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?”
“Well, we did lose...”
Luke’s face twisted with disgust. “Are you kidding me? It’s the first game! None of you even have beards yet. You guys really buy into this ‘no shaving’ bull?”
The rookie stroked his pitiful day’s worth of stubble. “All I know is that I’m in this to win this, and if sportin’ a Grizzly Adams gets me closer to a championship, then I’m on it like STDs on a hooker.”
“You realize that three out of four women hate beards, right?” Luke pulled his skate off, hating that he’d actually reduced himself to quoting stats from that reporter.
Sillinger got a philosophical look on his face. “Shave and you get laid for a night. Do what it takes to score a championship ring, and you’ll be up to your balls in puck bunnies for the rest of your life. I mean, seriously, Mags. A woman with a body like that reporter’s names me her ‘hockey hottie of the month,’ and I’ll answer any stupid question she asks.”
Luke paused in the act of loosening his other skate. “What are you talking about?”
“Are you serious?” Sillinger’s surprise was obvious. “Holly Evans? The Women’s Hockey Network?”
Luke gave a bewildered shrug.
“Dude, she’s all over YouTube! She does this girly hockey-analysis show that’s gone viral. And in it, she named you the hottest hockey player in the league. The top brass practically begged her to be our web reporter during the play-offs! Do you guys believe this? Hot Stuff here doesn’t even know who Holly Evans is!”
The announcement set off a round of catcalls and ribbing. Luke turned to his linemate, Eric Jacobs. The stoic centerman gave a shrug of his big shoulders and shook his head. Luke was relieved he wasn’t the only one out of the loop on this.
“Okay, okay.” Luke waited for the dressing room to quiet. “Let’s stay focused, guys. The game might be over, but we’ve still got work to do.”
Work that involved hours of ripping apart the carcass of the worst game they’d played all year. The assembled jackals—uh, reporters—were going to eat him alive, Luke thought soberly. He shed the rest of his equipment and headed for the showers.
But that was the price of the C on his jersey. The price of earning a living doing what he loved. Which was an honor and a privilege, considering some people never got that chance. And others had it stolen from them. Luke sighed.
At least the evisceration wouldn’t have anything to do with beard statistics and superstitious nonsense. And yet somehow Luke sensed that Holly Evans was a bigger threat than all the other sports reporters combined...
“THE STORM ESSENTIALLY played an entire period shorthanded, which,
