Anatomy of a Player (Taking Shots #2)

by Cindi Madsen

  “Well, I like that you can give me a history lesson on the paper, but as much as I enjoy those fun facts, I need more than that to hire someone. After all, I turned down qualified applicants who bothered to apply before the semester started.” She clicked the end of her pen over and over, each clickity-click causing a spike in my blood pressure. “Pitch me an idea.”

  Oh, shit. My brain whirred, words tripping over each other as they tried to form a coherent idea. “How about a story on how this generation of college guys don’t want to commit because they’ve had everything handed to them their entire lives? How they’d rather have a lot of shallow relationships than actually work at one?”

  Lindsay tilted her head one way and then the other. “That’s a hard sell since the population the paper caters to is just over 50 percent male. We don’t want to look like an angry women’s publication. We need provable facts.”

  “My dating life has provided a lot of proof,” I muttered, and Lindsay actually cracked a smile.

  “You and me both. But again, it’s hard to prove the level of commitment from the entire male student body of Boston College, with only you and me reporting on it. Not to mention the whole ‘Sex and the Univer-city’ column that pissed off the administration, what with the fact that we’re a religious school and supposed to pretend that kind of thing isn’t going on. Since it’s been about a decade, we’ve probably got more leeway, but I’d need to really believe in a story to risk the admin’s ire.”

  As a lover of words, I appreciated her use of “ire.” I was a big fan of finding exactly the right word, but I found that nowadays, using them only brought blank looks from people my age. I wanted this job so bad I could taste it—and it tasted like smooth, rich chocolate, the addictive kind that made you crave more and more.

  “I belong here—I know I do.” I put my hand on my chest for emphasis. “Like I said, I’ll do anything. You tell me to report on it, and I’m there.”

  A light sparked in Lindsay’s eye, and I could see an idea forming as she lifted her pen and clicked it against her lip. Hope rose, and I held my breath again, awaiting her next words and telling myself to just agree with whatever she said, no matter how crazy.

  “How much do you know about hockey?”

  I paced the apartment, waiting for Lyla to get home. Einstein watched from the couch, his whiskered face following me back and forth across the room.

  I’d decided to do whatever it took to get an in at the paper, but what I’d agreed to… Well, I might just be in over my head. Like miles and miles, with no boat or lifesaver in sight.

  The door swung open, sending a gust of crisp fall air through the apartment, and I nearly pounced on Lyla the way Einstein usually did when she showed up. “I need to talk to you.”

  Lyla slid the pencil out of her bun, and her hair fell down around her face, the ends wavy from being twisted up during her hours of studying. “What’s up?”

  I started with my meeting with Professor Jessup and then told her about going down to the newspaper office. “So she asked how much I knew about hockey, and I wanted a job there so badly that I told her I knew the game well—I actually said that. ‘I know the game well, and watch it all the time.’ I figure the few NHL games you and Beck made me watch at the end of last semester practically qualifies as all the time.”

  Lyla made that focused face that meant she was doing some kind of calculation in her head—it was the chemist in her, always balancing out equations and weighing possible outcomes. “Oh-kay. So you fudged a bit. And you’re worried you’re going to get caught?”

  “Yeah, because I fudged a lot. I was sure she’d ask questions I didn’t know the answers to, but she didn’t. Seriously, Lyla, I didn’t even really pay attention when we watched those games on TV. Not to anything besides guessing how hot the hockey player would be after he took off the helmet and I could see his face. I, like, had this bet with myself, and if he was hotter with the helmet on, I got sad, and if he ended up being all rugged sexiness, I enjoyed watching him play extra. Which makes me seem totally shallow, I know, but I do at least want our college team to do well, and that’s something, right?”

  I felt short of breath after cramming that many words into one long stream.

  “It’s definitely something,” Lyla teased. “Honestly, that’s how I started out with hockey—I mean, I already knew how the guy looked under the helmet, but I was only there for him. But now that I know most of the rules, I genuinely like watching the games.”

  “Which is perfect, because I’m going to need your help in order to pull this off.”

  “What is ‘this’ exactly?”

  “I’m…” I hesitated. Lyla might not like it—her boyfriend was a hockey player after all.

  After my minor lie about how much I knew about hockey, Lindsay had said, “Ever since our team won the NCAA hockey championship last year, they act like they walk on water.”

  Of course, I, displaying my usual grace, said, “In a way they do—frozen water.”

  Lindsay’s expression had made it clear it wasn’t time for jokes, so I quickly told her that I agreed, that I was sick of guys and their entitlement. Which was totally true. Sure I’d been thinking more about guys in general, but I was positive there were plenty of player-type guys on the hockey team. In fact, the guy who’d hit on me the other night proved it.

  He’d honestly thought all it’d take was a grin, a drink, and a few minutes with him, I could tell. Well, the joke was on him, and now he can go down with the rest of his teammates.

  “Whit?” Lyla snapped her fingers in front of my face. “You just left me totally hanging.”

  “Sorry. Anyway, I will be covering the sports section, but I’m also going to use it as an opportunity to expose the perks that jocks—namely, um, the hockey players—get at this school, and how unfair it is to other students.”

  Lyla pursed her lips, no doubt thinking about her hockey player boyfriend, who I also sorta hoped would help me with hockey terms and getting closer to his teammates. But maybe asking for his help was an ethical boundary I shouldn’t cross—the guy had grown on me after the crazy display he’d made to win Lyla back.

  I probably shouldn’t have told her the exposé part, but I’d feel like the worst friend if I lied to her, especially after everything we’d been through together.

  “I know it puts you in a bit of a difficult spot, but Lyla, if I pull this off, the editor promised me the front page, plus a full-time job doing real articles. Most people have to start off doing grunt work and crappy stories, and this would help me with my future career.”

  I saw that flash of myself in New York City again. This time there were rows of desks and reporters typing away at their computers, in a rush to meet their various deadlines. I sat in the middle of the chaos, surrounded by pages and pages of glorious research. “Right now I’m clinging to this huge opportunity so that I don’t think about stupid guys. I need this.”

  Lyla ran a hand through her hair. “I get that, I do. But I’ve met several nice hockey players this past year. Not that some of them aren’t conceited, or that a few couldn’t use a little understanding of how hard the rest of us work to get through school. Or life in general…”

  “I won’t ask you for any dirt on them, I swear,” I said. “I’ll only use stuff I find myself. I just need you to help me pull off the hockey terms when I write up the games in the sports section. That’s it.” When she didn’t immediately agree, I grabbed both of her shoulders. “I’ve given up dating and sex, Lyla! Sex! This is the only action I’m going to get this semester.”

  She sighed and tossed her bag near the coffee table. It landed with a heavy thunk and sent Einstein leaping off the couch. “Sorry, baby,” she said, then she turned her attention back to me. “You really think this will help you avoid the hump and dump guys?”

  I cracked a smile. Last year we’d come up with a hundred ways to describe that kind of “dating” method. Humped and dumped, hit it and quit it, shagge
d and bagged—the list went on and on. They didn’t seem as funny since I kept receiving the treatment, but they never failed to make me laugh. “I’m so sick of being laid and played—and yes, this will definitely help me.”

  Lyla gave one sharp nod. “Okay. I’m in.”

  Chapter Six

  Whitney

  Two days of cramming hockey terms between classes hadn’t been nearly enough, but time was up anyway. I’d try to fit in a few more minutes tomorrow before the game, but my brain had shut down so I’d decided to focus on the other part of getting ready.

  I walked into the living room, where Lyla sat between a stack of books and notebooks, with Einstein curled up on her lap.

  “I was thinking of wearing this to the game tomorrow for my first”—I made air quotes—“sportswriting gig. What do you think?” I raised my arms the way you do when you’re showing off your outfit, even though it didn’t show off that much more and no one walked around with their arms in the air like that.

  Lyla glanced up, highlighter poised above a page of equations. She pushed up her glasses as she took me in. I could tell she was having thoughts, but I couldn’t tell which way they were going—just that they weren’t very enthusiastic.

  “What’s wrong with it?” I smoothed a hand down my hot-pink chiffon tank top, following the ruffle that covered the neckline and ran down the front. Yeah, you could sort of see my bra through the fabric, but I’d made sure to match the color precisely. I thought I looked rather professional.

  “I get that you’re not exactly a spy, but aren’t journalists supposed to blend in? Or look a little more…serious? You look like…well, like you’re one of the puck bunnies.”

  My mouth dropped open. “A what?”

  Lyla flinched. “Sorry. I knew I should’ve kept my mouth shut. Just ignore me, you look great.”

  When I sat on the couch, Lyla’s pile of books made a run for me. I held the stack in place with a hand and looked my roommate in the eye. “What’s a puck bunny?”

  “They’re the girls who go to the games with the goal of snagging a hockey player. They get all dolled up and hang out by the locker room, each one basically waiting for a hockey player to notice her so she can take him home—I think they aim for girlfriend status, but plenty are okay with being an easy hookup.”

  With every word¸ my nose wrinkled a little more. I’d assumed it involved holding up numbers on the ice or something, but that was even worse than I’d expected.

  “I know you’re not like that,” Lyla said, “and that’s not your goal, but the hockey players will take one look at you and those heels and probably make the wrong assumption.”

  My gaze dropped to my silver peep-toe shoes—I’d even painted my toenails pink to match my shirt. For my first seventeen years, looking my best for any and every outing was ingrained into me by my mama. As a former beauty pageant queen she knew every hair and makeup trick in the book, and she’d passed them down to me, forever telling me that a woman should look like a woman.

  My deep dark secret was I’d actually participated in the Kentucky pageant circuit, until I’d finally worked up the guts to tell my mama I didn’t want to do them anymore. Really, I’d never liked them, but she was so into it, and I was trying to make her happy. But I supposed going all out, from the clothes and shoes, to the hair, makeup, and nails had become second nature.

  “I hurt your feelings,” Lyla said, her shoulders slumping.

  “No, it’s not that—I appreciate your honesty. In order to succeed at this, I need the cold hard facts.” My chest felt both hard and cold right now. I’d learned just how much beauty meant to my mama when she had her mid-life crisis and cheated on Daddy with a younger guy. Now she was married to bachelor number two and worked non-stop doing crazy treatments to try to look young enough for him. I didn’t want to be like her, and I realized that was why the professor’s implication that my looks were all that mattered cut so deep. I feared turning into my mama.

  Shaking off those thoughts, I focused on my roommate. “I want to come across as a serious journalist.”

  “Personally, I think you should try to tone down the sex appeal. You, like, exude it. Not just your clothes”—Lyla pointed at my top with her highlighter and then made a large circle that encompassed my head and torso—“but pretty much everything about you.”

  Under other circumstances, I would’ve thanked her for the compliment. “Okay, so how do I tone it down? I want the hockey players to answer my questions, not think about sex while I’m interviewing them.”

  “That’s probably a reach. But as for toning it down, less revealing clothes would help.” She looked me over, deep in thought again. “You could dress in sports memorabilia, but they might still take you as a super fan, so I’m thinking more professional. Button down shirts with fabric you can’t see through, slacks, conservative dress shoes—that kind of thing.”

  I shuddered at the “conservative dress shoes” suggestion. Cute sandals with bling were one thing, but I had to draw the line somewhere. “What about boots? With maybe, like, a baby heel?”

  Lyla patted my shoulder, a placating move that also said she understood. “Okay. But it needs to be a really tiny one—there are hundreds of stairs in Kelley Rink, and heels are like catnip to hockey players. Of course, so are skirts, boobs… You get the point.”

  “So, that leaves me with a potato sack?”

  “Perfect!” Lyla declared, adding a dramatic clap that made us both laugh. “Seriously, though, that still won’t prevent guys from thinking about what’s underneath, so you might want to take a page from one of my many books on awkwardness. I used to repel guys by talking about cats a lot. I accidentally jabbed one in the eye with a pen. Chemistry jokes scare off a lot of them, too, if you want to go that way…”

  “The joke would be that I don’t know enough about chemistry to attempt a joke.”

  “Everyone has a nerdy thing about them, even if they try to hide it. What’s yours?”

  There was the beauty pageant thing, but I didn’t think that really qualified as nerdy, and admitting to it wouldn’t help me seem less like I belonged in the puck bunny group. “Well, I love research. Like, really digging in there and finding out cool facts I never knew before. Which is why I’m such a fan of documentaries. I know some people think they’re boring, but my daddy and I would get so excited when a new one came out. We’d watch every one we could find, whether it was a hard-hitting one about kids being wrongly imprisoned, or the bad crap the food industry puts in what we eat, or pretty much anything.”

  I missed those nights on the couch with my daddy sometimes, when we’d make popcorn and watch documentaries. They were what made me first want to be a journalist, actually.

  “I’m bored just thinking about watching a whole documentary, so I think that works.” Lyla nudged me with her elbow and shot me a grin.

  The wheels in my mind spun. I could definitely pull out statistics and facts from the many documentaries I’d seen—no one liked a know-it-all. Plus, I loved words. I also knew correcting grammar made people super grouchy, so I could throw some of that in, too. “Okay, so I’ve got guy repellent conversation, but I do need the hockey players to talk to me. I need to get close enough to find out about their perks.”

  Lyla tossed her books and highlighter aside and tucked a leg under her. “Stick to sports questions first, so they take you seriously, and if any of them even attempt a flirty line, shut it down. We’re talking hard stop, no wiggle room, or they’ll try to work their way right in there again. Then, over time, relax a bit.” She brought her finger to her lips and nodded. “Yeah. They’ll get used to seeing you, and then you can infiltrate and get the scoop.”

  “Dang, you can be a little scary when you get focused.”

  “That’s what Beck says.” Her eyebrows scrunched together. “Which brings me to a subject that might be crossing a line, but I’m going to broach it anyway. Beck’s off-limits. No mention of his name in the article, and I don’
t want anything about his family getting into it. I need that assurance, or I can’t in good conscience help you any more than I already have.”

  I didn’t know the full story about Beck’s family, but I did know it was a sensitive subject. I wanted to be all about journalistic integrity, but I was sure plenty of journalists were careful about not burning their sources, especially when said source was one of her best friends. “Deal.”

  With that out of the way, Lyla threw herself even more into helping me, offering up her wardrobe. We went into her bedroom and I tried on a few items. Since she had huge boobs that my push-up bra couldn’t dream of competing with, none of her shirts fit. Her long bohemian skirts hid my butt better than my jeans, but they said “peace and love” more than “serious sportswriter.” I was having fun, though, so I piled the scarves she used to hide underneath around my neck, two deep.

  “It’s kind of funny that last semester you were helping me dress sexier, and now I’m helping you dress less so.” Lyla slid her glasses on my face and I blinked at my blurry reflection in her full-length mirror.

  I moved closer to the mirror and then farther away, like the lens of a camera, but there was no focusing. “I think I might need to actually see to report on the hockey games.”

  “We can go to the mall and find some non-prescription lenses. I don’t think any of my clothes are really what you’re looking for, anyway.”

  I removed the glasses and held them out to her. “True. So, would you be up for going with me and helping me choose proper attire for Operation Serious Reporter, colon, no looking like a puck bunny?”

  Lyla’s spine shot stick straight and then she saluted me. “First Lieutenant, Lyla, other-official-sounding-terms-here, reporting for duty.”

  We both broke into laughter. This whole thing was going to be more fun than I expected.