See Jane Score by Rachel Gibson Page A

notebook and pen inside. She headed to the Chinooks’ locker room, flashing her press pass. Her stomach twisted into knots as she moved down the hall. She was a professional. She could do this. No problem.
    Keep your gaze pinned to their eyes, she reminded herself as she took out her small tape recorder. She entered the room and stopped as if the bottoms of her Doc Martins were suddenly glued to the floor. Men in various degrees of undress stood in front of benches and open stalls, peeling off their clothes. Hard muscles and sweat. Bare chests and backs. A flash of a naked stomach and butt, and . . .
    Good Lord! Her cheeks burned and her eyes about jumped from her skull as she couldn’t help but stare at Vlad “the Impaler” Fetisov’s Russian-sized package. Jane jerked her gaze up, but not before she discovered that what she’d heard about European men was true. Vlad wasn’t circumcised, and that was just a little more info than she wanted. For one brief second she thought she should mumble an apology, but of course she couldn’t apologize, because that would be admitting that she’d seen something. She glanced at the other male reporters and they weren’t apologizing. So why did she feel like she was in high school peeking in the boys’ locker room?
    You’ve seen a penis before, Jane. No big deal. If you’ve seen one penis, you’ve seen them all. . . . Well, okay, that’s not true. Some penises are better than others. Stop! Stop thinking about penises! she chastened herself. You’re not here to stare. You’re here to do a job, and you have just as much right to be here as male reporters do. It’s the law, and you’re a professional . Yeah, that’s what she told herself as she wove her way through players and other journalists, careful to keep her gaze above the shoulders, but she was the only female in a room filled with big, rugged, naked hockey players. She couldn’t help but feel very much out of place.
    She kept her eyes up as she joined the reports interviewing Jack Lynch, the right winger who’d made the Chinooks’ only goal. She dug out her notebook as he dropped his shorts. She was almost certain he was wearing long underwear, but she wasn’t about to check it out. Don’t look, Jane. Whatever you do, don’t look down.
    She turned on her tape recorder and interrupted one of her male counterparts. “After your injury last month,” she began, “there was some speculation that you might not be able to finish the season as strong as you’d started. I think that goal put the rumors to bed.”
    Jack planted a foot on the bench in front of him and glanced across his shoulder at her. His cheek had an angry red welt, and an old scar creased his top lip. He unwound the tape from the top of his socks and took so long to respond that Jane began to fear he didn’t plan to answer at all.
    â€œI hope so,” he finally spoke. Three words. That was it.
    â€œHow do you feel about the tie?” asked a reporter next to her.
    â€œThe Coyotes played a tough game tonight. Naturally we wanted the win, but we’ll take a tie.”
    When she tried to ask more questions, she was talked over and shut out. She soon felt as if she were being conspired against. She tried to tell herself that she was probably being paranoid, but when she moved to the small group interviewing the captain of the Chinooks, Mark Bressler, he looked right through her and answered the questions put to him by other reporters.
    She talked to a rookie with a blond Mohawk, figuring he’d be grateful for any exposure, but his English was so poor, she didn’t understand more than two words. She walked toward the Hammer, but he dropped his cup and she kept going. While she could tell herself that she was a professional and this was a job, she couldn’t bring herself to walk up to a totally naked man. Not on the first