“QUIT SQUIRMING, HOL. You look totally porn-hot.”
Holly Evans glared at her friend and cameraman. “Well, thanks, Jay. I feel so much better now. After all, ‘porn-hot’ is just what we professional sportscasters aspire to, right, Corey?”
She immediately regretted throwing the question to the reporter setting up a few feet down the rubber-floored hallway. Corey Baniuk was Portland’s favorite on-the-scene sports authority...at least for now.
Rumor had it that Jim Purcell, the longtime sports anchor at Portland News Now, was contemplating retirement and that Corey had a lock on the in-studio position. That meant Holly’s dream job might soon be up for grabs—and Holly intended to do the grabbing. Provided she hadn’t screwed up all her credibility by playing Sports Reporter Barbie for the next three months, of course.
“Sure.” Corey shot her the familiar, good-natured grin that was a staple of both the six and eleven o’clock news. “Someone will be by to oil my chest any minute.”
His camera guy chuckled and heat prickled up Holly’s cheeks, no doubt rivaling the fire-engine-red color of her outfit. She forced a wan smile—small thanks for him taking the high road, but it was all she could muster. God, she envied him his conservative gray pinstripe suit. And he was even wearing a shirt under his jacket. She would give up her firstborn for a shirt.
“How did this happen?” she lamented in Jay Buchanan’s general direction. “I am an intelligent, educated woman who is passionate about all things sports.” She glanced down at her brazen skirt suit, but with her boobs pushed up to her chin, not much of it was visible to her.
Damn Victoria and all her secrets.
“When did I become the Hooters girl of broadcasting?”
Jay rolled his eyes. “Hey, you knew what you were signing up for. Hell, I’ll bet Lougheed had dollar signs circling his head when he saw your audition tape.”
Holly cringed at her friend’s choice of words. “It wasn’t an audition tape,” she protested weakly. “It was a favor for you. And a fight against injustice.”
When she’d agreed to shoot the joke video with Jay’s fledgling production company, she was aiming for satire, intending it to be biting commentary on how female sports reporters were perceived. It was an attempt to show people the stereotypes she fought against every day in pursuit of her dream. Instead, she was now the star of a bona fide viral video, sporting a teased-out helmet of blond hair and freezing her butt off while she pretended to be hockey-impaired.
It had caught the attention of Ron Lougheed, the GM of Portland’s professional hockey team, and the ditzy routine was now, sadly, the best on-camera experience she’d been offered since she’d graduated broadcasting school.
“No one cares what it was. What the Women’s Hockey Network is, is a YouTube sensation! People are eating it up and coming back for seconds. To the suits, you’re the living, breathing, high-heel-wearing crowbar they’re gonna use to pry into the coveted female demographic.”
“And they somehow figure short skirts are going to help me accomplish that lofty goal?” she asked snidely, tugging said skirt back down her thighs.
“Hell, no! That’s to keep the guys interested while you’re talking about girly stuff like player hairdos.”
With a deep breath of arena—rubber and concrete and sweat and ice—Holly called upon the stupid yoga class she’d suffered through two years ago at her best friend Paige’s behest. Something about a mind/body connection, and inner peace, and deep breaths, and—ah, screw it.
Time to suck it up, Princess.
Jay was right. She’d accepted the job as the Portland Storm’s web reporter for the duration of their play-off run, and if dressing like someone’s too-slutty-to-acknowledge cousin was the price of breaking into her dream career, then that’s what she’d do. She gave a determined nod at the thought, slamming a mental door on the last remnants of her doubt.
The buzzer sounded to hail the end of the game, and Holly’s newly minted courage took a nosedive. This was it. Her debut.
She watched with mounting nerves as twenty massive men in skates and full equipment stalked toward her.
And speaking of porn-hot...
There he was: Luke Maguire, team captain, number eighteen, a premier left-winger with a career-best thirty-seven goals in the regular season this year. Not to mention sexy as hell and in possession of all of his teeth—no rare 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,