Page 39 of Anatomy of a Player

I needed to shut them down before I got carried away. I forced away the images and brought up my shoulders.

“Relax,” Hudson instructed, but I couldn’t—any more relaxing and I’d lose my inhibitions and throw myself at the mercy of his magic hands.

“Thanks so much for the massage, but I was serious about needing to get up early tomorrow morning,” I said. “I still have another assignment I need to do tonight, too, so I better get to it.”

He stood, his crotch barely missing my head, and turned to face me. “I may not be able to save a thousand dogs, but if it’ll make you happy, I’ll give on the Tinkerbell haircut thing.”

“Pixie cut,” I said. “Tinkerbell had a bun.”

“I’m letting you win here. Don’t make me give you a penalty for unsportsmanlike conduct.”

Something told me he didn’t give on things very often. Still, I couldn’t help but tease back. “At this point, a forced, four-minute time-out sounds nice.”

He gave me a funny look that I couldn’t quite translate. Weren’t we using sports metaphors? I started to push to my feet and he extended a hand to help me up. Like the day at the library, my body nearly bumped his. Mischief flickered through his eyes, and he gave another quick tug, causing me to stumble into him.

I braced my hands on his firm biceps, and while I wasn’t so sure he should get a special perk for the muscles, I couldn’t say I didn’t appreciate what the training had done for them.

I knew if I looked up, he’d kiss me. Time froze and I fought with myself, wishing he weren’t so hard to resist, while telling myself I had to be strong. I gave him a quick hug and then took a giant step back. “So, um, good night.”

One corner of his mouth kicked up, way too much amusement dancing across the curve. “Night, Reporter Girl.”

With his hand on the doorknob, he hesitated and glanced over his shoulder at me. “I wrote my number on your notebook. That way you can hit me up if you need another massage or…anything else.”

“Thanks,” I said, even though I knew the last thing I should do was use that phone number. Mentally, I flipped through my calendar, wading through my class and work assignments to when I’d get to see him next. The event that had stressed me out when I’d first found out about it now sent an excited flutter through my stomach—one that I so shouldn’t feel, but there it was anyway. “I’m sure I’ll see you at the fundraiser tomorrow?”

His smile spread, the other corner getting in on the action. “I’ll be there.”

Chapter Twenty-Four

Whitney

As I waited at a stoplight, I caught sight of the top of my bun in my car’s rearview mirror. It had been so long since I’d flat ironed my hair, I worried that the frizzy half-wave would grow strong enough to resist all attempts at future straightening.

Telling myself that the story and my prospective career were more important than my vanity didn’t make me feel much better.

Especially when I thought about how unsuccessful I’d been when it came to finding a source who’d talk to me, much less blow the lid off the…whatever I was blowing the lid off. What was with that expression anyway?

Even Professor White, who I’d thought would be on my side emailed back today to say she was sorry, but she was too busy to do an interview. Code for she wouldn’t.

Maybe Professor Jessup was right. I’ll only ever be a news anchor, but after sacrificing my hair for a college story, they’ll insist I cut it short or wear a wig.

I rubbed at my puffy eyes. Lack of sleep might be making me overly dramatic. On the bright side, maybe Hudson would take one look at me and remember that he had a lot of other options.

An icky sensation settled into my gut, proving how much I didn’t want that to happen. While my neck felt much better after Hudson worked his magic, I couldn’t stop thinking about him, and whenever I did, I’d feel unease over the exposé article, and that led to tossing and turning and my second rough night of sleep in a row.

The asphalt of Kelly Rink looked darker than usual thanks to the snow that had been on the ground first thing this morning. Once the sun came out, it had melted, only a hint of white remaining in the shadiest of places.

I pulled into a spot, grabbed my big bag with my notes, and rushed toward the building, my shoes squeaking against the wet asphalt.

Lindsay had mentioned that while other organizations had their fundraiser ideas rejected, the hockey team’s was passed without their having to even fill out the dozens of forms usually required. When I’d called the hockey coach’s office to ask about it—using a different name, of course—he claimed it was because the team was doing it in conjunction with the ALS fundraiser the alumni had already set up. He also said that the money would be going right to the charity, not to the team.

Which had made me feel sort of like an ass, honestly. When I’d broken the news to Lindsay, though, she said she’d believe it when I proved it.

No pressure or anything.

The hallways of the arena were lined with different tables. There was food, signed hockey jerseys of every color, from dozens of teams, and there were people everywhere, from little kids to hunched-over white-haired men.

I wove through the crowd, feeling totally out of my element and wishing I’d done more prep work. Guess I shouldn’t have indulged in the documentary last night.

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