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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.
