Page 38 of Anatomy of a Player

Being blind to the obvious is what screwed you over before,my annoying conscience whispered.We’re talking three guys in a row.

This wasn’t Connect Four, stack them all together and you win. This was four in a row, you end up crying and feeling like crap, and totally losing respect for yourself.

Not to mention, as a playerandan athlete with special perks, Hudson was the enemy on two fronts.

Reluctantly I straightened, putting space between us. I flinched when that stupid muscle in my neck caught again, but pushed through the pain. “Well, I have an early morning tomorrow, so…”

He grabbed my arm, just above the elbow. “Whitney.”

I looked back at him, wanting the next words he said to justify the way my heart skipped a beat, while hoping they didn’t, because I couldn’t develop feelings for Hudson Decker.

“Sorry I crashed your night, but I really needed this.”

A line? Truth? I didn’t know anymore. He seemed genuine, but that was coming from someone missing playdar. Besides, all we’d done was watch a documentary, something most people considered boring, and I couldn’t imagine it’d truly been the highlight of his week.

“Now, let me…” He pressed his lips into a line. “How to say this without you getting the wrong idea?”

I tensed.

“Let me do something nice for you,” he said. “If it doesn’t help, I’ll leave it alone.”

When I continued to stare, he laughed. “It’s not going to be scary, I promise. I know you said you’re fine, but I can tell by the way you’re holding your neck and shoulders that you’re not.”

He grabbed one of the pillows from the couch and dropped it on the floor. Then he guided me to sit on it and pulled me back against the bottom of the couch, his legs on either side of me.

He gripped my shoulders and dug his thumbs into the muscles leading to my neck. I nearly groaned, and I was sure it would’ve come out sounding completely sexual and then I would’ve had to die of embarrassment, but it might be worth it anyway.

He started to knead the muscles, each circle relieving the tension that had seized my body sometime in the middle of the night and had followed me around all day, only getting worse with each passing minute. “What’s got you so stressed? Talking to too many angry girls with boy haircuts?”

“What are you talking about?” I asked, letting my head drop to the right when he nudged it in that direction.

“That day at the library, the same day we ended up playing pool.”

“That wasn’t a boy haircut—it’s called a pixie cut. And she wasn’t angry, she was passionate.”

Skepticism filled the eyebrow he arched. “If she had bangs, maybe,” Hudson said, “But that was crazy short.”

I tried to frown at him, but it wasn’t exactly possible at this angle. “I thought you were going to pick your battles with me. Is this really the one you’re choosing to fight?”

“Hey, I’ve got to draw the line somewhere.”

I shook my head and he laughed. I would pull away, but it was the first time my neck had felt good all day. “You’re impossible.”

“I think you mean charming.” Before I could argue, he dug his thumbs deeper into my sore muscles. To call my day stressful would be an understatement. My attempt to get a statement from the professor had gone horribly—I knew journalists didn’t always get the friendliest reception, but I’d seriously thought the guy might backhand me.

From there I’d gone to my last two classes of the day, only to find out that I’d blanked on the assignment due in Mr. Jessup’s class, and as if that wasn’t bad enough, even though I’d spent a lot of time studying for my Mass Communication Ethics class, I was pretty sure I’d failed the quiz.

Who was going to hire a journalist who got a bad grade in an ethics class?

Right as worry started to rise up again, the soothing rhythm of Hudson’s fingers made it fade away. “That feels amazing,” I said, then immediately worried it’d come out too breathy. He moved a bit lower, to my shoulder blade area and I tipped my head back—he was as devastatingly good-looking upside down, which seemed totally unfair, as I was sure I looked like the hellish day I’d had. “I thought you weren’t majoring in sports medicine.”

He grinned and tapped the end of my nose. “Hazard of the job—I learn it whether or not I want to. After a rough week of hockey, or an especially tough game, I practically run to the team’s massage therapist.”

I’d like to be annoyed about that perk, but I could hardly complain when he’d used his knowledge to relieve my pain. He knew just which muscle to press to release the knots, and as they all loosened, I felt like I could melt into the floor and live there forever.

• 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.

My thoughts drifted to all the ways he might use his hands in more R-rated scenarios, and desire tingled its way through me, bringing every inch of my skin awake.Bad thoughts. Bad, intriguing, tempting thoughts.

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