Playing to Win(7)

"Whatever it takes," she muttered to herself.

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





4

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.