Page 82 of Anatomy of a Player

Lyla sat next to me, looped one arm over my shoulders, and told Beck to get the ice cream. She helped me off the floor, and by the time we made it back to the couch, Beck was there with a carton, an apologetic look on his face.

What with the crying jags, it took several minutes to rehash what had happened—luckily Lyla had filled Beck in on the bet, so I didn’t have to force those words out one more time. Each time I said or thought the word “bet” another string of my heart unwound, and much more unwinding and it’d fall apart completely.

When I’d finished, Beck had said, “Whitney, I’m not taking his side, I swear, and if I’d known about the—” He cut himself off at my wince. “Then I wouldn’t have left you alone out there.”

“See,” Lyla said, and they’d exchanged exasperated looks.

“Butyou should’ve seen him.” Beck’s gaze had moved back to me. “He was a wreck when he thought something might’ve happened to you.”

“He’s a good actor,” I’d retorted, because if anyone knew how intensely Hudson could fool someone, it’d be the girl who’d fallen in love with him while he’d slept with her to win a bet.

Beck had insisted that he’d known Hudson long enough to tell when he was sincere, and that no one could fake that kind of worry, and now his insistence entered my head again. When he’d said it the other night, hope—glorious yet dangerous hope—had risen to the surface. I’d wanted him to be right, even though I’d been burned enough times to make me doubt all guys’ sincerity.

So I’d admitted the thing I’d held back during my retelling. My hand had trembled as I’d raised it to my mouth and more tears—just like the ones currently clotting my throat—formed.

Even Lyla had softened the tiniest bit toward Hudson when I told them that he’d said he loved me. “He told you that helovedyou?” she’d asked, and the look she and Beck exchanged spoke of understanding instead of opposition.

That memory of him saying those words had seared itself into my brain. Hudson’s face at that moment flashed behind my eyes, the way it’d done at least a hundred times since, quickly followed by how broken he’d looked after I’d slapped him.

At the time, I’d been proud of myself for reacting. I’d told myself the next time a guy played me, I wouldn’t just stand there like an idiot. Finally, I’d shown a guy that he’d hurt me and proved to him—as well as myself—that I wasn’t a doormat.

Only…while I’d wanted to hurt him like he’d hurt me, the pain in his features hadn’t made me feel strong and vindicated like when I’d given Trevor a piece of my mind.

No, with Hudson, each facial twitch, each sign my verbal blows had landed, only echoed inside me and deepened my pain. I’d thought it was because it had been so fresh and raw, and because I’d cared about him more than I had any other guy, but days later, thinking of it sent a swell of agony through me.

No matter how much I told myself Hudson deserved every word I’d said, that slap, and a scathing article slamming his team, I couldn’t quite convince myself of it. Maybe that made me weak. Maybe even gullible. Most possibly it made me a girl who couldn’t stop loving the guy, despite all the evidence that she shouldn’t.

Not to mention, I hadn’t been completely honest with him from the beginning, either. I liked to think omitting certain things because they were job-related and I was undercover made it okay, but lines had definitely been crossed, and I was far from exemplary.

I opened up my recent files and “Anatomy of a Player” replaced my ten-minutes-from-due article.

Anatomy of a Player

Features:

• Face: From pretty boy to preppy to bad boy, players know how to work what their mammas gave them. Don’t let their casual-sexy-cool appearance fool you, either. These guys spend plenty of time grooming themselves.

Clean-shaven or scruffy, a player knows what highlights his best features and uses this knowledge to snag his prey.

• Smile: Lazy, confident, cocky. The player has many smiles, all used to make you lose your common sense and succumb to his charms.

• Names: Strong-sounding monikers that roll off the tongue. The kind that turn you into a teenage girl who wants to scribble your first name with his last one.

• Chest: Carved, drool-worthy pecs

• Abs: Ripped AF

• Hands: A player is good with his hands. From the lightest brush to moves requiring more pressure, he knows exactly how to use them for maximum effect.

• Scars: stories you can trace with your fingers. If approached at the right time, players may even tell you the stories behind them.

• As for the rest of his anatomy… Let’s just say he knows how to use it.

Moves and character traits:

• Calls girls by nicknames, everything from “sweetheart” to “baby” to other generic terms of endearment. In part because of forgetting a girl’s name or to keep from calling her the wrong one, but also to create a sense of intimacy before it’s even there, thus fast-forwarding to the sex part.

• Never has to work for phone numbers.

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