Anatomy of a Player (Taking Shots #2)

by Cindi Madsen

  I rubbed at my puffy eyes. Lack of sleep might be making me overly dramatic. On the bright side, maybe Hudson would take one look at me and remember that he had a lot of other options.

  An icky sensation settled into my gut, proving how much I didn’t want that to happen. While my neck felt much better after Hudson worked his magic, I couldn’t stop thinking about him, and whenever I did, I’d feel unease over the exposé article, and that led to tossing and turning and my second rough night of sleep in a row.

  The asphalt of Kelly Rink looked darker than usual thanks to the snow that had been on the ground first thing this morning. Once the sun came out, it had melted, only a hint of white remaining in the shadiest of places.

  I pulled into a spot, grabbed my big bag with my notes, and rushed toward the building, my shoes squeaking against the wet asphalt.

  Lindsay had mentioned that while other organizations had their fundraiser ideas rejected, the hockey team’s was passed without their having to even fill out the dozens of forms usually required. When I’d called the hockey coach’s office to ask about it—using a different name, of course—he claimed it was because the team was doing it in conjunction with the ALS fundraiser the alumni had already set up. He also said that the money would be going right to the charity, not to the team.

  Which had made me feel sort of like an ass, honestly. When I’d broken the news to Lindsay, though, she said she’d believe it when I proved it.

  No pressure or anything.

  The hallways of the arena were lined with different tables. There was food, signed hockey jerseys of every color, from dozens of teams, and there were people everywhere, from little kids to hunched-over white-haired men.

  I wove through the crowd, feeling totally out of my element and wishing I’d done more prep work. Guess I shouldn’t have indulged in the documentary last night.

  I felt a sense of loss at just the thought of missing that touching story, not to mention that relaxing hour and a half with Hudson that involved his dinosaur confession.

  I smiled, already planning on casually dropping it into our conversation today. My steps lightened, and I took what felt like my first real breath all day. While I thought the crowd had been thick at the entryway, it was nothing compared to the one I was being pushed into, useless to fight the stream of people trying to get to…whatever was in front of us.

  Despite my attempts to keep a small bubble of personal space, people bumped into me from behind, making me bump into the person in front of me. That breath I took minutes ago needed to tide me over for the rest of the day, because my oxygen was being slowly squeezed out of me with every bump and jostle.

  After a few minutes of a lot of ping-ponging around but no moving, I lifted my phone. Then lowered it. Hot breath on my neck from the stranger behind me made me lift it again.

  Hudson told me to use his number if I needed it. This qualifies, right? I’d nearly had a heart attack when I saw which notebook he’d left his number on, but from what I could tell, he hadn’t glanced inside, just written in giant print on the front.

  Me: It’s Whitney. Where are you? I just came through the entrance, but it’s crazy and I’m not sure where I’m supposed to be going.

  I stared at the screen for a moment, waiting for his response. But it didn’t come. He probably has his phone off.

  I thought I heard my name, and I craned my neck, trying to find the source. Man, I didn’t usually feel short, but I couldn’t see a thing. The person to my left took advantage of my distraction, using it as an opportunity to cut in front of me—I didn’t even know what we were in line for, but I still wanted to tap him on the shoulder and tell him no cutsies.

  I heard my name again, from somewhere off to the right. People parted for Hudson as he neared. He had on his jersey, but no pads—apparently that’s what it took to get through this crowd.

  He extended his hand to me. “Come on. I’ll get you over to where you can see.”

  I still didn’t know what we were trying to see, but I wanted out of the crowd. The fact that it meant holding on to Hudson’s hand again…well, I had to get to somewhere I could report on the event, after all.

  He pulled me through the crowd and stepped over those crowd control posts with the seat belt material. When I attempted to do the same, I didn’t quite clear the rope. My foot caught and then the end slid loose and whipped toward me. I moved out of the way just in time, but it made a loud ping when it hit the metal post, and the massive security guard nearby shot me a stern look.

  “Where’s your ID?” he asked.

  “She’s with the Boston College team,” Hudson said, tugging me away from the guy—apparently he didn’t think the guard would Taser him, whereas I was expecting volts to be shot into my ass at any second.

  “Troublemaker,” Hudson said with a smile.

  “A gentleman would’ve held the rope for me, you know,” I teased. I couldn’t help thinking that if I were wearing heels, I’d also have been tall enough to clear it.

  “Sweetheart, there’s probably something you should know about me…” Hudson tightened his grip on my hand. “I’m no gentleman.”

  I knew he was kidding—or maybe not kidding, but…well, either way, the “sweetheart” drew me up short. Then I realized we were walking toward the rest of the hockey players, and I couldn’t be caught holding hands with Hudson—I shouldn’t be holding hands with him anyway.

  Even if he had come to get me and owned dinosaur figurines and gave killer massages.

  I tugged my hand loose, and he glanced at me. “Thanks for helping me out of the mess, but I don’t want anyone to get the wrong idea,” I said. “I’m here to report on the event, and they might not realize you were just helping me through the crowd.”

  Hudson’s steps slowed, his eyes way too focused on me, to the point my ears flamed. “Right.”

  I pushed up the damn glasses, annoyed that the lenses had smudges—I swear, no matter how often I cleaned them, they were always dirty. “This place is nuts. How’d you get to me so fast?”

  “I was already near the entrance, grabbing an extra microphone for the NHL guys.” Hudson lifted his jersey, and sure enough a microphone stuck out of his pocket. Of course, then I noticed the crazy cut of his obliques, as well as caught a glimpse of the dark trail of hair disappearing into the bright blue band of his boxer briefs, which I knew were Under Armour, because the neon yellow symbol was screaming at me to keep staring.

  “Whitney?”

  I looked up, fighting the urge to wipe my mouth in case of drool. “Well. Thanks again. I’m not sure I ever would’ve made it through that crowd.”

  I started toward the area where the rest of the hockey team had congregated, but a person wearing a headset and a panicked look on her face charged in front of me, making me stop short. Hudson knocked into me, and his hands went to my waist to steady me. With his front against my back, I could feel way too many muscles, and something hard was definitely pressing into my butt.

  “Is that a microphone in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?” It came out unbidden, a joke that was supposed to stay inside my brain, and for a second I froze, horrified at letting it slip out.

  Hudson’s sputtered laughter stirred my hair, and the way his fingers tightened and dug into my skin made my body a little too happy. It was in for some serious disappointment, because I so wasn’t going there. I’d decided earlier today that it was completely unethical and—

  Hudson’s lips moved next to my ear. “I’ve got to get this microphone up to the stage, but for the record…” He brushed past me, his chest making full contact with my shoulder and arm. “It’s a little of both.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  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 noti
ced 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 with her.

  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.

  She looked at me, eyebrows ticking together.

  I gave her an innocent shrug. “Sorry. It’s hard for one little seat to contain all this.”

  She glanced a few aisles down, where the rest of my teammates sat, then leaned in. “I shouldn’t have let you sit here. You should be with the rest of your team.”

  “Beck’s just a few seats away.”

  “You know what I mean. I don’t want the rest of the hockey team to get the wrong idea about us.”

  “What’s the wrong idea?”

  She let out an exasperated sigh. “You know. That something’s going on between you and me.”

  “Between you and I?” I asked, arching my eyebrows.

  “It’s ‘me.’”

  “Pretty sure it’s I,” I said, even though I had no idea. It was fun to get her riled up, though. I wanted to tease her back to where we’d been earlier today. Or last night—I’d take either.

  Dane glanced back, and the idiot grinned and gave me the nod. Clearly I was going to have to murder him later.

  Of course Whitney noticed it. “See what I mean?”

  “That? That was because Mike Grabonski scored, and we’re too far apart to fist bump.”

  “He did? Oh, I’ll write that down.” She wrote his name and then frowned. “Which team is he on?” Before I could answer, she swiped a hand through the air. “Not that it really matters. It’s just for charity—since this isn’t even a school event, I’ll probably focus more on the fundraising aspect.”

  The girl had so many evasive maneuvers, I was starting to think she was a trained spy. But I let it slide for now, planning on circling back around to it later. “Back to this you and I business,” I said, grinning extra wide when she huffed out a breath. “What do you mean there’s nothing going on? Because last night—”

  She clamped a hand over my mouth. “Will you stop? We can discuss this later.”

  “Hey, you’re the one all over me in public,” I muttered through her hand.

  She jerked away and turned in her chair. I poked her shoulder and she crossed her arms and twisted away even more. I poked her again, in the side this time, and while she tried to fight it, a smile broke free.

  “You’re so obnoxious,” she hissed through her teeth.

  “You like it,” I said back, not bothering to whisper.

  “That’s the problem,” she said, her voice so quiet I almost wondered if I’d imagined it. I was about to press fu
rther, but then the crowd erupted as the final minute of the game played out, a last-second score sending them even more into a frenzy.

  They announced how much money they’d raised and invited the raffle winners down to the ice. When I turned to see if Whitney wanted to covertly meet somewhere for dinner, she was no longer next to me. Two empty seats remained between Beck and me.

  “Where’d the girls go?” I asked.

  “They said something about getting out of here before the crowds got too crazy—I’m not sure why it was suddenly such a big deal, but Whitney insisted she needed to get away before it was too hard to move.”

  Sure enough, the aisles were already filled with people scrambling to leave the arena. I spotted Lyla and Whitney at the top and had the oddest urge to leap across chairs and rails to get to Whitney.

  But then I’d look desperate. Plus, Coach had repeatedly reminded us that we needed to stick around to help take everything down.

  So instead I watched her go, hoping she’d glance back so I could wave, or do…I don’t know. Something.

  But she didn’t. Leaving me to wonder if I was starting to lose my mind over Reporter Girl.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Whitney

  Adrenaline surged through me as I rushed up the stairs, then the different, bad kind of adrenaline mixed in. Poor Lyla was probably losing circulation in the hand I’d clamped on to.

  Unlike Kristen, who would’ve insisted on an explanation—or even argued with the explanation—when I’d turned to Lyla and told her I needed to “get out of here right now,” she’d sprung into action. She’d muttered something to Beck, giving him a quick kiss on the way, and then we’d been rushing up the aisles, moving as quickly as we could until the flow of people slowed us to a crawl.

  A squished, I-can-smell-ten-kinds-of-B.O crawl. I didn’t realize how much I hated huge crowds until today. I could handle them if there was proper room to move around, but there wasn’t enough room or air. I was starting to think part of that had to do with knowing Hudson was in the same building.