Taryn Leigh Taylor - Playing To Win

“Whatever it takes,” she muttered to herself.

She’d just locked the stall door when the sound of footsteps made her freeze.

4

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?”