Page 22 of Anatomy of a Player

There. Truth, even if it wasn’t the whole truth, so help me God.

I waited to see how the girl who’d probably been pampered her whole life took the news. No doubt Whitney Porter went for mama’s boys, but that’s because she’d never met my mom. Not that anything about me fit that description.

A hint of bitterness crept into her features. “It’s the worst when the people who are supposed to be there for you choose themselves instead.”

Now that was a surprise. “You sound like you’re speaking from experience.”

She shrugged, working way too hard at acting like it wasn’t a big deal—I knew, because I’d also tried that tactic before. Pretending not to care was much easier than caring. Caring involved inevitable disappointment and pain. “My mama chose to go find another family when my daddy and I weren’t the perfect one she wanted. Her definition of perfection was unachievable, too. I certainly never came close enough for her.” She ran her thumb over the label of her beer and then slowly looked up at me. “I…I don’t usually tell people about my mama.”

That made two of us. I raised my beer. “To getting away from all that.”

“Cheers,” she said, tapping her beer bottle to mine, and then downing the rest in a large gulp. She set the empty on the edge of the pool table and grabbed her stick. I didn’t bother telling her that it was still my turn. She leaned over the table, stretching as far as she could to try to make an impossible shot.

Now I was the one checking out her ass—she had a nice one, too. I’d suspected, but now I knew for sure. It was one of those you could really grab on to, and I’d always been a fan.

Since things were finally easy between us, I decided now wasn’t the time to compliment her curves or make a move, even though suddenly the only thing I could think about was how it would feel to have her body pressed against mine.

Chapter Fifteen

Whitney

I did a fist pump when my ball went in, and turned around to gloat. Hudson sat on the edge of his stool, one foot on the bottom rung, the other on the floor. He had his hands linked loosely together, the pool stick casually propped in the middle of them. For a moment I got lost in the ink and the large veins in his forearms.

Damn.I swallowed past a dry throat.I’ve obviously had a bit too much to drink, because I’m forgetting to be unimpressed by the way he looks.

The dim lighting in the place was the kind that helped facilitate bad decisions, and suddenly I wanted to make one. I’d slipped and flirted a little, and of course he’d flirted right back. I could still feel his arm against me, that quick impression of his firm chest against my back, and the way he’d dragged his hand across my waist, his touch feather light but there.

Electricity danced across my nerve endings, and I thought about how my former self would stroll over, say something flirty, and wait to see if he’d kiss me—er, her. Okay, now I was confusing myself, and the tingly buzz wasn’t helping.

Out of the fuzzy mist came the reminder that I’d sworn off guys until I could figure out how to keep myself from falling for a player. I forced myself to focus on how he’d flirted with the waitress and called her “sweetheart.” Right in front of me, too, even though we were on a…well, not date, but still.

He’s the definition of player. If anything, I should observe all of his moves and then use that knowledge to spot warning signs in guys when I do start dating again.The more I thought about it, the better the idea seemed. I’d still focus on my article for theHeights, of course, but I could learn the ins and outs of what made a player a player at the same time. It was genius!

Ooh, I can call it “Anatomy of a Player”. I’ll publish it eventually, and women everywhere will be able to use it for good.Maybe the college newspaper’s circulation wasn’t ready for that, but I bet there were publications geared toward women who’d eat it up.

“Earth to Whitney.” Hudson gestured toward the table, a lazy smile on his face. “It’s still your shot.”

“Right.” I turned around and acted like I was looking for my next move, but in my head I started compiling traits.

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

I smiled to myself, a smile somewhere between basking in self-brilliance and an evil grin. Adding a unique article like that to my portfolio, which would eventually also have columns from theHeights—as long as I kept my eye on the prize and landed that exposé—would help set me apart from other applicants.

I hit my cue ball into one of my solids, which bumped another in on its way, and both of them dropped into the pocket. Two in one—seemed to be the theme of the night.

Hudson and I had played until we were sober, then he dropped me off at my car. As soon as I returned home, I grabbed my laptop. It was early enough that I could still call Kristen and get the happy-haps on what parties were going on, but I was too focused on my shiny new idea.

I opened up a blank document and transcribed what I’d typed in my notes app on my phone—Hudson asked who I was texting, and even though I’d honestly answered, “No one,” I could tell he hadn’t believed me.

In a way, I guess you could say I was texting my future readers. Don’t get me wrong, the goal was still blowing lids off scandals, but landing a spot at theTimesright off the bat was a hundred-to-one shot. I fully planned on working my way up—whatever paper, whatever articles—and a diverse range would only make me a more impressive candidate.

Anatomy of a Player

• Face: From pretty boy to preppy to bad boy, players know how to work what their mamas gave them.

Don’t let their casual-sexy-cool appearance fool you, either. These guys spend plenty of time grooming themselves.

I’d gotten close enough to Hudson to see the gel in his hair. While his facial hair fell into the longer-scruff range, he clearly kept it trimmed, keeping it from crossing into mountain-man level.

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