The Dirty Girls Book Club (33 page)

He shifted uncomfortably. “Well, yeah. I mean, not that you aren’t terrific, but—”

“Stop.” She shook her head. “Yes, I know this is just casual.” She turned away to lie on her back and pulled the sheet snugly up under her armpits, securing it across her chest with folded arms. “Long term, I want something very different than you do. Commitment, marriage, fidelity. You’ve always made it clear you don’t even believe in”—she swallowed—“serial monogamy, so I never—”

“Shit. You don’t think I’ve been sleeping with someone else while we’ve been together?”

Her head turned and wide amber eyes studied him. “To be honest, I hoped not.”

“I haven’t.” He hadn’t felt the slightest urge to be with another woman.

A hint of a smile quivered on her lips, then faded. “Woody, I like you. I know you like me. We’ve shared something that’s special to me. I’ll always remember it.”

“It’s special for me too.” He’d never spoken those words to a
woman before, and they tasted odd on his tongue, yet strangely right. He would remember her too. He’d remember how she changed his luck, got him back in the zone out on the ice, set him on the path to the Stanley Cup. He’d remember coming home to her in black lace, having her take care of him, sharing secrets while they snuggled in bed.

And the sex, of course. He’d remember the mind-blowing sex.

Shit. He’d really miss her. Before, no woman had ever gotten close enough that he missed her. What the hell was going on here?

That little smile flickered again. “But don’t worry. I never believed we had a future together.”

Nor had he. So why did Georgia’s words make him feel sad?

He was the guy whose parents had soured him on marriage. The guy who’d never even thought about a future with a woman. Not the guy who maybe, sometimes, secretly envied his teammates who had wives and kids cheering for them in the stands, and waiting at home when they came back from a road trip.

Nah, he wasn’t that guy.

“Night, Woody,” Georgia said, rolling onto her side with her back to him.

“Night, Georgia.” He lay on his back for a couple of minutes, then couldn’t resist moving over in the bed to spoon her warm, vanilla-scented body.

Wednesday morning, the team was scheduled for a light practice. When everyone was there, Woody called them together: players, coaches, athletic trainers, equipment manager,

medical staff.

Before signing the endorsement contract, he’d cleared it with the NHL and with the Beavers’ GM and coaches, but everyone else would be hearing about it for the first time.

“Just wanted you to know, I’m doing an endorsement for Vital-Sport, the American company that sells sports clothes and equipment. They’re coming into Canada.”

Though endorsements were normal for hockey players, everyone knew Woody had resisted, so he got some ribbing and questions.

“VitalSport makes good stuff,” he said. “Their clothes are comfortable, look good; people can afford them. And we’re not just promoting the product”—this was a point Georgia had impressed on him—“we’re promoting recreation, fitness. If the ads get people to pick up a golf club or tennis racquet and get some exercise, that’s a good thing, right?”

“And they’re paying you the big bucks,” Stu joked.

“That too,” he admitted. Should he mention the underwear ads? Nah. He’d deal with the taunts when he had to.

Mike Duffy, the head coach, said, “I still can’t believe you’re doing this. You’re the guy who hates promo. We’re always dragging you to interviews. Though I gotta admit, you’ve been doing better lately.”

“Yeah, well.” Thanks to rehearsals with Terry Banerjee, Woody did feel more comfortable with the media. He’d always be most at home on the ice, but he was getting to where he could hold his own when a mike was thrust in front of his face.

“Okay, guys,” Coach Duffy said, “let’s talk hockey.”

Grateful to no longer be the center of attention, Woody watched and listened as the coaches ran video of the game last night, freezing the action and using a Telestrator to highlight strengths and weaknesses. The players shared their perspectives, and they all talked strategy.

Before the team headed out on the ice to practice, Woody said, “You guys did great last night, but we can’t rest on our laurels. You can bet, as much as we’re strategizing, the Caps are doing more. They’re the underdogs, and they’ll fight back with a vengeance. We
can’t ease up for a moment. Imagine if it was us, one game down. Think how determined you’d be to turn things around.”

Heads nodded as he went on. “We have to be that determined, and more. That focused, that skilled. I know you’re all hurting. When you’re off the ice, take care of yourselves. Massage, physio, lots of rest, eat properly, be careful with the booze. But once you set foot on the ice, there’s no pain, no doubt, no hesitation. You’re one hundred fifty percent. Body, mind, focus. You can’t be anything less. None of us can.”

He paused to glance at his team. He saw bruises and stitches but, as his eyes met those of each player in turn, he also saw total determination, a primal drive to win.

Though his shoulder was killing him, he held himself straight and tall, proud of the whole damned bunch of them. He kissed the Stanley Cup ring on his finger. “This is what we’re doing it for. For the ring, the Cup. For going down in history. But more than that, for each other, and for the fans.” He pumped his fist in the air and bellowed, “Bash ’em, Beavers!”

They all shouted back in unison.

He took a moment to savor their combined ferocity, then sent them onto the ice.

Before the game tomorrow, he’d give them a similar talk. But this morning had been crucial. He wanted them to feel pride in last night’s victory, but not to get cocky.

One thing he knew for sure about hockey: you could never count on a win.

The practice went well, Woody got a massage that loosened up his bad shoulder, and he had lunch in the players’ lounge with some of the other guys. He’d have been in a great mood except for one thing. The next item on his schedule was the underwear shoot.

There was only one way to deal with shit that was inevitable: suck it up and get on with it.

Shoulders squared, he entered the studio. Only to reel back in horror. He’d hoped for one photographer—male, of course—and one camera. Instead, the room was full of people and equipment. Terry Banerjee was there, and Marco Sanducci from VitalSport, but most everyone else was female.

Georgia, looking stunning in a dark gray skirt suit and a coral-colored blouse, came over to him. “Woody.” She held out her hand as if to shake his.

He’d take any kind of contact he could get, so he put his hand into hers.

Rather than shake, she tugged him firmly into the room. “You look shell-shocked.”

Viv came to join them and Georgia gave his hand a subtle squeeze, then released it.

The blonde winked. “This is the highlight of the campaign. I’ve really been looking forward to today.”

A grin twitched the corners of Georgia’s lips, but she held it back.

“As have I,” she said evenly. “After all, it’s the underwear line that’s being launched first in Canada.”

“What’re all these people doing here?” he grumbled.

“The woman with Marco is the designer of the line—who’s very disappointed we ruled out thong photos, by the way. Then there’s the team of photographers, there’s hair and makeup, and—”

“They’re women,” he protested.

Georgia’s lips twitched again. “You’re so perceptive.”

Viv took over. “They’ll do a great job at capturing the image we want to convey.”

“I have to model underwear in front of all these people?”

“Got a problem with nudity?” Georgia asked, a wicked gleam in her eye. “You’d never survive in the locker room.” Those were pretty much the exact same words he’d taunted her with, the day they met.

“Ha-ha,” he said without humor.

“I’m sure we won’t be the first women to see you in your undies,” Viv joked.

“I’d bet on that,” Georgia put in, and he could see she was fighting to hold back a laugh.

His mood lightened, but only a little.

“I’m still not sure we should have ruled out the thong,” Viv said. “Maybe we should take some photos just in case.”

“No fucking way,” he said before he noticed the twinkle in her eyes.

Georgia touched his arm, bare below a VitalSport golf shirt that he wore with a pair of their casual pants. His skin heated with sexual awareness. If her plan was to distract him from his misery, it was working.

She gazed up at him, face serious now. “Woody, I’m sorry this is uncomfortable for you. But you’ve faced the media in a locker room in less than your underwear. You’re a physical guy who’s comfortable with his body. Right?”

“Usually.”

She smiled and released his arm. “I think you have two options. One is to be the tough guy and grit your teeth and get through it.”

That was what he’d figured on.

“But that’s not the best approach,” she went on. “You’ll be miserable, and it’ll show in the photos. Why not relax and have fun with it?”

“Fun? You gotta be kidding.”

“You complained about going to Christopher Slate,” Viv pointed out, “and look how well that turned out.”

“It’s a matter of attitude,” Georgia said. “Like when the Beavers go on the ice, they could be intimidated by their opponents, worrying about how they’ll measure up, feeling their injuries. But that’s not what they do, is it?”

He shook his head. “We go in strong. Determined to play our best and to win.”

“Attitude is a choice. You can make the choice to be positive about this.”

Crap. She was right. He twisted his lips into a rueful smile. “You make a good argument, Coach Malone.”

She beamed, eyes and smile lighting up her face.

Who could resist that smile? “Okay, I’ll be positive.” He winked and said, “Just for you, sunshine.”

When he’d called her that at the first Dynamic Marketing meeting, she’d glared at him. Now she chuckled. “Thanks. Now, what do you hockey players say? Go suit up?”

“Yeah.” Which meant putting on layers of protective gear, not stripping down to gonch. But hell, he was going to be positive.

Resignedly, he trudged over to the cluster of women and forced a smile. “Okay, ladies, I’m putting myself in your hands.”

As they got under way, he felt self-conscious, but Georgia’s warm smiles and nods of approval boosted his confidence, and all
the women were professional and friendly. Georgia was right; being comfortable with his body helped. Being comfortable with women did as well.

It wasn’t long before he was joking with the women who applied spray tan to body parts that never saw the sun, tousled his hair, and instructed him to stand this way, hold that prop, put his arm around the blond model, give a sexy smile.

What bugged him the most was that Sanducci was flirting with Georgia. The dude was handsome, successful, and he had the kind of poise and sophistication Woody would never master, no matter how many
deportment
lessons he endured. He couldn’t hear what they were saying, but Georgia’s body language told him she wasn’t flirting back. Still, he wondered if, when the two of them split, she’d take up with Sanducci.

“Woody, what’s wrong?” the photographer asked. “You’re scowling. Frown lines are bad. Broody and mysterious is sexy. Frowning, definitely not.”

He’d been scowling? Woody told himself there was no reason he should care whom Georgia dated down the road. Right now they were having a good time, and she knew she was his lucky charm. She’d never dump him during the playoffs.

And the Beavers would win the Cup. He focused on how it’d feel to skate around the ice with that massive trophy held high above his head, and it was easier to smile again.

When everyone finally proclaimed it a wrap, Woody sighed with relief and went to shower off the spray tan, body oil, and makeup. The pounding spray felt good on his aching shoulder. After this, he’d go for a run, soak in his whirlpool tub, then ice his shoulder. Georgia would come over for dinner and an early night. Good company, great sex, and a solid night’s sleep. What better way to set himself up for tomorrow night’s home game?

He hoped the other guys were behaving themselves. The married
ones loved days like this, where they could pick their kids up from school. Some of them had wives who didn’t have jobs or who worked from home, and they’d be getting in some couple time. It was the young guys like Stu Connolly he worried about. Vancouver loved the Beavers, and if a rookie hit a sports bar, it’d be less than a minute before someone wanted to buy him a drink. If he hit the Roxy, puck bunnies would swarm him.

At practice, the guys had been on their game and motivated. They wanted the Cup as badly as he did. He had to trust his men to stick to the program.

A couple hours later, Woody sprawled on the couch watching a soccer game on TV and anticipating the look on Georgia’s face when she found out about the surprise he had for her. Oh yeah, they’d be having sex before dinner tonight.

His phone rang. When he answered, the sound that greeted his ears was hyena-like laughter.

“Who the hell is this?”

“Stu.” One word came through amid the howls.

Shit. The rookie was drunk. God knew what trouble he’d gotten himself into. Woody straightened up and clicked off the game. “Where are you? What the fuck’s going on?”

“You didn’t say it was fucking gonch.” The words came out in gasps strung out through more laughter.

Words that didn’t make sense. “What’re you talking about?”

“Oh man, it’s going viral. I’m in this sports bar”—his voice sobered for an instant—“one beer, I swear, that’s all I’m having. Anyhow, this girl’s friend tweeted her, and she checked out YouTube on her iPhone, and now everyone’s looking at it.”

“At what?” Woody almost screamed.

“That video of the gonch shoot.”

Woody clenched the phone in a death grip. “Video of a gonch shoot?” A sinking feeling crept through his body, chilling him.

“The girls are going crazy. They think you’re the hottest thing they’ve ever seen.”

Video of a gonch shoot?
Phone to his ear, Woody hurried into his office, where he kept his trophies, photos, and business stuff. He turned on his computer.