Page 31 of Anatomy of a Player

I put that thought away for later, because I wasn’t quite done feeling stupid and sorry for myself. Sure, he’d thrown out that line about how if I ever decided to break my rules, I knew where to find him, but it was more like he was throwing me a bone.

Okay, bad example, as it was only making me think…well, about anatomy that I shouldn’t be thinking about. It wasn’t the first time he’d thrown out a flirty line, but I’d seen those girls he’d had wrapped around him at the beginning of the night. Why would he go for me when the twin-fantasy was an option? Was scoring with a straight-laced dowdy girl some kind of novelty to guys like him?

I walked into my apartment, strode right to my bedroom, and looked at myself in the mirror. The outfit was as boring as I remembered, my swipe of barely-there mascara lost behind the fake glasses.

I didn’t want to be like my mama, always relying on her looks, but man, did I feel like a sack of potatoes, especially compared to the other girls who’d been at the party. Not just felt, either, I looked like one. Lumpy and boring. No color, no glitter. I didn’t look horrible, but I knew how I could look with the right makeup, how the colors and right highlighting would bring out my best features. Plus, Ilikedbright colors and a little shimmer, in both my clothes and makeup.

As much as I hated to admit it, I suddenly understood why my mama had always been so obsessed with looks, and why she’d go so far to keep them.

I hated myself for it, but there it was anyway.

When Hudson had made the comment about a glittery pink notebook, a happy swirl had spiraled through my chest—I did have that glittery pink notebook. I’d carried it everywhere, and when I’d see people in the school halls, I’d study them and try to guess what secrets they might be hiding. Then I’d jot it down—using codenames, of course, because I’d seen all those movies where an object like that was found and the owner was ostracized.

But all my happy had come undone when Hudson had backtracked and said that I was too serious for glittery-pink nonsense. One, itwasn’tnonsense—it was called looking at something that automatically made you happy—and two, it meant that he didn’t see the real me. The investigative journalist in me should feel proud, and deep down, underneath feeling so blah, she probably was. But the girl who’d been flattered that Hudson had left behind the ditzy twins, and the rest of the girls willing to throw themselves at him, to drive her home was disappointed.

If I wore my usual clothes and actually did my hair and makeup, I could’ve easily competed against those girls. He wouldn’t even know what hit him.All it would’ve taken was a bit of flirting and drawing his attention to my lips with a few slow swipes of lip gloss, and the entire drive home he would’ve been thinking about kissing me.

Those moves had landed me plenty of lip action before, but they’d also landed me guys who only thought about kissing and sex, with no desire to really get to know me, or to consider me as girlfriend material.

So it was good that I needed to keep up this look and stick to light conversation—like facts about New York City newspapers, and movie quotes.

I couldn’t help remembering his low, throaty laugh, and how I’d thought, hey, a guy who gets me! For a little while I’d forgotten all about the exposé and my Anatomy of a Player article, and I’d wanted the drive to stretch out and last forever so we could keep laughing and talking.

Man, how am I going to do this for a month or two, when I get so invested so quickly?Hopefully in time I’d learn to separate and distance myself, even as I was immersed in it—like doctors who could lose patients without turning into a crying mess.

That optimistic twelve-year-old who’d decided she wanted to be a journalist didn’t realize that her empathetic nature would get in her way—not to mention her weakness for cute guys who never liked the real her enough to stick around.

Okay, that’s enough sulking.I went to the fridge and tried to convince myself that all I wanted was an apple. But then I accidentally-on-purpose cracked open the freezer and found the ice cream. If I was going to wear baggy clothes to hide my figure, why deprive myself of ice cream?

I parked myself on the couch with the carton and a spoon and dug in with one hand while I searched the Internet on my phone with the other, my exposé back on track. I wondered if teachers were told by the administration to turn a blind eye when it came to athletes’ test scores, or to at least grade on an extra generous curve.

Sure, there might be professors who loved sports, but since they were in the education field, I was also sure there were plenty who’d spent their high school years feeling inferior to athletes, and annoyed by the special treatment they’d received. They’d probably be reluctant to talk about—much less admit—that they’d been told to give athletes special treatment, for fear of losing their jobs.

I wonder if I swear that it’ll be anonymous, and that I’d never give up a source, I could get a few to talk to me about it.

I dug out my notebook—being lazy about dropping my backpack here instead of putting it in my room had paid off, because now I didn’t have to move from the couch or abandon my ice cream carton to go get it.

The first page had my notes for the Anatomy of a Player article. Not wanting to think about Hudson right now, I quickly flipped through pages until I found my other notes. After a day and night stuck open, my pages didn’t want to lay flat and in my attempt to smooth it out, ice cream dripped from my spoon onto the paper.

“Shoot.” I shoved the bite of ice cream in my mouth, jabbed the spoon into the carton, and then wiped the page. The ink blurred right along with the smudge of chocolate, but at least the words remained legible.

I added a note to the bottom about talking to professors, especially ones who had a high concentration of athletes—probably most of the general courses, since they’d have to take them, no matter their declared field of study, and the management and leadership professors.

I wiped my hands on my jeans and grabbed my phone again—typing with two thumbs was much faster, and a couple of clicks landed me on Boston College’s faculty page.

Ooh, I had Professor White last year, and she liked me.Surely she’d be the type to be annoyed by preferential treatment—she’d gone on more than one feminist rant in class, which of course made me a fan. She might be able to tell me more, from whether she’d been asked to grant athletes leniency, to which professors definitely gave it.

I clicked the link to her email address and sent a message asking if I could set up a time to talk to her.

With that done, I turned on the television. In a strange twist of fate—or maybe a twist of sabotaging-my-attempt-to-not-think-about-Hudson—Star Warswas on.

I should’ve changed the channel, but it’d been a long time since I’d seen any of the movies, and I was instantly pulled in by the action.

After all, this was all the action I was going to get for a long, long time.

Chapter Twenty

Hudson

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