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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)
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Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
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?”
