Body Check

Table of Contents

 

 

The minute the other players in the lounge spotted her, they cleared out, obviously expecting
something
to happen that they didn't want to be witness to. Ty, meanwhile, kept his eyes glued to the TV screen—quite deliberately, Janna thought. Not a good sign.

“Ty?”

“Miss MacNeil. What a surprise.”

Janna watched him turn slowly toward her, her heartbeat doubling its tempo. She was anxious, yes. But she realized there was more to it than that: clad in sweatpants, he was shirtless, a twisted white towel casually slung around his neck, the perfect six-pack of his abs glistening with hard-earned sweat. He aroused in her a desire that could only be called primal. She'd never experienced anything so elemental and so
strong
. That the sight of this man should generate it only made it worse. It was like being a teenage wallflower and finding yourself attracted to that one dumb jock in your high school who always made fun of you at lunch. Her body was betraying her . . .

BODY CHECK

FAIR PLAY

TOTAL RUSH

THE PENALTY BOX

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

 

BODY CHECK

A Jove Book / published by arrangement with the author

 

PRINTING HISTORY

Jove mass-market edition / March 2003

Copyright © 2003 by Deirdre Martin.

Excerpt from
Fair Play
copyright © 2003 by Deirdre Martin.

 

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author's rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

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eISBN : 978-1-101-04188-8

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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I'd like to thank:

 

My agent, Elaine English, and my editor, Allison McCabe, for their willingness to take a chance.

John Rosasco, vice president of PR for the New York Rangers, for letting me pick his brains.

Jacquie Powers for her gardening expertise.

Meg Janifer, sportswriter and hockey fan, for her insights into what really takes place in the locker room.

My husband, Mark Levine, for his vast knowledge of sports as well as his keen editorial eye.

And last but not least, Mom, Dad, Bill, Allison, Beth, Dave, Tom, and Jane for their unwavering love and support.

 

 

 

 

Not many women
could boast bossing around a locker room full of buff, naked jocks as part of their job description, but then again, there weren't many women with a job like Janna MacNeil's.

A publicist specializing in retooling clients' images as well as damage control, Janna had been hired by Kidco Corporation to help transform the reputation of the New York Blades, the NHL's Manhattan-based hockey franchise. To put it politely, the guys on the team were renowned for playing hard both on and off the ice. Never had this been more obvious than last season, after winning the Stanley Cup for the first time in twenty years. Everyone knows boys will be boys, but
these
boys brought the Cup to a number of strip joints around Manhattan, where they enjoyed the rare and singular pleasure of watching ladies with pasties and very little else “perform” with what many considered the Holy Grail of sports. Worse, rumors abounded that a photo existed of a group of players gathered around the Cup with plastic straws up their noses, heads reverently bowed to snort up a small mountain of cocaine. No wonder Janna's crusty new boss, Lou “the Bull” Capesi, guzzled Mylanta like it was spring water. The team was a PR nightmare.

Janna was being paid big bucks to change all that.

Edging her way through the boisterous cluster of beat writers hovering in the brightly lit, concrete hallway near the locker room door, Janna steeled herself, knowing what awaited her on the other side: naked, sweaty, male bodies. Lots of them. Big, muscled men laughing and joking with each other, flicking towels at each other's butts. Men sauntering off to the shower. Men stretching, massaging their battle-weary bones. She'd met these men—all but their captain, Ty Gallagher, who was a day late to training camp—in these very circumstances yesterday. Lou had introduced her around, and not one of them seemed fazed about parading buck naked or half undressed in front of a petite female publicist. Janna, on the other hand, had had to work hard to avoid the irresistible urge to stare, slack jawed and salivating, at the well-sculpted physiques of these guys. She made doubly sure she kept her eyes north of the equator, too.

Once inside the locker room, the same scene she'd been initiated into yesterday greeted her. Some of the players lounged on the long wooden benches in front of their lockers, chatting, half dressed. Others stood at a large, rectangular table at the far end of the room, gulping down mammoth-sized glasses of Gatorade they'd poured from huge jugs. A few acknowledged her with nods; some, she thought, deliberately looked away. A boom box blasted music. The Who? Pearl Jam? She couldn't tell. The atmosphere was exuberant, almost adolescent in its giddiness. Though it was September, still pre-season, the Blades were clearly psyched about making another run for the Stanley Cup in the year ahead. She took a deep breath, trying hard to ignore the pungent odor of male sweat that was inescapable, and made for the bench closest to the center of the room, climbing up on it. Then, with all the power she could muster, she stuck her fingers in her mouth and whistled. The room fell silent as all eyes trained on her.

“Listen up, guys: Now that I have your attention, I need your help.” She looked around the room, carefully making eye contact with each and every player. “As you know, the Blades organization was recently purchased by Kidco Corporation, which prides itself on providing
family
entertainment.” Boos and amused chuckles filled the room. “Kidco wants the Blades to be winners both on and off the ice, meaning they'd like each of you to give a little something back to the community you play in.” She held the papers aloft in her hand. “This is a schedule of charity events going on all over the city over the course of the next year. I've highlighted those that don't conflict with your playing and travel schedule. I'd like each of you to sign up for at least three.”

“And if we don't?” a rogue Canadian voice challenged.

“If you don't, then I kick your butt, and believe me, I can do it. I might be small, but I'm wiry.” The players laughed appreciatively, and Janna relaxed somewhat. None of them could tell, but beneath her tailored suit she was a bundle of stomach-churning nerves, something she was a pro at covering up after years of practice.

“Speaking of butt-kicking, I just want to remind you that no one is to talk to the press without clearance from the PR office, understand? I don't care if some reporter stops you outside Zabar's and asks if that's where you shop for groceries. Everything—
everything
—has to go through me or Lou. Not only that, but if God forbid you do find yourself saying or doing something stupid, you're to call me immediately. That's why I gave all of you my cell phone number yesterday. I expect you to use it, day or night, if you have a question about something or if an emergency arises. Now, back to the business at hand.” She flashed them a quick, determined look. “Signing up for three events now will save you the aggravation of me following you around and nagging you to death for the rest of the season—which I'm paid
very
handsomely to do.” More laughter. “So whaddaya say?”

She didn't expect them to come forward in droves, but she
was
hoping a few might be willing to get the ball rolling. Instead, a stubborn silence filled the room. One second passed. Two, three. Janna's heart began beating just a little bit faster, her palms moistening. She took another deep breath, steadying herself.
You can do this,
she repeated in her mind. As the silence dragged on, she wondered if this was how comedians felt when they “died” on stage.

“Come on, guys, don't make this any harder than it needs to be,” she coaxed. “Either you sign up, or I start putting your names down at random. The choice is yours.”

She watched as their collective gaze suddenly shifted from studying her to something on her left that was apparently fascinating. She looked. There stood Captain Ty Gallagher, a white towel knotted at his waist, his rock-solid body still glistening with damp from the shower. His blond hair was slicked back, and his deep-set, brown eyes were hard and unwelcoming. Feeling Lilliputian, despite still standing on the bench, Janna struggled not to let herself become overwhelmed by the nausea gathering force and momentum inside her. She smiled at him politely.