Chapter 2
Sloane
Truth or dare?
I usually asked myself that same question when forced into a locker room with sweaty, hard-bodied men who believed in their heart of hearts they were all that and a family-sized bag of chips.
The truth was brutal. I couldn’t care less about the heavy load of testosterone casually tossed around by big, burly players determined to have me drooling within seconds.
The dare was simply how long it took me to lose my plastic smile, deferring to my bitchy if not terrifying personality.
While I was used to asinine, childish behavior, mostly from the male staff at the press room where I worked, there were days I was sick of cocks and butts being tossed into my face. Did these guys really want me to rate them based on their bits and bobbles? If so, they’d be sorely disappointed.
“Ms. Winters, I located Beck.” The coach’s voice was pleasant enough, although I noted a typical hint of amusement as to what I was about to get myself into.
Forget various stages of undress. The men in the locker room enjoying being gifted the opportunity to flaunt their stuff. There wasn’t a single one of them who didn’t think they were stud muffins.
“Thank you, Coach Parker.”
If only they knew what I referred to their manhood as. Twigs. It was also the term players used to describe their sticks, but, in my mind, the term was all about the tiniest thin stick falling off a tree.
Could anyone tell I wasn’t a hockey or hockey player fan?
After turning around, I allowed my gaze to travel down the length of one of the two men I’d been assigned to interview. I relied on first impressions both regarding a person’s personality as well as his or her body language. Or in this case, hard, hulking chiseled perfection.
Rarely was I attracted to a player. I’d been there, had a brief texting relationship, and finally came to my senses.
After the quarterback had called me by the name of another reporter, including detailing the fling they’d had on top of a washing machine. Who did that kind of thing? That had been the final straw in a long list of reasons leading me to concentrate on my career above all else.
However, I would give credit where credit was due. The contours of the player’s chest were spectacular, every ab muscle so well defined it appeared chiseled as if in stone.
Rare was it that my breath hitched under any circumstances, including when a jerk had recently been stupid enough to attack me with a knife after dragging me into an alley. He learned very quickly how my interest in both pole dancing and kick boxing had become a useful weapon.
Unfortunately for me, my body’s reaction to Beck Kendrick’s could only be described as a full betrayal.
My upper lip was covered in sweat, although the instant reaction could be explained away by the excessive heat in the room itself.
And the ache sweeping directly into my core, which caused an intense throbbing pulse between my legs that had no chance of being seen given my dark trousers.
As a bonus, given the massive overload of testosterone in the room, there wasn’t a chance anyone could gather a whiff of unwanted, unneeded desire.
What could come back and haunt me was how tight my nipples had become. I’d made a huge mistake in wearing a tight white tee shirt. I didn’t need to dip my head to know they were poking through the material. I could feel the ache.
The moment I’d turned around, the man’s radar had gone into overload. Beck’s eyes narrowed until they were so hooded, I wasn’t certain he could focus. Then his nostrils flared just before he took a deep, long whiff.
His sigh of satisfaction set the tone of the interview.
His reputation as a man-whore seemed to be a badge he wore with pride.
Thankfully, while half the other players had purposely stripped off their uniforms, parading around in front of me naked in hopes of causing a reaction, the man standing in front of me had some sense of decency.
Although… Well, this wasn’t going to go well. The towel he was wearing was two sizes too small and was thoroughly and unapologetically tented.
If anyone actually bottled and sold arrogance, a solid seventy percent of male sports stars and more than half that of female athletes would keep them in business forever, keeping a bottle in every location.
Refrigerators.
Lockers.
Glove compartments.
In my career as a sports reporter, the expression ‘I’ve seen it all’ had carried an entirely new meaning.
Arrogance came in a dozen creative forms from confronting me in darkened hallways to a very nice and well-thought-out, let alone expensive marriage proposal to the typical act of bribery disguised as a special ‘gift’ because I’d rocked their world.
Bullshit.
What I’d learned in only recently being assigned to interview hockey players, especially those who’d made it to the NHL, was that most, although not all, were cocky sons of bitches.
Before anyone, including their fans, decided to confront me on how dare I say something so atrocious, I had a thing or ten to show and tell providing proof.
And that was based on the shift in my career from covering football only occurring three months before.
My boss hadn’t asked if I’d wanted to change directions.
He’d told me in no uncertain terms I’d be taking over for a reporter who’d been covering hockey since the beginning of time.
At least Jeff had only retired and not died while forced to watch yet another dull game.
Evidently the lateral promotion, as Matthew had insisted had been bestowed on me, had come down from the owner of the media firm himself.
As if I should feel like the hand of God was showered down on me. The truth was they had no one else to fill Jeff’s shoes.
I knew what people would say. Hockey was exciting. Violent. Even passionate. But to me, the concept of a man with a stick in his hand hitting a rubber puck into a net held no appeal.
Yes, I knew all the right terms. Cold. But that didn’t mean I ate, drank, slept, and fucked hockey. Not a snowball’s chance in hell.
I’d been sent to Phoenix from Chicago with one goal.
Interview the Kendrick brothers. Both drafted into the same new franchise, they were supposed to be the next Saint and Steven Masters, brothers who’d taken the hockey world by storm.
They’d become stars on a grander scale, their talents turning both into national celebrities.
Hell, the two had even walked the red carpets.
What was it with people worshipping male athletes?
I digressed. I was here to do my job and that’s exactly what would happen.
Beck offered a killer smile, finally lifting his gaze from my tits, where they’d been locked for the last sixty seconds.
“Hi,” he said. So coolly. So coyly. But there was something very odd about the way he was looking at me.
Over the years of being in a heavily male-oriented field, I’d learned to read men fairly well.
His reaction wasn’t the same as I’d seen with other players, other than the sweep of his gaze before noticing my physical reaction.
If I wasn’t mistaken, his reaction was possessive.
That seemed to confuse us. With me, I was used to charging in on a series of preplanned questions.
My silence was as unexpected as the way his chest rose and fell.
At least I wasn’t sticking a camera in his face, forced to capture the awkward moment for both of us.
Snap out of it, Winters. You have work to do.
Blinking, I shoved aside the fact the man was at least six foot five of all muscles, the tiny towel unable to hide his thick, carved-to-perfection thighs or the deep V leading from his abdomen, disappearing under the pesky towel.
Somehow, I managed to pull out my notepad. While I’d tried using electronic equipment when chasing interviews, they always seemed to get in the way.
Especially in tight quarters.
Or wide-open spaces where the players liked to crowd mine on purpose. At least he was keeping an arm’s length away, which was almost chivalrous in comparison to what I was used to.
“Mr. Kendrick. I’m Sloane Winters from Channel 7 news and the Chicago Tribune here to interview you. How does it feel to be the reason the Hellions won this game?”
His smirk drew attention to his handsome face, aristocratic features with high cheekbones that seemed perfectly symmetrical.
When he took a deep breath in preparing to answer, his strong jaw clenched.
The action highlighted a pair of dimples.
Wearing my Converse shoes, I was forced to tilt my head to try to look him directly in the eyes.
Which you always did with athletes. You never allowed yourself to look anywhere else. However, in doing so, I was caught studying his disheveled, sweaty, and perfectly sexy thick mop of hair.
The smirk widened and I fought everything in my reaction to keep from blushing. “I’m not going to lie and suggest my actions weren’t thrilling, but the win was an entire team effort. Without all the work, dedication, and sacrifice from my teammates, we wouldn’t be standing here today.”
When he’d started his soliloquy, I’d almost thought him humbler than I was used to. Then he had to give a speech as if accepting an Academy Award. I could feel my expression harden, my chest tightening.
Had I mentioned I couldn’t stand hockey players?
Make that double.
“Mr. Kendrick. While you might not understand or appreciate that I have a job to do, that’s why I’m here.
The fact you have more talent in your little finger than most men do in their entire bodies is the reason I’m standing here asking you questions.
Now, if you’d prefer, I can always find someone else who is far more… interesting to interview.”
There were just enough people paying attention another player whistled, which prompted Beck to shoot them a look that could drive the man into the ground. With the very pinky I mentioned.