Page 21 of Anatomy of a Player

More and more I was thinking the best thing I could do was get an NHL contract and make enough money to help kids and social work programs that way. The stubborn, determined-to-prove-naysayers-and-statistics-wrong side of me said I wanted that damn degree either way, though. Then maybe I’d also feel like I deserved the chance the college had taken on me.

I scratched on the eight ball right as our beers showed up—maybe on purpose, so I could sigh and challenge her to another game. “Your distraction technique worked. Now that I know you play dirty, I think I deserve a chance to redeem myself.”

Whitney took a swig of beer and then her mouth curved into a half smile. “Redeem yourself? That’s a tall order.”

Before I could reply, she jumped off her stool, took up her pool stick, and leaned in nice and close, close enough I could see a small dusting of freckles across the bridge of her nose. “And you have no idea how dirty I can play.”

Heat rose up and skated across my skin. Reporter Girl was flirting with me, which gave me permission to flirt right back. As she started toward the table, I caught her around the waist.

“Not so fast,” I said. “You broke last time. It’s my turn, you cheater.” I shook my head and dragged my hand around her waist, drawing out the contact. Then I downed half my beer in a couple of gulps, racked the balls, and started another game.

As we moved around the table, I wanted to dare an “accidental” brush up, but I was trying to pace myself. To go slow, so she didn’t pull away. So I kept to small talk and ordered us another round of beers.

“Where are you from, Reporter Girl?” I asked as I debated which ball to attempt to hit. “I sense a hint of a southern accent.” It was charming as hell, too, coming out more with every drink she took.

I lined up my shot, but glanced over my shoulder when she didn’t immediately answer. Oh yeah, she was checking out my ass—point for me.

“You caught me,” she said, and then she flashed me a smile. “I’m from Kentucky. What about you, Hockey Boy?”

I let the nickname go, since I figured I deserved it. “New York.”

“Like, New York City, or just the state?” The way her voice pitched with interest was impossible to miss.

“The Bronx.”

“So pretty much the city.”

I supposed it seemed that way to other people, but the neighborhood you came from, and which part of that neighborhood, made a huge difference.

“That’s so cool.” She sat on the edge of the table, facing me. If I were serious about the game, I’d point out that she’d wiggled everything left on the table a couple of inches, enough that I needed to realign my shot. Right now, though, I was more serious about the girl and her awed expression. “I’ve always wanted to go to New York. The basic plan is to hit Boston for college and eventually work my way down—the best-circulated and oldest newspapers are there. Did you know that theNew York Postis the oldest daily newspaper?”

I braced one palm next to her thigh and moved my pool stick in front of my crotch, just in case she got carried away swinging her legs. “Can’t say that I did.”

“Yeah, most people think theTimeswas first because it’s better known. Can you imagine waiting a week to get the news? Of course it was all charters and facts about butter, molasses, and cotton, but still.”

I couldn’t remember the last time I’d read a newspaper or watched the news, but going without ESPN for very many days would be cruel and unusual punishment. “You’d choose working for thePostover theTimes, then?”

“Oh, no,” she said, shaking her head. “Timesall the way. In the mid-seventies thePostturned into more of a tabloid.” She glanced at the table, like she’d forgotten about our on-going game. “Oops. I’m blocking your shot.”

I put my hand on her leg, keeping her in place. “No worries. I can make it, even with you playing dirty and trying to block me.” I took my shot, and the ball sank in with a satisfyingthunk.

“So, why’d you come here for college?” Whitney asked when I straightened, and I could hear the unspokenHow could you leave a place so great?“I’m assuming hockey, but I’d also guess that you had your pick of places.”

Each of those acceptance letters had felt like the Willy Wonka of colleges was handing me a golden ticket, one that provided freedom and an actual shot at a better life. Worried that letting myself hope would only leave me crushed in the end, I’d almost been afraid to even dream any colleges would accept me, much less that I’d have options.

“I needed to get as far away as possible. I wouldn’t mind even farther, but Boston had the best team, and Dane was coming here, so…”

As soon as it left my lips, I wanted to shove it back in. I’d gotten too comfortable, answering without thinking—it was those bewitching blue eyes, the feel of her knee against my thigh, the hypnotic whiff of perfume.

“What did you need to get away from?”

Of course she’d ask that—I’d expect nothing less from a reporter. So…lie, diversion tactic, or honesty? Wasn’t that always the question when it came to my past? I was who I was, but that didn’t mean I wanted people knowing too many details about it.

“Sorry,” she said. “Guess that’s a rather personal question.”

Crap. Now she felt awkward, I could see it in the way she curled her hands around the table edge and dropped her chin. I didn’t want to ruin the easy vibe we’d built up—it proved even more successful at cutting out the noise in my head than our verbal sparring matches. This was the best night I’d had in a long time, actually.

“I needed to get away from my mom for a while,” I said. “She tends to attract drama.”And assholes.“Since she chooses herself every time, I decided to choose myself for once.”

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