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Playing To Win
Taryn Leigh Taylor


Playing to win means playing dirty…Holly Evans is intelligent, educated, and crazy about sports—so how did she end up prancing about in a miniskirt and teasing her hair like some broadcasting bimbo? Of course, since she's already iced her journalistic integrity, Holly might as well indulge in a little fan-girl lust for the ripped captain of Portland's hockey team.Luke Maguire sees right through Holly's bunny disguise, and he's ready to pull her into the locker room and strip it all off. Then Holly discovers someone on the team is profiting from a little over/under betting. Suddenly her lusting for Luke is going head-to-head with her reporting instincts. And if she's caught off-side, there's no telling what the penalty will be…







Playing to win means playing dirty...

Holly Evans is intelligent, educated and crazy about sports—so how did she end up prancing about in a miniskirt and teasing her hair like some broadcasting bimbo? Of course, since she’s already iced her journalistic integrity, Holly might as well indulge in a little fangirl lust for the ripped captain of Portland’s hockey team.

Luke Maguire sees right through Holly’s bunny disguise, and he’s ready to pull her into the locker room and strip it all off. Then Holly discovers someone on the team is profiting from a little over/under betting. Suddenly her lusting for Luke is going head-to-head with her reporting instincts. And if she’s caught offside, there’s no telling what the penalty will be...


“I’m sure you know more than you’re letting on...

“I’m going to figure out what you’re doing here and I’m going to expose you.”

Jeez. Everything sounded sexual when he was standing this close. She upped the ante and took a half step closer to him. She definitely wasn’t going to let him intimidate her in this sexy game of cat and mouse.

“You can try, but there’s nothing to expose. What you see is what you get.”

“Oh, I very much doubt that, Ms. Evans. The truth is hiding somewhere behind that big hair and tiny suit.”

“Look at me, Mr. Maguire. You honestly think there’s room to hide anything under this?”

Her breath stuttered at the sudden fierceness in his eyes, the predatory gleam that pinned her in place. Were their lips getting closer because he was leaning in, or had she swayed toward him?

She was drawn to his body, hard as iron and just as magnetic. Her fingers brushed his biceps as his hands made first contact with her waist and his lips moved closer, then closer still...


Dear Reader (#ulink_ee106763-3017-59e0-a383-4bffae774ee8),

I usually don’t remember how ideas get from my brain to the page, but this novel’s origin story can be traced back to a cold, snowy evening while watching Hockey Night in Canada. (What? A Canadian who likes hockey? It’s true. I’m also a woman with way too many pairs of shoes. Embracing clichés is good for the soul, eh?)

At one point in the game, the TV announcer was talking about a defenseman and actually said, I kid you not, “He’s a big, strong farm boy with good hands.”

Um...yes please! I’ll take one of those.

And the Women’s Hockey Network was born. My friend and I joked endlessly about Sexy Sports Coverage for Her, complete with play-off beard analysis (“As you can see from this graph, peak attractiveness was reached here, when he was sporting six days’ worth of stubble in game three of the first series.”), and some risqué, double-entendre commentating (“I really admire the way he keeps such a firm grip on his stick. That kind of control is going to result in some great scoring opportunities.”).

Our inside joke was a romance novel waiting to happen, and Luke and Holly were the perfect duo for the job. They’re both incredibly career-focused, and it was a blast to bodycheck them out of their comfort zones and into each other’s arms.

By the way, do you like the internet? I hang out there sometimes at tarynleightaylor.com (http://www.tarynleightaylor.com/), facebook.com/tarynltaylor1 (https://www.facebook.com/tarynltaylor1) and on Twitter @tarynltaylor (https://twitter.com/tarynltaylor). You should totally swing by if you’re in the neighborhood.

Keep on dreaming out loud,

Taryn Leigh Taylor


Playing to Win

Taryn Leigh Taylor






www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


TARYN LEIGH TAYLOR likes dinosaurs, bridges and space, both personal and of the final-frontier variety. She shamelessly indulges in clichés, most notably her Starbucks addiction (grande six-pump whole-milk no-water chai tea latte, aka: the usual), her shoe hoard (I can stop anytime I... Ooh! These are pretty!) and her penchant for falling in lust with fictional men with great abs. She also really loves books, which is what sent her down the crazy path of writing one in the first place.

Want to be virtual friends? Check out tarynleightaylor.com (http://www.tarynleightaylor.com/), facebook.com/tarynltaylor1 (https://www.facebook.com/tarynltaylor1) and twitter.com/tarynltaylor (https://twitter.com/tarynltaylor).


This one’s for my Women’s Hockey Network cohost, and the best amanuensis in the business. Cool Crystal, I owe you a slab of cake with a cupcake on top.

To Adrienne, who always makes my stories better. I don’t have the words to thank you enough. (But editors like irony, right?)

My love forever to Uncle Don and Auntie Shirl for keeping it real and staying true to the home team amidst a sea of red.

Mimsy, Dadoo and the man behind Grammataco—I’m so lucky to have you guys in my corner. High fives and secret handshakes all around.

And to my Palisades Crew: Michele, Michelle, Lori, Carolyne, Marilyn and Laura. The kind of women, and writers, who inspire me even now.


Contents

Cover (#u1fd40096-1c49-5643-8d6b-869edfd5d235)

Back Cover Text (#uc63eb148-5681-5673-8fcf-b90fa5994faa)

Introduction (#ub67b0529-431e-547e-bf31-ca5f78b5a16b)

Dear Reader (#u32eb589c-723d-5c95-a971-d203ea2b511d)

Title Page (#u02f47735-8915-5bfd-bc07-af84341510df)

About the Author (#uab755320-3642-53ed-af17-21c9abbdc88c)

Dedication (#u270103d5-a004-5a5a-94af-9712f6e415a8)

1 (#u45642ddf-3b82-55bc-97b9-10e5ae9c1830)

2 (#u77b9d8c0-4380-5e21-9a79-20118b3ba4ff)

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4 (#u81f9ea13-6e3f-5b0c-9a90-b32019733170)

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Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)


1 (#ulink_81f1d9d8-c41e-58cb-a6fb-d3d41c090164)

“QUIT SQUIRMING, HOL. You look totally porn-hot.”

Holly Evans glared at her friend and cameraman. “Well, thanks, Jay. I feel so much better now. After all, ‘porn-hot’ is just what we professional sportscasters aspire to, right, Corey?”

She immediately regretted throwing the question to the reporter setting up a few feet down the rubber-floored hallway. Corey Baniuk was Portland’s favorite on-the-scene sports authority...at least for now.

Rumor had it that Jim Purcell, the longtime sports anchor at Portland News Now, was contemplating retirement and that Corey had a lock on the in-studio position. That meant Holly’s dream job might soon be up for grabs—and Holly intended to do the grabbing. Provided she hadn’t screwed up all her credibility by playing Sports Reporter Barbie for the next three months, of course.

“Sure.” Corey shot her the familiar, good-natured grin that was a staple of both the six and eleven o’clock news. “Someone will be by to oil my chest any minute.”

His camera guy chuckled and heat prickled up Holly’s cheeks, no doubt rivaling the fire-engine-red color of her outfit. She forced a wan smile—small thanks for him taking the high road, but it was all she could muster. God, she envied him his conservative gray pinstripe suit. And he was even wearing a shirt under his jacket. She would give up her firstborn for a shirt.

“How did this happen?” she lamented in Jay Buchanan’s general direction. “I am an intelligent, educated woman who is passionate about all things sports.” She glanced down at her brazen skirt suit, but with her boobs pushed up to her chin, not much of it was visible to her.

Damn Victoria and all her secrets.

“When did I become the Hooters girl of broadcasting?”

Jay rolled his eyes. “Hey, you knew what you were signing up for. Hell, I’ll bet Lougheed had dollar signs circling his head when he saw your audition tape.”

Holly cringed at her friend’s choice of words. “It wasn’t an audition tape,” she protested weakly. “It was a favor for you. And a fight against injustice.”

When she’d agreed to shoot the joke video with Jay’s fledgling production company, she was aiming for satire, intending it to be biting commentary on how female sports reporters were perceived. It was an attempt to show people the stereotypes she fought against every day in pursuit of her dream. Instead, she was now the star of a bona fide viral video, sporting a teased-out helmet of blond hair and freezing her butt off while she pretended to be hockey-impaired.

It had caught the attention of Ron Lougheed, the GM of Portland’s professional hockey team, and the ditzy routine was now, sadly, the best on-camera experience she’d been offered since she’d graduated broadcasting school.

“No one cares what it was. What the Women’s Hockey Network is, is a YouTube sensation! People are eating it up and coming back for seconds. To the suits, you’re the living, breathing, high-heel-wearing crowbar they’re gonna use to pry into the coveted female demographic.”

“And they somehow figure short skirts are going to help me accomplish that lofty goal?” she asked snidely, tugging said skirt back down her thighs.

“Hell, no! That’s to keep the guys interested while you’re talking about girly stuff like player hairdos.”

With a deep breath of arena—rubber and concrete and sweat and ice—Holly called upon the stupid yoga class she’d suffered through two years ago at her best friend Paige’s behest. Something about a mind/body connection, and inner peace, and deep breaths, and—ah, screw it.

Time to suck it up, Princess.

Jay was right. She’d accepted the job as the Portland Storm’s web reporter for the duration of their play-off run, and if dressing like someone’s too-slutty-to-acknowledge cousin was the price of breaking into her dream career, then that’s what she’d do. She gave a determined nod at the thought, slamming a mental door on the last remnants of her doubt.

The buzzer sounded to hail the end of the game, and Holly’s newly minted courage took a nosedive. This was it. Her debut.

She watched with mounting nerves as twenty massive men in skates and full equipment stalked toward her.

And speaking of porn-hot...

There he was: Luke Maguire, team captain, number eighteen, a premier left-winger with a career-best thirty-seven goals in the regular season this year. Not to mention sexy as hell and in possession of all of his teeth—no rare feat after six years in professional hockey. The man looked incredible, all tall and sweaty and pissed off over the loss of their first play-off game against Colorado.

When she caught his eye, she was torn somewhere between lust and duty. Then his gaze dropped to the straining top button of her suit jacket, and she felt extreme mortification enter the mix. He slowed his pace, lifted his beautiful blue eyes from her cleavage to her face and stepped out of the single-file line of burly hockey players to take a question. From her.

This was it. Her big moment. Thirty seconds with one of the elite players of the game. But instead of being able to ask something pertinent, like his thoughts on the lackluster performance of the Storm’s players, or his musings on the unprecedented twenty penalty minutes they’d accrued, she was contractually obligated to say:

“This is Holly Evans of the Women’s Hockey Network, and with me tonight is the captain of the Portland Storm, Luke Maguire! Luke, it’s play-off season, a time when superstitions run rampant and hockey players all over the league stop shaving, even though a recent study shows that women prefer the clean-shaven look to a full beard by a margin of almost four to one. Do you think tonight’s loss had anything to do with the fact that you chose to shave today, and do you plan on reconsidering your stance on facial hair as the play-offs progress?”

One straight, brown eyebrow crooked up, the only indication he’d even heard her “question.” (She was willing to concede that she was using the term loosely.) Then he grabbed the logoed towel some Sports Nation lackey had slung on his shoulder, wiped the sweat from his face and turned and walked away.

* * *

“BUCK UP, CAP. Why so down?”

Luke took a deep breath and started pulling off the tape wound around his socks and shin pads. “You mean aside from getting shut out in our own building, setting a franchise record in penalty minutes and the looming press conference I have to spend assuring reporters that we know we sucked out there?”

As far as Luke was concerned, the only upside to their spectacular 5–0 loss to Colorado was that Coach Taggert had been so pissed that he’d refused post-game media access to the dressing room. At least they could shower, change and lick their wounds in relative peace.

Brett Sillinger, the Storm’s eighth-round draft pick, ran a hand through his sweaty curls. “Well, sure. When you put it that way. But look at the bright side! We’re loaded, and women throw themselves at us! We’ve got the best goddamn job in the world, bar none. And we’re in the play-offs, baby!”

Luke’s stomach lurched. “Trust me, rookie, I know we’re in the play-offs.”

Did he ever. It was a pretty big deal to some very rich people in some very high places, people who were...eager to see the team perform well in the franchise’s first run for the cup since joining the league five years ago. That fact had been made abundantly—and repeatedly—clear to him in the month since they’d clinched their play-off spot.

It was also Luke’s first time in the play-offs since the worst night of his life. Three years had passed, but the wound was still as fresh as ever.

He shoved the nightmarish memory back into the mental penalty box where it belonged, barely aware he’d reached for his helmet until he caught himself brushing his thumb across the number ten sticker he’d placed inside it—a talisman to keep him focused. With a sigh, he reached up and set his helmet on the shelf above his head.

He was the team captain now, he reminded himself. He had a job to do and he couldn’t afford to wallow in personal issues. You couldn’t lead a team to victory if they didn’t trust you to take care of business. And yet he didn’t seem to be leading the team anywhere but to an early play-off exit. They all needed to get their heads out of their asses.

“We won’t be in the play-offs for long if we keep playing like we just did. I know there are some nerves in the room. This franchise has never been in the play-offs before, and no one here has ever won a championship. None of that matters. We need to play our game, stay hungry and determined.

“And we can’t get sidetracked by the increased media scrutiny. Especially now that even the non-sports media are hunting for stories and interviews. The blonde out there actually asked me if I thought we lost because I’m not growing a play-off beard.”

The entire dressing room went silent as Luke untied his skate. He glanced around at his eerily quiet teammates. “What?”

“Well, we did lose...”

Luke’s face twisted with disgust. “Are you kidding me? It’s the first game! None of you even have beards yet. You guys really buy into this ‘no shaving’ bull?”

The rookie stroked his pitiful day’s worth of stubble. “All I know is that I’m in this to win this, and if sportin’ a Grizzly Adams gets me closer to a championship, then I’m on it like STDs on a hooker.”

“You realize that three out of four women hate beards, right?” Luke pulled his skate off, hating that he’d actually reduced himself to quoting stats from that reporter.

Sillinger got a philosophical look on his face. “Shave and you get laid for a night. Do what it takes to score a championship ring, and you’ll be up to your balls in puck bunnies for the rest of your life. I mean, seriously, Mags. A woman with a body like that reporter’s names me her ‘hockey hottie of the month,’ and I’ll answer any stupid question she asks.”

Luke paused in the act of loosening his other skate. “What are you talking about?”

“Are you serious?” Sillinger’s surprise was obvious. “Holly Evans? The Women’s Hockey Network?”

Luke gave a bewildered shrug.

“Dude, she’s all over YouTube! She does this girly hockey-analysis show that’s gone viral. And in it, she named you the hottest hockey player in the league. The top brass practically begged her to be our web reporter during the play-offs! Do you guys believe this? Hot Stuff here doesn’t even know who Holly Evans is!”

The announcement set off a round of catcalls and ribbing. Luke turned to his linemate, Eric Jacobs. The stoic centerman gave a shrug of his big shoulders and shook his head. Luke was relieved he wasn’t the only one out of the loop on this.

“Okay, okay.” Luke waited for the dressing room to quiet. “Let’s stay focused, guys. The game might be over, but we’ve still got work to do.”

Work that involved hours of ripping apart the carcass of the worst game they’d played all year. The assembled jackals—uh, reporters—were going to eat him alive, Luke thought soberly. He shed the rest of his equipment and headed for the showers.

But that was the price of the C on his jersey. The price of earning a living doing what he loved. Which was an honor and a privilege, considering some people never got that chance. And others had it stolen from them. Luke sighed.

At least the evisceration wouldn’t have anything to do with beard statistics and superstitious nonsense. And yet somehow Luke sensed that Holly Evans was a bigger threat than all the other sports reporters combined...


2 (#ulink_0ac3e637-1dd2-54fc-a65d-85248616fe5f)

“THE STORM ESSENTIALLY played an entire period shorthanded, which, given the dismal play of your PK unit, definitely contributed to tonight’s loss. Can you give us any insight as to what led to this unprecedented number of penalties for the Storm?”

Holly hit the pause button on last night’s broadcast and whirled on the couch to face her best friend, Paige Hallett. “Did you hear that? That was my question. Corey Baniuk just asked Luke Maguire my question. And did the dumb jock walk away without a word? No. He stood there and answered it, the jerk!”

“You asked him that question and he ignored you?” Paige looked offended on her behalf.

“Well, no. I asked him if he thought he might grow a play-off beard—then he ignored me. But that’s the question I wanted to ask him. That was a great question!”

Paige turned back to the magazine she was perusing. “I’ll take your word for it. He lost me when he started talking about China. Besides, why would the Storm play a whole period shorthanded? Seems kind of counterproductive to me.”

Holly sighed and set the remote on her coffee table. “They didn’t play an actual period shorthanded, they got twenty penalty minutes, so over the course of the game, they essentially played a man short for the length of a period. And he didn’t say Peking, he said PK unit. When a team gets a penalty, they put out their best penalty killers, their penalty kill unit.”

“Oh. Well, why didn’t he just say that?”

“He did! He did say that, and Luke Maguire answered him, because it was a relevant question asked by a serious sports reporter.”

Paige shot her a sympathetic look. “You’re a serious sports reporter.”

“No, I’m a traitor to my gender. Last night I wore a tiny suit and high shoes and made a mockery of everything I love.”

“Would you cut yourself some slack? Those were some seriously great shoes I picked out for you to wear. Besides, the only way you’re truly a traitor to your gender is the complete lack of readable magazines in your house.” Paige held up the Sports Illustrated she was flipping through as proof. “Seriously. If these guys weren’t shirtless, I’d throw this across the room in protest. Oh, wow.” A dreamy smile spread across Paige’s pretty face. “Who is that? Come to momma.”

Holly glanced over at the glossy, two-page spread featuring a certain hot, shirtless hockey player. His brown hair was the perfect length between shorn and shaggy, his blue eyes intense as ever. He was sitting in the dressing room, kitted out in hockey gear from the waist down—pants, socks and skates—and all muscle and beautiful bronzed skin from the waist up. Behind him, his last name and a big number 18 gleamed white against the navy of his Storm jersey.

“That’s Luke Maguire. The topic of my diatribe for the last twenty minutes? The man currently paused on my television?” Holly gestured at his stupid handsome face in HD.

“Well, why didn’t you tell me he was so yummy? I would have paid better attention.” She glanced at the television, presumably for the first time since her arrival. “Mmm. Maybe you were right. I should watch more hockey.”

Holly couldn’t help but smile. She had been trying to open Paige up to the wonders of sports for the better part of a decade now. How had Holly not realized the best way to turn Paige on to sports was to turn Paige on? “You’re incorrigible, you know that?”

Paige smiled sweetly. “I’m a divorcée with no serious relationship prospects on the horizon. I have to take my thrills where I can get them.” She flicked her gaze back to the TV. “And that man looks like he gives good thrill.”

Holly couldn’t argue. Irrationally, it made her even angrier at him. At one of her favorite hockey players. One day of playing dress-up and her view of the sports world was already starting to become skewed. So far, a steady paycheck was the only thing she enjoyed about this gig. Especially after such a mortifying first night. She’d taken the job because it was her chance to get on camera. One step closer to her big dream of talking sports on TV. But now...

“I’m wondering if taking this job was a mistake,” she confessed.

Since she’d graduated, she’d been plugging away, ghostwriting sports pieces for a bunch of online sports blogs. Hockey, basketball, baseball, football, golf...you name it, she wrote it. Not that anyone knew, since all her painstaking work was credited to “staff writer.” But it was the only way she could continue to write for enough outlets to make a living. She spent what little free time she had busting her butt trying to get one of her sports op-eds picked up.

That was the kind of writing she really loved—not spewing facts and stats and scores, but interpreting them, putting them in context, figuring out what was making a team successful, suggesting what they could do to become more so, having a go at dumb managerial decisions and underperforming athletes.

That sort of in-depth analysis was the key to getting where she really belonged—on television, just like her mom used to be. She wanted to read her pieces aloud, share them with people who loved sports as much as she did. Anyone could read a teleprompter; Holly wanted to make an impact.

“I mean, Jay and I made the Women’s Hockey Network video as a joke. And now it’s gotten me closer to my goal of being on camera than any article I’ve ever written.” Holly looked down, picking at the red lacquer Paige had insisted on slicking over her stubby nails. “But instead of feeling great about that, I feel like I’ve sold out. I’m a joke. I mean, can you even imagine what my mom would think of all this?”

“Woah. Back up the pity bus. I will not let you go down the mom road. She loved you and she would want what’s best for you. But Hols, even if your mom was still alive, what’s best for you would be your choice, not hers.”

Holly flopped onto the couch. “I know. But I still worry about letting her down. When I accepted this gig, I thought it was going to be a case of ‘all publicity is good publicity.’ Now I’m not so sure.”

She ran her hands down her face. “Luke Maguire believes I’m a total idiot! How can I ever do an in-depth interview with him now? And I don’t even get to travel with the team! That’s how dumb the questions I ask are supposed to be. I’m not worth a seat on a chartered plane that’s already been paid for.”

Paige glanced up from a picture featuring a shirtless LA Laker. “Lighten up, would you? It’s been one day. This job is a stepping-stone—one with over a hundred thousand hits on YouTube so far. You never know where this opportunity could take you. Besides, what do you think the rest of your former sports broadcasting classmates are doing right now? Interviewing team mascots and reporting on who scored the most baskets in soccer games played by twelve-year-olds? I’ll bet you’re closer to a real gig than any of them.” Paige shut the magazine and tossed it onto the coffee table. “You’re working with a real hockey team, interviewing some of the best players in the game. And yeah, it’s not perfect, but it could be a hell of a lot worse. So to quote a good friend of mine—” Paige arched one perfectly winged eyebrow “—suck it up, Princess. Go out there and do the job.”

Holly sighed. “I hate it when you’re right.”

“Then you must hate me all the time,” her friend lamented with a grin. It faded after a moment. “Was that enough of a pep talk? Because I’ll bail on my date and we can go out for a drink if you want to talk this out some more.”

“Oh, right! You have a date.” Holly shook her head. “I keep forgetting since you’ve been so secretive about this mystery man of yours.”

“It’s new. We’re still feeling each other out. Once we start feeling each other up, then I’ll have some details to share.” Paige was the only person in the world Holly knew who could pull off a wink with such aplomb.

“Of that I have no doubt. Now go and have fun. Besides, I’m already in the middle of a sports-related crisis. There’s no way I can muster the fortitude and patience it would take to teach you that you don’t score baskets in soccer right now.”

Paige laughed at the jab.

Holly squared her shoulders. “Like you said, I made this choice. I’m going to honor this contract. Maybe I can even convince them to let me do some real reporting. Wow ’em so they give me a chance to document the Storm’s first time in the play-offs with the gravitas and seriousness that it deserves.”

“That’s the spirit! You show those men who’s boss.” The phone rang just as Paige stood to leave. “See? That’s probably some titan of the hockey world, impressed with your journalistic integrity and calling to poach you for his own team.”

“Who else could it be?” Holly agreed drolly. “Say hi to your date for me.”

“No way. Get your own man, which I hope you do soon. You’re in desperate need of some hunky distraction in your life,” Paige advised, heading for the door. “At the very least, this job will be great for that.”

Holly rolled her eyes in a silent goodbye as she grabbed the handset of her phone, recognizing Jay’s number on call display. Paige didn’t like him very much, but Holly and Jay had hit it off immediately in broadcasting school.

When the Storm offered to let her pick her own cameraman, she’d eagerly snatched Jay away from filming weddings and local stories. It was a relief not to have to fake sports stupidity with at least one person.

“Hey. The footage looks great.” Embarrassing as it might be for her personally, she had to admit that Jay had edited her interviews with Luke and the rest of the team into a professional-looking comedic montage that could now be viewed by the world at portlandstorm.com.

“I’m glad you think so, because the boss man agrees.”

“What?”

“That’s why I’m calling. Check your texts.”

“Or you could just tell me since we’re, you know, on the phone,” she pointed out.

“Okay, smart-ass. It seems your big-haired alter ego can do no wrong. Hits on the Storm’s website have increased twenty percent since your interview was posted last night. Usually after a loss, website traffic goes down. They’ve decided to give us an extra assignment.”

“Oh, God.” Holly cringed. She couldn’t help it. A twenty percent uptick? That did not bode well for Operation: Journalistic Integrity. She’d be stuck asking about favorite childhood breakfast cereals for the rest of her career while important stories, like Luke Maguire’s scoring drought that had now entered its twelfth game, went unmentioned.

On the upside, at least the team captain was so annoyed with her about the play-off beard thing that she could focus her insipid questions on the rest of the players. “What do they want us to film?”

“Some fluffy pregame interviews with the guys, tomorrow after their morning skate. The brass plans to air them as teasers between periods to help drive up website traffic. We’re starting with the big three, then we’ll try to fit in as much of the rest of the team as we can manage.”

The big three: goaltender Jean-Claude LaCroix, centerman Eric Jacobs, and, because sometimes life sucked with a vengeance, captain and left-winger Luke Maguire. Holly couldn’t bring herself to speak through the impending sense of doom.

* * *

THWACK.

Luke’s slap shot missed the net completely.

God—thwack—damn—thwack—mother—thwack—fuc—

“Mags!”

Luke looked up from the line of pucks he was systematically assaulting to see Jean-Claude LaCroix—J.C. to his teammates—standing in the players’ box. He was dressed in a navy T-shirt that mimicked the Storm’s home jersey, this year’s standard issue for doing press.

With another muttered curse, Luke skated over to the bench.

“I just finished with the reporter, and Eric’s in the hot seat right now. Someone can cover for you with her if you want to grab a shower, but to avoid the wrath of the higher-ups, I’d suggest you get a move on.”

Luke pulled off one of his gloves so he could remove his helmet and set them both on the boards. “Yeah, I’ll be there in a minute.”

“You okay, man?”

He ran a hand over his sweaty hair. “Sure. What could be wrong?”

J.C. gave him a look. “You’re the one who snapped two sticks in practice and is still out here pounding the boards. You tell me.”

Luke appreciated his friend’s tact. It wasn’t like his problem wasn’t obvious.

He couldn’t hit the net.

It had been twelve games since he’d scored a goal—the longest dry spell of his hockey career. But no matter how hard he practiced, how much extra time he logged out here working on his shot, when he was in the game, he froze up. And people were noticing. He’d read the grumblings in the paper, heard the callouts on television. Hell, people were even tweeting him to say he sucked. If he didn’t get his act together soon, he’d be headed for some obligatory couch time with the sports psychologist. And that meant talking about Ethan, a fate he tried to avoid at all costs.

“It’s nothing.” Luke brushed it off, hoping his buddy would let it go.

J.C. shook his head, rejecting the lie. Luke should have known he would. They’d been playing hockey together on and off since they were fourteen years old. At this point, his goaltender could read him just as well off the ice as on.

“It’s not nothing, man. Don’t overthink it. Besides, scoring isn’t the only way to help the team.”

“Easy for you to say. Your save percentage was .916 this season. You’re doing your part, but we won’t win if we don’t put pucks in the other guys’ net.” Luke’s shoulders tightened under the weight of expectation—from management, the fans, his teammates... “I haven’t scored in over a month. What am I supposed to do about that?”

“Just relax and play the game.”

Luke rolled his eyes at the Zen advice. “This is the reason people hate goalies, you know? You’re all a bunch of pretentious assholes.”

J.C. just grinned. “I’ll see you up there, okay?”

With a nod, Luke grabbed his helmet and glove and headed to the dressing room to shower and change, hoping he could clear his head before he faced Holly Evans. His brain conjured the memory of the curvy blonde in the siren-red outfit. Yet another complication he didn’t need right now. Because last night, he’d done something stupid.

With a self-directed curse, he’d opened a new browser window and typed “The Women’s Hockey Network” into the search field on YouTube.

And there she was, Holly Evans, all big blond hair and big brown eyes and big, beautiful breasts. In fact, she was damn near perfect...until she got to the Hockey Hunk of the Month segment.

He wanted to be pissed.

Instead, he was oddly flattered.

Sure, he wasn’t wild about the fact she’d used that damned shirtless picture of him from last month’s Sports Illustrated, but after his on-ice struggles over the last month, he found his battered self-esteem had sort of appreciated the boost from those pouty, shiny lips of hers.

She’d even managed to make the award about more than his pectorals, citing his work with his pet charity, Kids on Wheels, and explaining its focus on providing wheelchairs and wheelchair-friendly sports programs for kids in need. Hell, she’d even brought up his role as a goodwill ambassador for ice sledge hockey, a cause near and dear to his heart.

If he wasn’t so firmly anti-reporter, he might have approved of the way she’d so beautifully shifted the focus from the nonsensical to something that actually mattered. But in the end, what mattered most was winning, and ogling the pretty reporter wasn’t going to help him put the puck in the net.

Now, Luke stood outside the dressing room, temporarily set aside this morning so that she could make a mockery of the sport he loved, willing himself to man up and walk in.

He scratched his chin self-consciously, wishing to hell that he’d shaved this morning. He didn’t want to give her the satisfaction of assuming his decision not to shave had anything to do with her. If he’d been given any kind of heads-up about being locked in a room with Little Miss Play-off Beard today, he definitely would’ve given a big middle finger to all the doubts she and his teammates had planted about their loss. But there’d been no warning until just before practice. No doubt about it, karma was a stone-cold bitch.

With a deep breath, he stepped through the door to find his linemate was just finishing up his interview.

“That was great, Eric.” Holly’s voice, warm and sexy, called to mind the drizzle of honey on cream. Luke subconsciously turned toward it.

Goddamn, the woman was gorgeous. She was rocking the painted-on suit again, but this time the color was the same teal as the stripes and the cresting wave on the Storm jersey. (A color which, according to the Women’s Hockey Network color chart, indicated a driven personality whose inner turmoil was often masked by an outward appearance of calm.)

She was sporting mile-high heels, a barely there skirt, plenty of cleavage and that big, tousled hair that probably felt like a helmet of straw in real life, but always managed to look kinda sexy on TV. And yet, now that she wasn’t just a caricature on his computer screen, but a living, breathing woman, smiling and putting the notoriously shy Eric Jacobs at ease as they finished up their interview, he found himself wondering what she’d look like in jeans and a T-shirt.

The thought irritated him. He just wanted to get this whole thing over with so he could concentrate on the important stuff. Like winning hockey games. He made himself take a step forward. “So I guess that means I’m up?”

With obvious relief, Jacobs flashed him a thankful smile, said a quick goodbye and fled the scene.

Holly whirled around, tugging at her skirt as though willing more fabric to appear. “Luke! Uh, Mr. Maguire, I—”

“Luke’s fine.”

They lapsed into an awkward silence.

She bit her lip.

Damn, her mouth is amazing. And he really needed to stop noticing that.

He pulled a frustrated hand down his face, cursing inwardly as he realized his mistake. Satisfaction sparked in those coffee-brown eyes of hers—he and his day’s worth of stubble were busted. But to his surprise, her dawning smile was more teasing than mocking, and it made him want to wipe it off her face in a way that would be pleasurable for them both.

“You guys want to get started, or what?”

The cameraman’s sudden intrusion jerked Luke out of a mental image in which he and Holly were long past “started” and well on their way to “finished.”

What a hypocrite! He kept telling his guys to focus and here he was, distracted by a pretty face.

Except he sensed she was more than that. Something about her ditzy act wasn’t quite right. There was more going on underneath the glossy surface she presented to the world, he just knew it. He trusted his instincts—his livelihood depended on them. His shot might be off, but his gut wasn’t. And if Holly Evans had another agenda, she was a danger to him and his team. Then again, just the sight of her in that outfit was dangerous.

“What? Yes! Of course, Jay, thanks!” Holly’s voice was about an octave too high and a six-pack of Red Bull too perky. She gave Jay an overly bright smile and snatched her interview cards from the stool. “Luke, if you’ll take a seat?”

Like a good little soldier, Luke walked over and sat down.

“We’ll start with a quick Q and A with just you on camera, and then I’ve got a couple of more in-depth questions that we’ll shoot with the two of us on-screen.”

“Yeah, sure.” He tried to appear casual and nonchalant.

She gave Jay a nod and waited until the little red light on the camera flicked on and the boom was in place. Then she turned back to Luke, fixed him with a look of professional interest and got down to business.

“What’s the last thing you watched on YouTube?”

The question was like being cross-checked from behind, leaving him momentarily stunned. No way in hell he was going to admit he spent his evening re-inflating his ego by watching her call him hot.

“Are you serious?” He’d meant to sound casually mocking, but was afraid it had come out somewhat closer to defensive. “That’s the hard-hitting lead issue? You’ve got to have something better than that. What’s the next question?”

She looked flustered by his outburst, and he hated the fact that he felt badly about it. He should be out on the ice, working on his slap shot, not in here trying to hide his guilt. She glanced down at her note card and closed her eyes, just for a second, before opening them and meeting his gaze. She looked focused, determined and a little defiant, if he wasn’t mistaken. She cleared her throat.

“Boxers or briefs?”

All his composure deserted him. He held up a hand and glanced over at the camera. “Turn that off.”

He waited until Jay lowered the boom mic and stepped toward the tripod before he rounded on the woman who had the singular ability to distract and frustrate him beyond measure.

“Look, I get that you have a job to do, but what’s going on here, it’s a big deal. This team is in the play-offs for the first time in its five-year history. Not a single player on our roster has ever won a championship. We’ve got a chance to do something great.”

He took a deep breath and unclenched his fist.

“The problem is, two nights ago we handed Colorado a shutout victory on a silver platter. This team is now skating on thin ice, and if we’re going to get out of the first round intact, I need my guys focused on winning hockey games, not talking about their underwear and eyeing your cleavage. Everyone else thinks you’re cute and harmless and charming, but I don’t buy it. So if you’re just using us to make a name for yourself, then you’ve picked the wrong team. We don’t have time for distractions right now. I’m done here.”

With that, Luke stalked away from her. Again.


3 (#ulink_87cc3659-8736-5908-8570-90d88cf03111)

“LUKE! HOW DID it go? I was just going to stop in and get a behind-the-scenes peek at the interviews.”

Luke pulled up short at the familiar booming voice. You didn’t stalk past Ron Lougheed, general manager of the Portland Storm, no matter how frustrated you might be. Besides, this was the perfect opportunity to bring up his concerns.

“Yeah, about that, sir... As team captain, it’s my job to make sure that my guys are centered, that hockey is the top priority. We’ve been through a lot this season and now it seems we’re finally gelling at the right time. I’m worried that Holly Evans is a distraction we can’t afford right now.”

“Nonsense! Holly Evans and her delightful brand of infotainment is exactly what the franchise needs in order to make some headway into the hearts and minds of hockey fans.”

Ron Lougheed was a heavyset giant of a man and despite his gregarious demeanor, everyone in the hockey world knew that when he made up his mind, there was no changing it.

Still, Luke had to try. “But sir, our time is better spent if we—”

“Let me tell you a little something about the business of hockey, Mr. Maguire. For the last five years, our merchandising and ticket sales have consistently ranked in the bottom third of the league’s teams. Since we made the play-offs, we’ve seen a fifteen percent jump in merchandise revenue and we’ve almost sold out tonight’s game. That’s after one post-season game. We need to ride this wave, and the Women’s Hockey Network is helping us do that. That clip of you walking away from her the other night has half a million likes. I’m not exactly sure what that means, but it’s good.”

Luke nodded. Shut his mouth. Braced for impact.

“I trust I don’t need to tell you how eager we are to see results in the postseason?”

“No, sir.”

“Excellent. Now, what were you saying about concerns?”

A headshake was the best Luke could muster. “Nothing, sir. Nothing at all.”

“That’s what I thought. I’m looking forward to watching your interview footage from this morning. After all, a captain sets the tone for his team, and I know I picked the right man to keep these boys on track. And put a couple of pucks in the net, while you’re at it. Understood?”

“Perfectly.”

Ten minutes of fuming and a chicken and pasta lunch later, Luke was back in front of the doors emblazoned with the stylized cresting wave of the team’s logo. The doors burst open just as he reached for them, but instead of revealing his sexy, skirt-suited nemesis, he came face-to-face with the rookie.

“Dude, you up next?”

“Yeah.” He glanced over the kid’s shoulder, but the doors swooped shut before he could catch even a glimpse of teal. “Yeah, I’m up next.”

“Cool. Word of advice? If you stand close enough during the part where she’s on-screen with you, you can see all the way down her shirt.”

When his tip failed to elicit any reaction from Luke, Sillinger’s cocky grin faded. “Look, Cap, I want to apologize for what I said after the game the other day. Cubs explained why you’re so tense and everything.”

The kid glanced away as he said it, so he missed Luke’s look of surprise at the mention of Eric Jacobs, or Cubs, as everyone on the team referred to him. “Exactly what did he tell you?”

“Oh, you know. All the pressure you’re under from the higher-ups. And dealing with the media. And about your shot being off and stuff.”

Luke exhaled. He should have known Jacobs would have picked up on all of Luke’s behind-the-scenes crap. The guy was eerily intuitive—it was what made him so great out there on the ice.

“Um, you ever consider that maybe your shot’s off because, um...” The kid leaned conspiratorially close and murmured, “I’m just sayin’, maybe it would help if you changed the oil.”

Luke stared blankly at the right-winger. He didn’t like where this conversation was going, mostly because he’d been thinking about it a lot since he’d watched that damn video last night. Holly Evans was beautiful, and she’d made him think about something other than hockey for the first time in a long while. And she could certainly get him riled up. Not to mention she didn’t give a damn about hockey. All things he found way too appealing at this very moment.

“Sometimes things get rusty when the pipe’s not clean, you understand? I mean, how long’s it been, man? In my experience, a good lube job can really help work out the kinks. And lucky for you, right through that door is a smoking-hot woman who told the entire internet that she considers you a certified Grade-A cut of beef. Plus, when I made my move, she told me she’s looking for a guy with more maturity. That’s your in, dude! She totally wants someone old. You should hit that.”

Luke was pretty sure he’d never felt more ancient than he did having this particular conversation and he was only twenty-six. “Thanks for the advice, rookie.”

“Hey, no problem, Cap. I got your back.” Brett glanced at the door to the interview room. “You need a wingman in there, or you good?”

“I think I got it,” Luke assured him.

Their conversation was interrupted by the infamous “Charge” anthem, a staple of sporting events everywhere. The rookie yanked his phone out of his back pocket. He glanced at the screen and grinned like he was on the cover of Hockey Digest. “Yes! It’s the car dealership. You are not even going to believe the sweet ride I just bought!”

He was bouncing up and down like a Chihuahua that was about to pee on the floor. “The guys won’t be able to give me a hard time about my wheels anymore. I gotta take this, Cap. Good luck in there.”

Luke waited until Brett disappeared around the corner before he stepped inside for his mandated face-off with Holly Evans, intrepid reporter.

* * *

“ARE YOU KIDDING ME, Jay? You took Salt Lake City over Vancouver in the first round? That’s ridiculous. No wonder you always lose your hockey pool. I mean honestly. I expected better of you. Vancouver clearly has the edge and—Luke!” Holly bolted off the interview stool.

She hadn’t been expecting him.

Like the rest of the team, he was wearing the navy T-shirt that mimicked his jersey, with the cresting wave on the front and his last name and number on the back. His T-shirt even had a white C on the front.

But unlike the rest of the team, the sight of Luke in his T-shirt and jeans did funny things to her hormones. Seriously, is it hot in here?

“I thought you were...not coming back...ever. How long have you been there?”

“Not long,” he said, shoving his hands in his pockets as he sauntered farther into the room. His cocked eyebrow and smug half grin said otherwise. Holly worried that her attempt to appear innocent was failing miserably, because her thoughts were anything but G-rated.

“What are you guys talking about?”

“You know,” she said, so brightly that she could have sworn he squinted a little. “This and that.”

Luke nodded, glancing over at Jay, who avoided meeting his gaze. “Sounded like hockey talk to me.”

“What? No.”

“Yes,” he countered, matching her wide-eyed tone. “It really did. I’m a bit of an expert on the subject. Salt Lake City, Vancouver, first round. Definite hockey talk.”

Luke had already nailed the fact that she was using this job to angle for a promotion. If she confirmed it by dropping the shtick, he could have her fired before she even got started. The best way to reassure him that she was harmless was to be harmless.

Holly’s laugh was both forced and slightly manic as she shooed his words away with the dainty flick of her hand. “Oh, that. I was just telling Jay about...uh—” Think, Holly. Think! “—the numerology class I took.” She nodded, warming to the story. “Yeah, really interesting stuff. I was explaining how it can help you make decisions about important things. Like which handbag to buy. Or in Jay’s case, he’s doing some hockey thing with his friends and I was showing him how he could use it to pick teams.”

“Cool. I’d love to see how it works.” He raised an eyebrow to punctuate the challenge, and she couldn’t quite hold back her frown. But she’d come this far. Might as well go all-in.

Holly could almost swear she saw something like respect in his blue eyes as she lifted her chin and squared her shoulders.

“Uh, yeah. I just added up the letters in Vancouver—A is one, B is two and so on, your typical cipher—and then you take whatever the sum is, add those numbers together if it’s more than a single digit and you have it. And in this case, it was equal to nine. Jay’s birthday is September ninth, so obviously Vancouver is the luckier team for him.”

Luke smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “So it has nothing to do with the fact that Vancouver is a team with enough depth and experience that it’s pretty much a foregone conclusion that they’ll knock Salt Lake out of the first round?”

Holly shrugged. “What can I say? The numbers don’t lie.”

“Sorry to interrupt...whatever this is, but I gotta use the can,” Jay announced. “Down the hall and to the left?” he confirmed, and Luke nodded. The members of the Portland Storm were so superstitious that she and Jay had been asked to trek all the way to the building’s public washrooms because no one but the team was allowed in the dressing-room bathroom on game day.

The two of them watched Jay leave, and she used the silence to regroup. She felt much more formidable when her adversary’s baby blues swung back in her direction.

Until he said, “What is your game?”

“Game?”

His laugh was derisive, but kind of sexy for all that. “You’re not fooling anyone. I know something’s up with you and I intend to figure out what it is.”

Oh great. That was all she needed, this handsome bastard messing up the most real-life, on-camera experience on her résumé. She might not like this job, but it was good experience, and she certainly wasn’t going to lose it by making him suspicious on the second day.

“Up to something?” She placed a hand on her chest like a Southern belle. “Me?”

His parry was a narrowing of his pretty blue eyes. “Something has been bugging me about your act since the moment we met.”

“Oh, you mean that time you were so unchivalrous as to walk away from me without answering my question?”

“So I asked myself,” he continued, without missing a beat, “why would someone who disliked sports so much that she asked about beards instead of the game bother to make a fake sports show? And the only answer I could come up with was, she wouldn’t. The way I see it, you have your own agenda, and it’s not going to do any of the members of this team any good.”

Holly shook her head, eyes wide like an ingenue. “I don’t know what you mean. The Women’s Hockey Network is all about asking the kinds of questions we girls find important, such as what kind of cologne do you wear?”

He smelled so good she was actually a little curious.

“Oh, really? You’re gonna keep up the act?”

Luke stepped closer. His big body sucked up all the oxygen, and her breath came faster to compensate. Who knew having a man accuse you of being smart was such a turn-on?

“That’s the only question you want to ask me? I’ll give you a free pass, on the record. Ask me anything. No holds barred. Nothing’s off-limits. And I guarantee you a real answer. I promise not to say ‘no comment.’”

Holly’s hand clenched into a fist.

Any question. On the record. The reporting equivalent to winning the lottery.

She could ask about his brother’s accident. Be the only reporter ever to get a statement on the one topic that was off-limits when interviewing Luke Maguire. Hear in his own words how it felt to be back in the play-offs for the first time since tragedy struck.

And she wanted to. She wanted to ask more than she wanted her next breath. But she wasn’t supposed to know anything about hockey, so she restrained herself. Because if she took the bait, she would confirm that when given the opportunity, she’d put her ambition before the team. And she’d be done here. He could not only get her fired, but ruin her career. She had to keep her eye on the prize. She had to believe that one day, she would earn that story from him on her own merit, not as blackmail, and it would be worth the wait.

So she did what was best for her career and took a deep, centering breath. Man, he really does smell amazing. “Seriously, is that the new Hugo Boss fragrance?”

He narrowed his eyes and the crease between his brows deepened. It made him look even sexier, if that was possible.

“I’ve got my eye on you, Evans.”

Not exactly the part of him she wanted on her just then, but probably the safest of the available options.

“I’m going to figure out what you’re doing here and I’m going to expose you.”

Geez. Everything sounded sexual when he was standing this close. She upped the ante and took a half step closer to him—she definitely wasn’t going to let him intimidate her in this sexy game of cat and mouse they’d embarked on. If he thought she was going to let him be the cat, he was so very wrong. She’d been holding her own in a man’s world for a long time.

“You can try, but there’s nothing to expose. What you see is what you get.”

“Oh, I very much doubt that, Ms. Evans. The truth is hiding somewhere behind that big hair and tiny suit.”

“Look at me, Mr. Maguire. You honestly think there’s room to hide anything under this suit?”

Her breath stuttered at the sudden fierceness in his eyes, the predatory gleam that pinned her in place. Were their lips getting closer because he was leaning in, or had she swayed toward him?

She was drawn to his body, hard as iron and just as magnetic. Her fingers brushed his biceps as his hands made first contact with her waist. She didn’t want to stop looking at him, but her eyelids grew heavy as their breaths comingled and his lips moved closer, closer still...

“Okay, I’m back. What’d I miss?”

“Nothing!” Holly and Luke sprang apart at Jay’s intrusion. Her heart thumped with a cocktail that was one part adrenaline and two parts unassuaged lust. She tugged at the bottom of her blazer, sneaking a quick glance in Luke’s direction. He exhaled and rubbed a hand across the back of his neck.

Guilty. They looked as guilty as a couple of teenagers who’d been caught making out. Which they probably would have ended up doing if not for Jay’s poor timing.

“Geez, Jay. You’ve been gone long enough. Let’s get this interview going, shall we?” Her hand went to her hair—a classic Holly-ism that gave away her nerves. Good thing Luke didn’t know that, she decided, dropping her hand. Luke lifted an eyebrow and Holly was sure she was blushing. Damn it.

“My pleasure,” Luke said.

Jay, however, was not fooled in the least, and the look he shot her said she owed him an explanation. She waved him behind the camera and directed Luke back to the stool where their interview earlier had gone so wrong.

This one went a lot better. She had to hand it to him—he was as consummate a professional off the ice as he was on it. Charming, funny, quick with a witty answer. No one who saw this footage would dream for a minute that he believed her to be a threat to the team. In fact, the only question that tripped him up was “Do you have a secret talent?” She could have sworn he blushed a little before he stammered some nonsense about speaking a little French.

Then she sent him off to shoot some B-roll with Jay, which involved posing and puck tricks in the hallway.

For the first time all day, she was alone in the Storm’s dressing room with a microphone in her hand. It was a pretty surreal experience, both as a hockey fan and as an aspiring sports reporter.

She’d watched it on television all her life, a reporter interviewing some member of the team or other, a bunch of bare-chested, sweaty-haired men talking about a big win or a battle-weary loss. The locker room looked different now, empty and quiet, all the jerseys clean and hanging number-side out, equipment neatly arranged on the shelves above each player’s designated spot. Holly tried to just enjoy the moment, but her stupid heels were pinching her feet, reminding her that she was only living a fun-house version of her dream. But one day, she vowed. One day she’d be here, wearing pants and asking serious, in-depth questions.

And then Luke Maguire wouldn’t be the only guy on the team who suspected that she was an expert on this stuff. Everyone on the roster would know she could hold her own.

She set the mic on the stool Luke had sat on for part of their interview and headed for the forbidden bathroom. Jay and Luke would be occupied with filming for at least five minutes. What harm would it do to sneak a peek?

It contained all the typical male bathroom accoutrements—urinals, stalls and a ginormous gang shower. But it was elevated to luxe standards by the details: gleaming navy and white tiles, stainless steel fixtures and enough accents of Portland Storm teal thrown in to pull it all together. Calculatedly masculine and very go, team, go!

Bracing a hand on either side of the sink, she stared into the mirror. She barely recognized herself. Gone were the usual blond ponytail and unadorned brown eyes. No T-shirt and jeans. She flexed her feet against the stiff leather of her heels—definitely no sneakers.

She wanted to splash some water on her face to assure herself the reflection in the mirror was just a mirage. But the sad reality was that the made-up, well-coiffed woman who was staring back at her now was the version of herself that had scored the biggest deal on her résumé by far.

This was the Holly Evans that was being invited to appear on local morning talk shows and well-respected podcasts. Hell, she’d even gotten a call about turning the Women’s Hockey Network into a weekly comedy-sports show on satellite radio. And if fancy suits and a little lipstick were what it took to fulfill her dream of being a sports reporter, then it was a small price to pay. Right?

Holly sighed. This was who she was now, at least for the duration of the Storm’s play-off run, and a splash of water wasn’t going to change that. Besides, Paige had done such a lovely job with the goop on her face that she didn’t dare. She settled for another sigh and tugged a few stray pieces of hair back into place before she headed for one of the navy stalls.

“Whatever it takes,” she muttered to herself.

She’d just locked the stall door when the sound of footsteps made her freeze.


4 (#ulink_876323c1-bc9b-5376-b1ae-0b8300b4bae6)

AW, CRAP.

The footsteps were coming closer. Honestly. What were the odds? The bathroom had been deserted all day, and now someone decided to come in? Stupid hockey superstitions.

How could a bunch of grown men be this ridiculous? She was just wondering if perhaps there was a story in the naive belief wins and losses had anything to do with who used which freaking toilet, when her line of thought was interrupted by the “Charge” fanfare echoing off the tiled walls. The sudden burst of noise made her heart jump.

There was a muttered curse, followed by a hoarse, angry whisper: “Why are you calling me? It’s game day. You know I’m not alone.”

Her reporter instincts piqued, Holly abandoned all thoughts of superstitious nonsense and redirected her attention into eavesdropping.

“I’m very aware of that! But there’s only so much I can do.”

She frowned. She couldn’t distinguish the voice, despite all the interviews she’d conducted today. All she could tell was that whoever had her trapped in a bathroom stall didn’t have an accent. There were at least fourteen guys on the team proper who fit the bill. And that wasn’t including coaching staff, cleaning staff, anyone who—

“I know we have a deal!”

Whoa. Holly flinched at the anger in his voice. She glanced down at her stilettos. Could she climb up on the toilet quietly enough to not blow her cover? Because from that height, she could peek over the top of the stall and see who the guy on the phone was. Not an ideal solution, but at least it would give her a lead.

Excitement brewed in the pit of her stomach. Now this was a story. Sure, she’d resigned herself to her fate of asking moronic questions and wearing short skirts, but maybe this was going to turn out to be a right place, right time kind of serendipity. She lifted her knee to test how high she’d need to hike up said skirt to make the big step.

“No. No! You can trust me. I’ve got it under control. You’ll get your money’s worth. We’ll win tonight. Yes. By two. I got it.”

There was another loud curse and the sound of shoes slapping tile as the man stormed out. Holly did an about-face in the stall and unlatched the door, hoping to catch a glimpse of the man, but she saw nothing. Damn it, I missed him.

But there, in the middle of the tile floor beside the sinks, was a folded piece of yellow legal paper. Holly rushed over and picked it up. It was a list of letters and numbers in stark black ink. L2+, W2+, W1, W1, W2 and on it went. And suddenly the cryptic conversation made a lot more sense.

Well, well, well. It looked like someone was partaking in a little over/under betting. But who was stupid enough to do that?

Not only was it illegal for someone affiliated with a professional sports team to bet on themselves, but it would get you banned for life from the sport, and that was on top of whatever criminal prosecution was handed down. And to risk all that on point-shaving? It was dicey at best, because no one player had full control over a hockey game. And yet, if you were favored to win anyway, there were subtle things you could do to make the game a little closer than it needed to be. Someone could have gotten cocky.

The Storm had already weathered a scandal earlier in the season, when the not-so-secret affair between captain Chris Powell and GM Ron Lougheed’s trophy wife had become front page fodder. Lougheed and his soon-to-be-ex were currently fighting a pretty nasty custody battle in the courts—and in the media. This was the last thing the organization needed on its résumé, tainting its inaugural play-off run. But for Holly, it was perfect.

This was the windfall she’d been waiting for. Because breaking a story like this was the key to making herself the front-runner, not just for Corey Baniuk’s position, but an on-air sports position at almost any station in the country. It was a first-class ticket to reporter legitimacy. All she had to do was figure out who the guilty party was.

She liberated her phone from her bra—she’d had to stow it there earlier because skirt suits like this one didn’t come with pockets—and snapped a photo of the questionable list so she could inspect it more closely when she got home.

The key to a good investigation, her mother had told her once, was to let the action go on around you. If you disturbed things too early, you’d never get the answers you were looking for. To that end, she refolded the paper and placed it back where she’d found it.

It was the first time during this entire sham that Holly felt she might have made her mother proud.

Her head whipped around at the sound of a door swinging closed. Getting caught now would ruin everything.

She hurried back into the bathroom stall as quietly as her heels would allow. Was it her perp returning to the scene of the crime? Had he realized he’d dropped his list? Maybe this time she could catch a glimpse of whoever was striding into the bathroom.

She’d just pulled the stall door shut and was about to navigate her way up onto the toilet—no easy feat since there was only a toilet seat and no lid—when an indecipherable noise made her stop. There was a beat of dead silence, and then, “Holly, I know you’re in there. I can see your shoes.”

Busted.

She unlatched the door and did her best to appear sheepish. “Luke. Hey. I didn’t hear you come in. You look nice. When did you get a chance to change? I thought you were filming puck tricks with Jay.”

The surge of adrenaline at getting caught morphed into a surge of something else as she took in the sight of Luke Maguire looking big and handsome and powerful in the most beautifully tailored charcoal suit she’d ever seen. His silk tie was a deep plum and his blue eyes were flashing. “We finished up a while ago. I’ve already changed and done a pregame interview. Things move fast on game day. That’s why I thought you were gone.” He put particular stress on the last word.

Geez. How long had she been staring in that mirror? No wonder Paige was always late.

“Now maybe you can explain what the hell you’re doing in here?”

She shot him a look that was all smart-ass. “It’s a bathroom, Luke. Do I have to spell it out for you?”

He frowned at the joke, and she resisted the sudden urge to smooth his brow. Why was he so serious all the time?

“You need to get out of here, right now. Only the team can use the bathroom on game day.” If she wasn’t mistaken, he looked a little embarrassed when he explained. “It’s a good luck thing.”

“It’s a stupid thing,” she countered. “I’ll never understand why elite athletes aren’t more enlightened than medieval man.”

“Well, you don’t have to understand it. You just have to respect it. And keep your voice down! Guys are in and out of the dressing room this close to game time.” He ran a hand through his close-cropped hair. “Jesus. Not even the cleaners are allowed in today. We’ve got to get you out of here before someone sees you. Come on.” He reached out to cup her elbow, an old-fashioned gesture that took her by surprise. Holly was dismayed at the way her skin thrilled at the warmth of his fingers, even through the sleeve of her blazer.

She shrugged her arm from his grasp, an act of self-preservation.

Luke sighed, obviously interpreting it as an act of defiance.

“Holly, you remember all that stupid stuff you asked me earlier? I gave you the benefit of the doubt and I answered all your dumb questions because you were just doing your job. Now I’m trying to do mine, and part of me doing my job is making sure my guys are ready to play. Focused. And if maintaining a stupid superstition is what it takes to ensure we bring our A game tonight, then that’s what I have to do. So do me a solid, okay? Even though it’s silly, and inconvenient and probably makes no difference at all, please let’s get out of here before anyone sees you?”

Holly had to look up at him, despite her four-inch heels and his lack of skates. When had he gotten so close? God, he was handsome, all tall and stubbly, his ocean-blue eyes pleading.

“Fine. Let’s—”

“Shit. Someone’s coming!”

Holly wasn’t sure exactly how it had happened, but suddenly she was chest to chest with Luke inside the tiny bathroom stall, made positively miniscule by his large frame. She heard the telltale footsteps a moment later.

Luke scooped her into his arms, one hand around her back, his other forearm under her knees. He’d literally swept her off her feet, and the suddenness of it stole her breath. Her arms flew around his neck in self-preservation, and she was vividly aware of every inch of her body, especially the parts of her that were plastered against his broad chest.

She could feel his muscles beneath his suit jacket, enough to tell that they were barely straining under her weight. She shot him her best “what the hell?” glare through the onslaught of yum, and he gestured with his chin in the direction of her feet.

“Your shoes. That’s how I knew you were in here.”

He breathed the words quietly, his mouth so close that she could feel the exhalation against the sensitive skin beneath her ear. It tickled, and she turned her head to protect her neck. Suddenly there was nothing but a fraction of an inch’s worth of air separating their lips.

His muscles flexed then, pulling her tighter to his chest and her breath came fast and shallow. Heat prickled over her skin and pooled in her belly. Her fingers clenched against the soft material of his jacket.

Holly had never experienced lust at first sight before, but man, Luke Maguire made her lust. She ran her hand up his chest, and he shifted his stance, but before their lips met, he banged his elbow against the stall. The thump reverberated through the bathroom, snapping them back into the present, and they froze, eyes wide.

They both cocked their heads toward the sink side of the stall, listening intently for any sign that they’d blown their cover.

After another moment of silence, Luke set her carefully on her feet. The lust hangover made Holly a little wobbly on her heels. He stepped forward and lifted onto his toes so he could see over the edge of the stall. “He’s gone,” he said, the words tinged with relief. They hadn’t even heard him retreat.

Holly unlatched the door, and with a covert glance to assure herself they were, in fact, alone, took some tentative steps toward the sink. She paused for a moment, but the piece of paper wasn’t on the floor, nor had it been kicked under the sink.

“No time for sightseeing, Evans.” Luke’s hand at the small of her back was warm and insistent. “Let’s get out of here before you get caught.”

They snuck back out to the dressing room, Holly letting Luke precede her so he could make sure the coast was clear. She wasn’t four steps out of the bathroom before several members of the team strutted into the dressing room, bedecked in expensive suits and pregame gravitas. Luke sent her a “See? You really lucked out,” kind of look.

Ass.

Then the “Charge” anthem sounded to her right. Holly’s spine snapped straight as she watched Luke fish his iPhone out of the breast pocket of his suit jacket.

He glanced at the caller ID and that serious expression of his descended over his handsome face like a shutter. Holly decided she might prefer his pompous expression after all.

“I gotta take this,” he said. She watched with interest as he turned away from her, shielding the call with his broad shoulders. “Why are you calling again? Seriously? Hold on.” Was it her imagination, or did Luke glance in her direction. “Let me get somewhere I can talk.”

The “Charge” fanfare? Why are you calling again? Pieces were falling into place and she didn’t particularly like the picture they were forming.

Had it been Luke in the bathroom earlier? She’d just assumed that whoever had inadvertently held the two of them hostage had come back for his list. But now that she thought about it, Luke had definitely had enough time to pick up the wayward paper before he’d gone all foot fetishist on her and blown her hiding place. That could be the reason he’d even noticed her shoes under the stall in the first place—he was bending over to pick up the list.

Holly strained to hear more of his conversation, but he pointedly disappeared back into the bathroom. To her dismay, there were too many team members in the swanky locker room now for her to follow. Still, the reporter buzz—that’s what her mother used to call it—was zinging around her gut. She was on to something. Obviously Luke’s regular deep baritone had sounded nothing like the whispered panic she’d heard earlier, but that ringtone was an indisputable clue, and one that she had to follow up on.

* * *

LUKE WALKED OVER to stand by the sinks, hating that his gaze went immediately to the stall he and Holly had hidden out in only moments ago.

But he couldn’t afford to be distracted by sex right now. Harding Lowe was the kind of law firm that charged in the triple digits for phone calls like these, and with money as tight as it was, Luke had to pay close attention and cut to the chase. “What’s so important?”

“I was going to wait until tomorrow to tell you this, but I’m worried it might hit the papers and I didn’t want you to find out like that,” Craig Harding informed him.

Luke’s blood turned to ice. It was never good when someone started a phone call that way, but when it was your lawyer? Infinitely worse.

“What?” The word was flat, more demand than question.

“Brad Timmons is filing for bankruptcy.”

Luke’s face went numb. The asshole who’d put Ethan in a wheelchair, put his parents in debt, strained his family to the emotional breaking point time after time over the last three years, was going to screw them over again.

“Fuck.”

The word echoed hollowly in the vast expanse of shiny white tile and empty navy stalls.

Luke wanted to punch something, but it wasn’t worth the fine the Storm would levy against him if he did.

Jesus Christ, how had things come to this? He made almost two million dollars a year with his new contract and still it was all he could do to keep himself and the people he loved financially afloat.

Loans, renovations, lawyers, specialists, physio—it had all added up after the accident. His paycheck was all but spent before it got deposited. He was grateful he had the means to keep his family living a comfortably middle-class life despite their exorbitant bills, but the idea that the coward who’d put his little brother in a wheelchair wasn’t going to have to contribute a dime to Ethan’s recovery made Luke nauseous.

Timmons had already lucked out with his criminal charges. He’d been convicted of assault with a weapon for the crosscheck, but ended up with an eighteen-month conditional discharge, which meant he hadn’t served any jail time and he wouldn’t have a criminal record once his probation was complete. Now he’d found a way to punk out on financial restitution, too.

“Thanks for the heads-up, Craig. I’ll take care of telling my family.”

“Understood. I’ll be in touch.”

Luke hung up the phone. He would deal with the personal stuff later. Right now, he had to focus on his team. They were only two hours away from puck drop.

He reached into the inside breast pocket of his suit, exchanging his phone for a folded-up piece of yellow legal paper. He’d found it on the floor of the bathroom and recognized instantly what it was. That 5–0 loss had been brutal. The fact that it was predetermined made it cut even deeper. Luke shook his head against the proof clutched in his hand.

He couldn’t believe any of his guys would do this. They’d battled too hard to get to where they were.

And yet...the entire premise of point-shaving and over/under betting was predicated on having an inside man, someone out there on the ice who could impact the game.

This was the last thing they needed right now. He’d only just put this team back together after losing their last captain in a blaze of scandal and lies. It had taken months of work to get all twenty-three players over the shake-up and focused on making the play-offs.

And look at them now.

The only bright spot in this rotten situation was that he’d been the one to find the betting sheet. At least this way he could deal with it internally—protect his team.

He didn’t even want to think about how this would have played out if Holly had found it instead. She could’ve ruined their chance at winning the championship before it even began.

And he wanted that championship, not just for himself but for the team.

Each and every one of those guys deserved to hoist sports’ greatest trophy above their heads, and he’d do whatever it took to make sure that happened.

For them. For himself. For his brother.


5 (#ulink_85c546fe-cc42-573b-af17-dcbffddaca8d)

“WE’LL WIN TONIGHT. Yes. By two.”

The words still echoed in Holly’s brain, hours after the final buzzer had sounded.

The Storm had handled their opponents with relative ease tonight, up 3–0 after two periods. Then at the start of the third, Sillinger had taken a bone-headed roughing penalty, Luke had fumbled the puck and failed to clear the zone, and seconds later, LaCroix had lost his chance for a shutout.

For a while, things settled down a bit, until Colorado scored to make it 3–2 with seven minutes left in the game. Things were looking grim for the list’s prediction, and then Jacobs came out of nowhere, stripping one of his opponent’s defensemen of the puck. He deked out the goaltender and put a wrister top-shelf to make the final score 4–2.

And the Storm won by two with eight seconds left in the game.

“You’ll get your money’s worth.”

The eavesdropped whisper haunted her.

It could just be coincidence, she reminded herself. It wasn’t like 4–2 was an outlandish hockey score. And this was the first prediction on the list that had come true. She had nothing but suspicion at this point. Still, the words were on her mind as she conducted post-game interviews with the guys.

“Hi, everyone. This is Holly Evans of the Women’s Hockey Network, reporting live from the Storm’s dressing room after a big 4–2 win over Colorado tonight. I’m with Portland defenseman Doug Kowalchuk.” She turned and held her mic in his direction.

“Doug, what do you think of the new jersey colors?”

On the ice, the burly D-man was a force to be reckoned with, but off ice, he reminded her of a big cartoon bear—imposing but nonthreatening. His grin was goofy and genuine. “They’re great. Red and black is a really classic combination, you know?”

Holly couldn’t quite mask the withering look on her face at his answer. She hoped Jay had zoomed in on the navy and teal jersey behind Doug instead of her face. Seriously, this was her life now?

“No, Doug. Not New Jersey’s colors—I meant the Storm’s redesigned jerseys.”

“Oh right. Yeah. They’re awesome. Go Storm!”

Holly forced a smile as she turned back to the camera. She could see Jay’s shoulders shaking with laughter. “You heard it here, folks. Go Storm!”

When she was sure the camera was off, she let out a frustrated sigh.

“You’re doing great,” Jay assured her. “Who’s next?”

Holly glanced around the scrum in the dressing room. She’d been hoping to sneak in an interview with anyone who’d made a direct contribution—be it positive or negative—to the final score tonight. She wanted to get an idea of their demeanors, a sense of their moods. But unfortunately, all four players that had risen to the top of her list—Eric, J.C., Luke and the rookie—were all big draws for reporters and had press queued up and waiting for them.

“I think we’ve got enough. Kowalchuk’s was interview number five, and I’ll do some highlight voice-overs later to cut with it. They only wanted a three-minute piece about the game, right?”

Jay nodded as he removed the camera from the tripod. “Yeah, that should be plenty.”

“Okay. I’ll catch you in about half an hour.”

“Sure thing, Holly.”

Now that she was off duty, she angled her way through the bustling dressing room toward the crowd around Eric Jacobs. He was known to be a little shy and incredibly humble considering the breadth of his talent, but he was always exceedingly polite to reporters and smiled easily. Holly hadn’t seen him smile once tonight.

She listened in as Corey Baniuk asked Eric about his spectacular goal, but the handsome centerman seemed disinterested in the recap, a little tired maybe.

And though he made the Storm’s PR department proud by saying all the right things—“Colorado played a great game and were worthy opponents,” “I saw an opportunity and fortunately I was able to capitalize on it,” “I couldn’t have done it without my teammates”—there was none of the quiet intensity that he usually brought to an interview and his gaze wandered, like he was preoccupied.

Then the “Charge” anthem played, and panic flashed across Eric’s handsome face. He turned away from the cameras and microphones being shoved in his direction and dug his phone out of the pocket of his jacket.

What the...? Eric and Luke have the same ringtone?

Eric’s expression darkened when he glanced at the caller ID, as if he was expecting bad news from whomever was on the line. “Excuse me, please, I have to take this,” he said to the group of reporters.

After Eric left, the reporters dissipated quickly, rushing off to grab quotes from other players before their allotted time in the dressing room was up.

Holly pulled out her phone and typed her observations into the memo she’d titled SUSPECTS. This investigation was the key to parlaying this farcical job into something she could be proud of, and every clue counted. To prove it, she added a note about the dark circles under Eric’s eyes and the fact that his last-minute goal corresponded to the +2 win predicted by the list. And the ringtone, obviously.




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