this time. “We have to get you home immediately,” she exclaimed, downing the rest of her espresso. “You need to email that stellar résumé of yours to them at once. At once, I say! And then later, I’ll take you out for dinner and we can celebrate this big step in your quest for nightly news dominance.”

  Holly smiled, appreciative of Paige’s enthusiasm. “A lovely offer, but I’m having dinner with my dad tonight.”

  “Fine. I’ll eat alone. But I’m having champagne in your honor and you can’t stop me.”

  Paige’s over-the-top zeal was a nice little ego boost, but Holly couldn’t afford to lose sight of the truth. There were a lot of résumés out there far more stellar than hers.

  But, she rationalized, if she could be the one to break a certain hockey scandal wide open at just the right moment... that was exactly the sort of thing that could make her stand out from a crowd.

  * * *

  “HEY, POP. How’s it going?”

  “I’m still alive.”

  The gruff response was a typical one, and Holly sighed as she stopped at her father’s recliner and pressed a kiss to his forehead. “Well, at least you’ve got that going for you. Tacos okay tonight?” she asked, heading toward the kitchen.

  “I could eat a taco or two.”

  “Perfect. Put the game on and turn it up so I can hear it from in here.” Holly hefted the bag of groceries onto the counter and set about unpacking. She put the hamburger in a skillet, sliced up some toppings and dumped the cheese in a bowl, glad she’d sprung for pre-shredded.

  The third game of the series had ended with an uninspired 1–0 win for Portland. She knew that because she’d ghostwritten no less than seven articles about it. Not that she was complaining. Play-offs were always a nice bump to the bank account. Tonight they were playing the second of their two-game road trip. Which meant that, except for televised interviews, she hadn’t seen a certain hot captain in a few days. She missed him.

  But tonight she had to focus on the game and on Pop. Judging by the announcers’ lack of enthusiasm, the Storm seemed to be headed for a scoreless first period. She hoped the second period would bring more excitement, because she had another seven articles due bright and early in the morning.

  What could she say? Freelancing was not the most glamorous lifestyle. You wrote what people wanted, when they wanted it. That was why she preferred op-eds. It was nice to inject a little personality and analysis into a piece every now and again. But she couldn’t afford to be too choosy. It was the no-frills assignments that paid the bills.

  Whenever the cooking permitted, she snuck a glance at the big TV, her father’s only real indulgence. Everything else in the small bungalow was almost exactly the same as it had been when she’d grown up here. Same oatmeal-colored carpeting, same dated brass lamps, same crystal knickknacks sitting in exactly the same spots, as evidenced by the dust.

  It was a house full of good memories and dismal reality. Before her mother had died, the place had been cheery and full of love. Since her passing, it had gotten stuck in time, and there was a palpable desperation to a house that seemed to just be waiting for someone who was never coming back.

  With a sigh, Holly served up two plates of soft tacos and headed into the living room to join her father. She took her usual place on the threadbare couch after she handed him his supper, which he accepted with a grunt. “Pop, you think maybe it’s time to get some new furniture?” she asked, noticing that he’d finally given in and duct-taped the armrest on his recliner. “You know, s
pruce the place up a little?”

  “It doesn’t need sprucing.”

  “Your chair is falling apart. It’s older than I am.”

  “I fixed it, didn’t I?”

  Holly sighed. There was no budging him when he was being stubborn. “Like trying to charm a pig outta mud,” her mother used to say, although to Holly’s recollection, Diane Evans had always managed to get her husband to come around to her way of thinking.

  Holly hadn’t inherited that particular gift, so instead of arguing with her father, she dug in to her taco.

  As they waited for the second period to get underway, the station was showing highlights from another game being played that night. A San Jose player tipped the puck into the opposition’s net, and the home crowd went wild.

  “Montana’s gonna blow it. Those guys can’t get their defense in order.” Her dad’s words were muffled by a mouthful of taco.

  “I don’t know. Federov and Rogers are a pretty good duo when their forwards are hot.”

  “Your brother thinks they should trade ’em both.”

  Holly shook her head. “No way. If they’re going to trade anyone, it should be Powell. He’s not living up to his potential because they don’t have anyone good enough to play with him. But he’s had a decent enough season, so they’ll get something in return for him. Plus, he’s got a real attitude. He’s not gelling with the team.”

  No comment. Of course. Instead of acknowledging the brilliance of her strategy, he took another giant bite of his taco.

  She watched and reported on sports for a living. Her brother was an electrician. Why wouldn’t Neil’s comments hold more weight?

  Holly took a sip of her beer. It wasn’t unexpected, but it always stung. She couldn’t figure out why she kept setting herself up for the TKO, but at some point on these visits, she always brought up sports and always got shut down.

  You’d think I’d have learned by now.

  For a long time, Holly had figured her father’s distance had something to do with her being a girl. Maybe he couldn’t relate to her without her mother there as a buffer. And that sucked. But then her niece Melissa had come along and wound her grandpa around her little finger. He went to her hockey games and cheered louder than anyone. It hurt.

  As they settled into watching the second period, Holly grabbed the notebook she’d set on the small table next to her dad’s chair and began taking her usual game notes. It didn’t take long before she found herself nitpicking the game, though. Well, not the game so much as the players. More specifically, the players she most suspected of game tampering.

  Holly started an impromptu plus/minus tally on all the potential suspects from the last game. Brett Sillinger, for a boneheaded penalty, Luke for coughing up the puck, Eric Jacobs for a heroic play that had maintained the two-goal lead. It was more in-depth stat keeping than she usually bothered with, but then again, this was about more than a couple of “last night in hockey” reports. This was about making a name for herself in the world of sports.

  Each time one of them was on the ice and the Storm scored, she gave them a plus sign. If one of them was on the ice and Colorado scored, she marked a minus sign. When the final buzzer scored to herald a 3–2 win for the Storm, Eric was +1 and Luke and the rookie were both sitting at -2. Not up to the season’s standards for any of them. Which wasn’t to say that bad games didn’t happen. Still, trends were tracked for a reason.

  “I thought these guys would walk all over Colorado. None of them are playing up to snuff.”

  Holly nodded at her father’s summation. “You’re right. Even when they win, they’re performing statistically worse than I’d have suspected.”

  Her father harrumphed. “I’m going to get another beer. You want one?”

  “I’m good, thanks.”

  And for once, Holly actually was.

  She glanced at the stats filling the left side of her notebook—the list had been right about the spread again tonight.

  She might not be great at family stuff, but she was a damn good reporter. And soon, she’d have the evidence to prove it. Even if that evidence pointed at Luke.

  * * *

  LUKE LOOSENED HIS tie and tried to rearrange himself in a more comfortable position in the posh airplane seat. Both games had turned out just like the list in his pocket had predicted.

  He glanced around the dimly-lit cabin. In fact, the mood was pretty low-key, despite their back-to-back wins in Colorado. Probably because they’d eked out some pretty ugly victories against a team they should have crushed. He was still surprised they’d held on to a 3–2 win tonight.

  J.C. was snoring beside him. Most everyone else was plugged into a movie or talking with seatmates. Except for Eric, who was sitting toward the front of the plane, all by himself, reading a book, as usual.

  He liked Eric Jacobs. He was a great hockey player, and the game really mattered to him.

  And he was low-key off the ice—no tabloid stories of drunken debauchery or chronic womanizing. He didn’t love being on camera, but he didn’t complain about the obligatory interviews, either. Still, he’d seemed particularly aloof lately.

  With the weight of his C heavy on his chest, Luke got up and walked over to him.

  “Mind if I sit down?”

  Jacobs glanced up from his book. “Sure.” He opened his right hand to reveal a chain looped through two expensive-looking rings. Luke watched as he placed the necklace reverently between the pages of his spy thriller like a bookmark before shoving the book in the pocket in front of him. “What’s up, Mags?”

  “Actually, I was going to ask you the same thing,” Luke confessed, taking a seat.

  “Nothing really.” Eric ran a hand through his dark blond hair. “I’m fine.”

  “Cubs, we both know that’s bullshit. How long have we been playing together?”

  “Two years.”

  “Exactly. You think I can’t tell when something’s up with my linemate?”

  Eric was toying with the bottom of his matte gray tie and refused to meet Luke’s stare.

  “Let’s not make this any worse than it has to be. Just be straight with me. You know I’ve got your back. Are you in some kind of trouble?”

  There was a long, ominous stretch of silence. The piece of yellow legal paper weighed heavy on Luke’s mind.

  Then Eric heaved a sigh of defeat. “It’s nothing like that. It’s just...family stuff.”

  Luke kept his gaze steady and waited.

  Cubs dropped the end of his tie and turned to face him. “My grandma’s in the hospital. She had a heart attack.”

  “Jesus. Eric, I’m really sorry to hear that.” Eric’s parents had died when he was really young, and his grandmother, Stella Jacobs, had raised him ever since. She’d become the unofficial grandma of the Portland Storm and when she was in the stands to cheer them, a round of cupcakes from her bakery always made their way to the dressing room to announce her presence. “Is she going to be okay?”

  Eric shrugged, and the gesture had an air of helplessness about it. “The doctors won’t say. She seems to be doing better. She pretty much forced me to come on this road trip.” He smiled a little when he said it, and Luke had a vivid vision of tiny, white-haired Stella bossing her six-foot grandson around, even from the confines of a hospital bed.

  “Why didn’t you tell anyone?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it. And I definitely don’t want reporters asking.”

  “I understand wanting to keep the family stuff under wraps. I won’t object if you’re sure you want to keep playing.”

  There was no hesitation in Eric’s nod. “It’s the play-offs. And I get that this is stupid, but I want to win for her, you know?”

  Oh, Luke knew all right. It was what drove him every single day. He wanted that champ
ionship, wanted to win it so badly. Not for himself, but for the brother who’d lost his shot at the dream they’d shared their whole lives. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “I get that.”

  And he did. Which was why he was so shocked when Holly’s voice echoed in his mind. Sometimes you just have to keep it simple and play the game for you.

  * * *

  THE TEAM WAS already out on the ice for practice when she arrived at the arena the day after the Storm had knocked Colorado out of the play-offs with a 4–2 win at home. Because of the celebration and the increased media interest, the team captain had been too busy for her to snag an interview last night, but today, well, it was only a matter of time before they ran into each other, and her nerves were on edge for the reunion.

  Holly was standing in the players’ bench—Orgasm Central, as her dirty mind had taken to calling it. She was trying to keep her voice even, her blush under control and her eyes from wandering over to the practice happening on the ice behind her. Not because she cared about the practice but because of the overwhelming desire to check if maybe Luke was having as much trouble concentrating as she was.

  It took three tries before she managed to get through the intro to the car interview montage without messing up. She could tell Jay was relieved when she finally nailed it by the speed at which he was gathering his video equipment. “Okay, I’m just going to run upstairs to get a few more angles on the practice. Give me ten minutes and we can go for lunch.”

  Holly nodded. “Okay. I’ll text Paige and tell her we’ll be at the restaurant in about half an hour.”

  “Aw, Paige is coming?” Jay whined.

  “Suck it up, Buchanan. You know she is.”

  “Fine. Not sure why we have to ruin a perfectly good lunch, though. I’ll meet you at the car in fifteen minutes.”

  She pulled her phone out of her bra, its usual storage space when she was dolled up in a skirt suit, and texted their ETA to Paige.

  Her friend immediately returned the text with one that predictably read: Aw, Jay is coming?

  “Holly.”

  She almost dropped her phone at the sound of the familiar deep voice saying her name. With a deep breath to restore her composure, she turned around. Luke, sweaty and gorgeous in his Storm practice jersey, was standing on the other side of the bench. Her stomach lurched at the sheer handsomeness of him. Clearly her body was ready to start on Orgasm Central: The Sequel.