Page 19 of Anatomy of a Player

Without bothering to shove my stuff in my backpack, I looped the strap into the crook of my elbow, scooped everything else into my arms, and tried to balance it all as I rushed toward the library, eyes locked on the glass doors.

The newspapers slipped against each other, and I gripped them tighter and quickened my pace—I was probably only being paranoid, but when my instincts screamed like that, ignoring them wasn’t an option.

I made it three steps into the library before the first newspaper fell from my grasp. That seemed to encourage the rest to go ahead and join in on the fun, and by the time the papers settled, I had my fistful of pens and highlighters in one hand and a smear of newspaper ink across my forearm.

I crouched down to pick up the mess, pretty much blocking the exit, although the person who stepped over me didn’t seem to mind—he actually sighed, like it was such a hardship for him to lengthen his stride, when he could’ve gone to the next set of doors.

Usually I was the picture of poise—I could float-walk, spin, and pose in five-inch heels on a slippery stage!

Other hands joined mine, and I caught sight of lots of tattoos, ones I’d been trying to subtlety check out earlier today. A quick glance revealed that, sure enough, my helper was none other than Hudson Decker. He gathered the bulk of the newspapers into a pile, lifted them, and then extended a hand to me. Gripping my tiny stack, I took his hand and let him pull me to my feet and off to the side, out of the way of the main library doors.

“Thanks,” I said, a ping of guilt going through me, since I’d pretended to not even know his name earlier. Like I could possibly forget anything about him.

As I reached for the papers in his hand, I noticed the way his wavy hair stuck up right in the middle—it was a different messy than after the hockey game, less smashed-by-a-helmet and more like he’d repeatedly run his fingers through that one spot. The cocky expression he usually wore was gone, too, one of frustration etched in its place.

I might’ve thought it was because of me, but his gaze was far away, off in that place gazes went when worry took hold of your every thought.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

He jerked his attention back to me. “Yeah. Fine.” He seemed to realize I was trying to take the newspapers from him and extended the bundle toward me. But then he paused and tilted his head as his eyes scanned the top page, which happened to be folded to the non-sports article I’d read. “Politics, huh? Pretty heavy stuff.”

“Yeah, well, once in a while I take a break from sports.”

“Not sure why anyone would want to do that.” His half-smile hinted he’d been teasing, but he clearly had other things on his mind still. “Anyway…” He handed the papers over to me, and I tried not to notice the way even the tiniest gestures made the muscles of his arms stand out, which made his tattoos stand out, which made my head go a little fuzzy.

I shoved the newspapers into my backpack and glanced out the windowed doors. I really wanted to go home, input what I’d learned, and call up my friend Kristen to find out if there was anything worthwhile going on tonight, but I didn’t know how long I needed to wait before Creeper Dude was gone.

When I looked back at Hudson, I tried to tamp down my sympathetic feelings, but the guy seriously looked like he had the weight of the world on his shoulders. “Did the study session go that badly?”

“Do you want to go play some pool?”

I didn’t know where that came from, but then the full impact of his brown eyes hit me, the desperate intensity making it hard to breathe, much less refuse.

Getting to know the hockey players was part of my job, right? And if it cheered him up temporarily… “Sure. I could use afriendlygame of pool.”

This time he actually smiled, no halfway about it, and my heart skipped a couple of beats.

“Cool. I know just the place.”

Chapter Fourteen

Hudson

Whitney looked out of place in the bar, the stained-glass light fixtures and the walls yellowed from the years they’d allowed smoking clashing with her uptight business getup. I’d liked the place from the first moment I’d wandered in freshman year—it wasn’t trying to be something it wasn’t. It was an old-school pool hall, nothing more.

Despite not quite fitting in with the surroundings or the rest of the well-worn crowd—if the five people at the bar could be called a crowd—Whitney walked with an air of confidence that somehow made the look work for her, even if I still thought she should undo a few buttons and let down her hair. At first I’d taken the lift of her chin as a sign she was stuck-up, but it was more self-assurance than superiority.

There was something about the way she held herself and her ultra-conservative clothes that didn’t quite match, though, and I found myself more and more intrigued, soaking in every little nuance. She moved to grab a pool stick, that same sway to her hips I’d seen earlier.

Instead of waiting for her to get her stick, I reached over her shoulder, barely brushing it as I did so, testing to see how flustered she got. She tensed a bit, holding perfectly still, but then she spun the other way.

“You know, I assumed we’d be playing on campus,” she said.

I twisted the heavy base of the pool stick in my hand, making sure it was on nice and tight. “No way. Those tables are wobbly and the places are always so crowded.”

“I didn’t realize you took your pool so seriously.”

“I go all out with everything I do,” I said, throwing in a wink that she rolled her eyes at.

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