Page 56 of Anatomy of a Player

He’d known that I’d see it here, though, and that it would’ve given me the weekend to get my hands on what I needed. I probably should’ve emailed on Friday night, but I’d been moping over having to miss the game. Plus, I told myself that I wouldn’t need either option—that I had my class under control, or would, after suddenly having a free weekend to study.

I’d used it, too. Friday night and most of Saturday were spent reading and highlighting, my damn ankle propped on the other end of the couch with an ice pack or a heating pad the entire time. I’d read until words blurred into one another. I’d even tried to call a couple of the people from study group, but neither of them answered. Because it had been Saturday, and people were supposed to relax on Saturday.

Hours upon hours of study, and the material hadn’t magically made sense.I still don’t get it—not enough to be ready for the test at the end of the week.

If I got ahold of the test, I wouldn’t just use it to memorize a, b, or c. I could study the questions, find the right answers, and work backward until I understoodwhythey fit. Would that be so bad?

I lifted my phone, opened up my email, and looked from the screen to the note so I could make sure I had the address right and then hovered my finger between “cancel” and “send.”

Thinking about Whitney right now, and how passing my class meant being around her more, was completely crazy. But there was only about a month and a half left in the semester, and even if I took the girl making me lose my mind out of the equation, there was my team—my true family—to worry about. McCaffrey didn’t need to add the reminder that they were all relying on me, because I was well aware, and I didn’t want to let them down.

My waffles popped, making me jump, because everything made you jump when you were feeling guilty.

Before I could rethink everything, I tapped the screen, shoved the phone in my pocket, and then crumpled up the note and tossed it in the trash.

Chapter Thirty-Three

Whitney

For two days I felt the imprint of my phone against my thigh every time I took a step, the picture of that note on Hudson’s fridge burning a hole through my pocket. I wished I hadn’t seen it, that piece of possible evidence I should dig into but hadn’t brought myself to examine yet.

I’d gone back and forth on whether or not to use it. After all, there was no proof that Hudson or Dane had used the email address.

Of course, I wouldn’t know that unless I investigated it.

Part of me thought I had enough information about athletic perks with or without knowing if cheating was going on in addition to everything else, but lately I’d had a hard time working up passion for my exposé in general.

I wasn’t sure I wanted to expose everything anymore. Not the hockey team’s everything, and not mine.

I swore my phone grew hotter the instant I walked into the newsroom. Was that a sign I should use the information? Or a sign I should hit delete and forget that I’d seen it? A serious journalist wouldn’t ignore a clue like that.

A girl who liked a boy wouldn’t use a night he’d actually been open and amazing against him.

“How are we today?” Will asked, and I jumped, sure guilt was written across my face.

“Nothing,” I said, before realizing that didn’t make sense. “I mean fine.” I took a few steps toward my tiny, ancient desk. For now it’d do, but someday I wanted a bigger one that my computer would actually fit on, with enough space to spread my research out around me, a fancy nameplate, and…other vital reporter things.

I thought about Professor Jessup telling me that all I’d ever be was a pretty face in front of a TV camera—if I was lucky—and his jab about getting emotional. Then I thought about that article I’d read about politics holding women’s health hostage, and the type of stories I hoped to write someday. The documentaries that impacted me the most came about from people asking why, people who wouldn’t stop until they’d unveiled the truth—the good, the bad, and the ugly.

If I messed up this opportunity, I might not get another chance to prove that I could handle a big story. And if I wanted to make a difference, I couldn’t ignore possible leads.

It hit me that while I’d left the pageant world behind to focus on truth-finding and becoming a journalist, several of those girls were out spreading awareness about their causes, making an impact, and I was holding back.

I spun around and walked toward Will. “Actually. I was wondering… If I gave you an email address, could you find out who it belonged to? Maybe even who’s emailed him or her in the past few months? I think this person is selling tests to athletes, but I want to be sure so I don’t end up wasting time chasing a dead end.”

If several of the hockey players’ names came up, that’d help me know if it was worth pursuing.ThenI could decide what to do with it. The jumbled knot in my gut unfurled a bit, allowing me a modicum of relief.

“Depends on how smart the person is and how hard they’ve tried to protect their identity,” Will said. “I can take a bash at it, though.”

“That’d be awesome.” My phone snagged on my pocket as I tried to pull it out, and then it fell to the floor.

I scrambled to pick it up and ran my hand across the screen, saying a silent prayer to whoever was listening that it didn’t break.Crap. Is this a sign that I shouldn’t go through with it?

I shook my head at myself. I’d never believed in signs before, and suddenly I was seeing them everywhere? And how many times had I dropped my phone for no reason other than sometimes it was slippery? Three broken cases were proof enough of that.

Before I could play twenty questions with my conscience again, I pulled up the picture and rattled off the email address.

There. I’d done what I was supposed to. I’d found a source, and I was digging for the truth. Once I had cold hard facts, I could decide what to do with them.

---