Page 27 of Anatomy of a Player

“I know I came on a little strong in the locker room,” I said. “But that’s pretty much my office right now, and in order to not be seen as weak, or a joke, I need you to treat me like you would a male sportswriter.”

His gaze remained locked on me, the steady intensity causing me to actually have to think about how to breathe to keep doing it. “I’m afraid that’s not possible.”

Indignation smothered the remorse I’d felt. I opened my mouth, ready to let him have it again, but he put a finger to my lips.

“Before you get all pissed off, I’ll work on remaining professional, but I’m very aware of you whenever you’re around, and I most certainly notice that you’re female, not to mention much prettier than other reporters.”

“You’re drunk,” I said.

“Doesn’t make it untrue.” He punctuated the statement by tracing my bottom lip with his finger, one slow drag that made my throat temporarily close up.

I swallowed hard, fighting through the haze to get back to our conversation. “The way I acted wasn’t very professional either. I might’ve come on a little strong.”

“I wouldn’t mind you coming on a little stronger,” he said, the flirty edge back to his voice.

• Players turn everything into an innuendo.

Professionals ignored said innuendo. “I’m just trying to see if we’re still friends, but I don’t want our friendship to get in the way of being able to do my job. Do you understand?”

He nodded—I would’ve felt a lot better with verbal agreement, but decided not to push my luck. He downed his drink in a couple of gulps, then grabbed the one I’d barely touched and handed it to one of the freshmen hockey players. I didn’t remember his name, but felt pretty proud that I was learning the players’ faces at least. “Hold this. Don’t let it out of your sight, and don’t let anyone touch it. Got it?”

The freshman nodded emphatically.

Hudson grabbed my hand and started toward the dance floor. I dug in my heels. “Wait. I’m not dancing.”

“Come on, Reporter Girl. I know you can loosen up a bit—our night at the pool hall showed that. I promise that twice in your life won’t kill you.”

With a sigh, I gave in. As soon as we were in the middle of the floor, he drew me close, so close I could feel the muscles in his torso, and I knew I should’ve fought harder. But the way he wrapped his arms around me, his hands a mere inch away from too low on my back, made it even harder to fight—hard to do anything but sway with him.

I thought we’d make small talk. We didn’t. I wondered if I should be questioning him about classes, grades, training—anything. But the loud bass line blared through the room and vibrated across my skin, apparently wiggling my thoughts and ability to talk right out of my grasp.

Hudson grabbed my hand and spun me out. A laugh escaped as he spun me back in, fast enough I collided into him, my free hand braced on the drool-worthy pecs.

“Do you want to spin me now?” he asked. “I’d hate to not treat you as equal.” The curve of his mouth made it clear he thought he was pretty clever.

I grabbed his hand and attempted to spin him. The thing about moving a tall, muscular-wall-of-a-dude was—well, you really couldn’t unless he helped. Last minute, Hudson humored me, ducking under my arm and completing a graceless spin. But as soon as our bodies met again, he put his arm behind my back and dipped me. I laughed again and he grinned.

“See. Is having a little fun so bad?”

“Probably,” I said, because I didn’t think I was doing a very good job of not blurring lines. I bet every journalist felt that way at one time or the other, right? Par for the course and all that?

He didn’t seem concerned by my answer. When the song ended, we headed back to where we’d started and he retrieved my beer from the freshman. I waved it off—last weekend I’d learned that the more alcohol I drank, the more I opened up to Hudson, and I needed it to be the other way around. Not to mention I didn’t know the freshmen well enough to 100 percent trust him with my drink. Plus I had a lot of work and studying to do tomorrow, and it would go much easier without a hangover.

Hudson shrugged and told the freshman he could have the beer, which seemed to make his night.

We stood there in silence for a moment, and then I said, “If you need to go circulate, or whatever, I’m fine. I can find my friend—I’m sure your female fan club needs you.”

“Maybe. But they’re not as interesting as you are.”

I wished I could trust he meant that, but I’d fallen for lines like that before.

“Tell you what,” he said. “You hear that cheering?”

I strained my ears for the sound of cheering over the music and sure enough, shouts carried over from the other side of the room. “Yeah.”

“You want to get in good with the team? Want them to answer any question you ask them?”

My journalist senses tingled—quickly followed by a heavy dose of skepticism. Still, I answered, “Yes,” because it was the truth, and I was curious where this was going.

---