he wasn’t wild about the fact she’d used that damned shirtless picture of him from last month’s Sports Illustrated, but after his on-ice struggles over the last month, he found his battered self-esteem had sort of appreciated the boost from those pouty, shiny lips of hers.
She’d even managed to make the award about more than his pectorals, citing his work with his pet charity, Kids on Wheels, and explaining its focus on providing wheelchairs and wheelchair-friendly sports programs for kids in need. Hell, she’d even brought up his role as a goodwill ambassador for ice sledge hockey, a cause near and dear to his heart.
If he wasn’t so firmly anti-reporter, he might have approved of the way she’d so beautifully shifted the focus from the nonsensical to something that actually mattered. But in the end, what mattered most was winning, and ogling the pretty reporter wasn’t going to help him put the puck in the net.
Now, Luke stood outside the dressing room, temporarily set aside this morning so that she could make a mockery of the sport he loved, willing himself to man up and walk in.
He scratched his chin self-consciously, wishing to hell that he’d shaved this morning. He didn’t want to give her the satisfaction of assuming his decision not to shave had anything to do with her. If he’d been given any kind of heads-up about being locked in a room with Little Miss Play-off Beard today, he definitely would’ve given a big middle finger to all the doubts she and his teammates had planted about their loss. But there’d been no warning until just before practice. No doubt about it, karma was a stone-cold bitch.
With a deep breath, he stepped through the door to find his linemate was just finishing up his interview.
“That was great, Eric.” Holly’s voice, warm and sexy, called to mind the drizzle of honey on cream. Luke subconsciously turned toward it.
Goddamn, the woman was gorgeous. She was rocking the painted-on suit again, but this time the color was the same teal as the stripes and the cresting wave on the Storm jersey. (A color which, according to the Women’s Hockey Network color chart, indicated a driven personality whose inner turmoil was often masked by an outward appearance of calm.)
She was sporting mile-high heels, a barely there skirt, plenty of cleavage and that big, tousled hair that probably felt like a helmet of straw in real life, but always managed to look kinda sexy on TV. And yet, now that she wasn’t just a caricature on his computer screen, but a living, breathing woman, smiling and putting the notoriously shy Eric Jacobs at ease as they finished up their interview, he found himself wondering what she’d look like in jeans and a T-shirt.
The thought irritated him. He just wanted to get this whole thing over with so he could concentrate on the important stuff. Like winning hockey games. He made himself take a step forward. “So I guess that means I’m up?”
With obvious relief, Jacobs flashed him a thankful smile, said a quick goodbye and fled the scene.
Holly whirled around, tugging at her skirt as though willing more fabric to appear. “Luke! Uh, Mr. Maguire, I—”
“Luke’s fine.”
They lapsed into an awkward silence.
She bit her lip.
Damn, her mouth is amazing. And he really needed to stop noticing that.
He pulled a frustrated hand down his face, cursing inwardly as he realized his mistake. Satisfaction sparked in those coffee-brown eyes of hers—he and his day’s worth of stubble were busted. But to his surprise, her dawning smile was more teasing than mocking, and it made him want to wipe it off her face in a way that would be pleasurable for them both.
“You guys want to get started, or what?”
The cameraman’s sudden intrusion jerked Luke out of a mental image in which he and Holly were long past “started” and well on their way to “finished.”
What a hypocrite! He kept telling his guys to focus and here he was, distracted by a pretty face.
Except he sensed she was more than that. Something about her ditzy act wasn’t quite right. There was more going on underneath the glossy surface she presented to the world, he just knew it. He trusted his instincts—his livelihood depended on them. His shot might be off, but his gut wasn’t. And if Holly Evans had another agenda, she was a danger to him and his team. Then again, just the sight of her in that outfit was dangerous.
“What? Yes! Of course, Jay, thanks!” Holly’s voice was about an octave too high and a six-pack of Red Bull too perky. She gave Jay an overly bright smile and snatched her interview cards from the stool. “Luke, if you’ll take a seat?”
Like a good little soldier, Luke walked over and sat down.
“We’ll start with a quick Q and A with just you on camera, and then I’ve got a couple of more in-depth questions that we’ll shoot with the two of us on-screen.”
“Yeah, sure.” He tried to appear casual and nonchalant.
She gave Jay a nod and waited until the little red light on the camera flicked on and the boom was in place. Then she turned back to Luke, fixed him with a look of professional interest and got down to business.
“What’s the last thing you watched on YouTube?”
The question was like being cross-checked from behind, leaving him momentarily stunned. No way in hell he was going to admit he spent his evening re-inflating his ego by watching her call him hot.
“Are you serious?” He’d meant to sound casually mocking, but was afraid it had come out somewhat closer to defensive. “That’s the hard-hitting lead issue? You’ve got to have something better than that. What’s the next question?”
She looked flustered by his outburst, and he hated the fact that he felt badly about it. He should be out on the ice, working on his slap shot, not in here trying to hide his guilt. She glanced down at her note card and closed her eyes, just for a second, before opening them and meeting his gaze. She looked focused, determined and a little defiant, if he wasn’t mistaken. She cleared her throat.
“Boxers or briefs?”
All his composure deserted him. He held up a hand and glanced over at the camera. “Turn that off.”
He waited until Jay lowered the boom mic and stepped toward the tripod before he rounded on the woman who had the singular ability to distract and frustrate him beyond measure.
“Look, I get that you have a job to do, but what’s going on here, it’s a big deal. This team is in the play-offs for the first time in its five-year history. Not a single player on our roster has ever won a championship. We’ve got a chance to do something great.”
He took a deep breath and unclenched his fist.
“The problem is, two nights ago we handed Colorado a shutout victory on a silver platter. This team is now skating on thin ice, and if we’re going to get out of the first round intact, I need my guys focused on winning hockey games, not talking about their underwear and eyeing your cleavage. Everyone else thinks you’re cute and harmless and charming, but I don’t buy it. So if you’re just using us to make a name for yourself, then you’ve picked the wrong team. We don’t have time for distractions right now. I’m done here.”
With
