Playing To Win. Taryn Taylor Leigh
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.
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