See Jane Score by Rachel Gibson Page B

night.
    Soon it became obvious to her that some of the other reporters resented her too, and the players were not going to answer any more of her questions. She wasn’t all that surprised by the male journalists’ attitudes. The sports-beat reporters at the Times hadn’t treated her any better.
    Fine, she could write the column with what she already had, she thought as she made her way to the team’s goalie. Luc sat on a bench in the corner of the room, a big duffel on the floor by his feet. He’d removed everything but his thermal underwear bottoms and socks. He was bare from the waist up, and he’d wrapped a towel around his neck. The ends hung halfway down his chest, and as he watched her approach, he shot water from a plastic bottle into his mouth. A bead of moisture dripped from his bottom lip, slipped down his chin, and dropped to his sternum. Leaving a trail of moisture, it descended the defined planes of his chest and hard stomach and dipped into his navel. He had a black horseshoe tattooed on his lower belly. The shadowing of the groove and nail holes gave depth and dimension to his flesh, and the heels curved upward on each side of his belly button. The bottom of the tattoo disappeared beneath the waistband of his underwear, and Jane doubted he needed the luck of a horseshoe tattooed above his goods.
    â€œI don’t give interviews,” he said before she could ask him a question. “With all that research you’ve done on me, I’d have thought you’d know that.”
    She did, but she wasn’t feeling particularly amiable. The boys’ club had shoved her out, and she felt like shoving back. She turned on her recorder. “How do you feel about tonight’s game?”
    She didn’t expect him to answer and he didn’t.
    â€œIt looked like you got your stick on that puck right before it went into the net.”
    The scar on his chin appeared especially white, but his face remained expressionless. Jane only dug in her heels.
    â€œIsn’t it hard to concentrate when fans are yelling at you?”
    With the edge of the towel, he wiped his face. But he didn’t respond.
    â€œIf it were me, I think I’d have a hard time ignoring those nasty insults.”
    His blue eyes continued to stare into hers, but one corner of his mouth turned down as if he found her very annoying.
    â€œUntil tonight, I had no idea hockey fans were so rude. Those men behind me were drunk and disgusting. I can’t imagine standing up and yelling, ‘Eat me,’ in a crowd like they did.”
    He pulled the towel from around his neck and finally said, “Ace, if you’d stood up and yelled, ‘Eat me,’ I doubt you’d be standing here right now bugging the hell out of me.”
    â€œWhy’s that?”
    â€œBecause I imagine, you’d have gotten a taker or two.”
    It took a few moments for his meaning to become clear, and when it did, shocked laughter spilled from her lips. “I guess it’s not the same thing, is it?”
    â€œNot quite.”
    He stood and hooked his thumbs beneath the elastic of his underwear. “Now run along and harass somebody else.” When she didn’t move, he added, “Unless you want to embarrass yourself some more.”
    â€œI’m not embarrassed.”
    â€œYou keep blushing like your face is on fire.”
    â€œIt’s very hot in here,” she lied. Was he the only one who’d noticed? Probably not. “Very hot.”
    â€œIt’s about to get hotter.” He’d said aboot again. “Stick around and you’re going to get an eyeful of the good wood.”
    She turned and beat a hasty retreat. Not because he told her to or because of the threat of getting an eyeful of the good wood, but because she had a deadline. Yeah, she had a deadline, she told herself as she walked from the locker room, careful to keep her gaze from falling on any more naked