The Dirty Girls Book Club (26 page)

Georgia put the reader down. She’d wanted to lose herself in Emma’s world, but instead the heroine’s situation only reminded her of Woody. Tonight, the hockey player had indeed played her body as skillfully as any musician. Yes, she could understand the temptation to enjoy a sexual education at the hands of a maestro. But wasn’t that awfully shallow? And risky?

She was curious to hear what the other members of the book
club thought about Emma’s decision. Too bad Monday night was so far away.

Last week, Marielle had e-mailed midweek, so why couldn’t Georgia do the same?

She climbed out of bed, to return with her laptop. Ignoring a few e-mails in her in-box, she typed a message to the book club members.

We agreed, more or less, that there’s something to be said for giving in to temptation and having sex with a guy who’s really talented. But one time is way different than an affair. Don’t you think?

The Comte isn’t going to marry Emma, and she’s not feeling an emotional attachment to him, so isn’t it kind of slutty to opt into the whole “sexual education” thing?

Georgia had never, until Woody, felt the slightest inclination to have casual sex. God, her husband wouldn’t even recognize her now. She’d always believed that physical intimacy was special, that it should be shared with someone you loved and were committed to. She’d belonged to a chastity club, been a virgin on her wedding night, and only a week ago reflected on how easy it was to remain celibate. She’d been career-focused, professional, and determined never to bring gender, much less sex, into her work life.

What had happened to her? And where would it lead?

Woody woke from a sound sleep to the jangle of his alarm clock. Rolling over to turn it off, the ache in his left shoulder was familiar, but the unexpected pain in his nose and behind his eye made him wince. Shit, who’d high-sticked him this time?

Then he remembered. The muggers. Georgia.

Despite the minor aches and pains, he felt damned good. She was one sexy woman. And if he was quick, there’d be time to prove it once more before they both went to work.

He rolled the other way, and frowned. No Georgia. No sound from the bathroom, no sound from anywhere. Damn. Morning-after regrets?

“That woman blows so hot and so cold,” he muttered as he dragged himself out of bed.

He retrieved his bathrobe from the floor, pulled it on, and went to the kitchen for ice. “Why do I bother? Every time she lets me get close, she runs away. If I had half a brain, I’d give up on her.”

On the kitchen counter, he found a note.

Woody, I know you’ll need to focus today, so figured I should leave you alone. But thanks for everything. Talk about an unforgettable night!

Best of luck with the game. I know you’ll be wonderful. Bash ’em, Beavers!

Georgia

He grinned so hard it hurt his battered nose. “You bet we will. And then I’m calling you, woman.”

Georgia was tired and confused the next morning. A large part of her wished she’d woken in Woody’s bed and they’d had sex. The other part of her was annoyed at herself for wishing that.

When she checked her e-mail at the office, she found messages from Marielle and Kim.

Marielle said,

It’s not slutty to have sex, for heaven’s sake! It’s natural. Poor Emma’s been all stifled and constricted, and the girl’s overdue for getting her rocks off. Nobody’s hurting anyone, making any promises that’ll get broken, or any of that shit. Rock on, Lady Emma!

Kim was next.

I see the temptation, but I’m more about relationships. In real life, I mean. I’m happy to read about Emma’s raunchy adventures. LOL. But for me, I want the whole package: sex, caring, and commitment.

“And so do I,” Georgia murmured. But wishing didn’t make it so. She typed,

I agree, Kim. But what if you can’t find that whole package? Emma is convinced she won’t. So is she wrong to take the part she can get? The sex?

Viv tapped on Georgia’s office door and called a bright, “Good morning.”

Georgia clicked Send. “Hi. Come on in.”

The blonde, today in an orange and pink dress with a pink jacket, seated herself in a chair across from the desk and crossed her legs. “How’d dinner go? Did Woody behave himself ?”

“Amazingly well. But, Viv, I have to tell you what happened after.”

Viv grinned. “There was an after? You and Woody? Wow, I didn’t see that coming.”

“No! I mean … That’s not what I meant.” She tried not to flush. “Woody walked me to my car, and ended up beating up a couple of muggers. He probably saved my life.”

“Oh my God!” Viv’s eyes widened with concern. “Are you all right?”

“Yes. They didn’t get near me, thanks to him. But, Viv, we can’t do any photos this week. He has a swollen nose and a black eye.”

She winced. “Ouch. Poor guy. We should make him wear that hockey shield outside of the rink too.”

“He’d love that.”

They both chuckled.

“Let’s hope he heals quickly,” Viv said. “That was it, just the nose and eye?”

“That was it.” She’d promised Woody that his shoulder injury was their secret. “He’ll be on the ice tonight. I sure hope they win.”

“And go on to win the Stanley Cup. It’ll give our campaign serious buzz.”

“I know.” And it would make Woody so happy.

Terry came to join them, and the three of them discussed strategy for an hour; then they split up to each get on with their jobs.

At noon, Georgia popped out to grab something to eat. She was
thinking of indulging in a chocolate crepe, but remembered what Woody had said about respecting your body and instead chose a chicken salad. When she opened the take-out container at her desk, she read an e-mail from Lily.

They’re different things, ladies. Yes, lots of women want a committed relationship, that whole package where love and sex are wrapped up together. But if you’re not in one—or don’t want to be, like Marielle—there’s nothing wrong with a rewarding sex life. Great sex—safe sex between mutually respectful adults—is good for you.

Georgia typed,

Lily, what do you mean about great sex being good for you?

She’d taken only a couple of bites of her salad when Lily’s answer arrived.

To name a few effects: exercise, boosts your immune system, reduces depression, increases self-confidence, puts you in closer touch with your body.

Hmm. Those were all excellent points. It seemed the doctor prescribed casual sex.

Was Georgia going to fill that prescription with Woody?

Georgia had never imagined that she’d cheer at a hockey game, but there she was in her living room, jumping up and down in front of the TV yelling for the Beavers. For Woody.

He was having a fantastic night.

When he’d stood for the national anthem, helmet off, she’d been glad to see that the swelling in his nose and eye had gone down, though he sure had a shiner. Along with a look of utter focus and determination.

When the game got under way, she studied his movements carefully and didn’t see a hint of him favoring his left shoulder—but he’d be on guard against letting the Ducks know if he was hurting.

She stopped worrying about him soon, though, because he was on fire. When his stick connected with the puck, he couldn’t miss. He made a goal in the second minute of the game, then got a shot to a perfectly positioned teammate who tipped it into the goal seconds before the buzzer ended the first period. The Ducks hadn’t scored.

The Anaheim team managed one in the second period, but so did one of Woody’s teammates; then he got another one himself.

In the Coach’s Corner feature during the second intermission, the outspoken sports commentator Don Cherry, tonight in a flamingo-pink suit so bright even Viv wouldn’t have worn it, said, “I’ve been saying the Beavers’ captain should hang up his blades, but tonight Hanrahan’s reminding us why he’s been called ‘the Next One.’ ”

In the third period, the Ducks did their best to stop Woody, but he scored again and the announcer yelled something about a hat trick.

The game finished with the Beavers winning five to one, and the Vancouver fans on their feet, trying to cheer the roof off the stadium.

When Woody came off the ice, pulling off his helmet and face shield, an interviewer stuck a mike in his face. “Terrific game, Woody.”

Woody flashed a smile of pure pleasure. “It felt good out there. The guys did a great job and the fans were really behind us.”

Georgia smiled at how happy he looked and how sincere he sounded, though in her opinion he was the player who’d won the game.

“Looks like you guys got the Beaver magic back. Good luck in Anaheim on Friday.”

“Thanks.”

When Woody’s face disappeared from the screen, she clicked off the TV, grinning from ear to ear. A hockey star. She’d slept with a hockey star.

And she was tired of second-guessing herself. She knew what she wanted, and it was him.

Time to admit that she was no longer the goody-goody girl from the chastity club. With Woody, she had fun. He might not be her soul mate, but he was a fantastic sex mate.

She wasn’t going to overcomplicate the issue. On the job, she’d remain entirely professional. As for her personal life, she was choosing Lady Emma’s path: a sexual education at the hands of a master.

Woody glanced around the locker room. The vibe was testosterone and adrenaline. The guys were on a total high as they high-fived one another, joked with reporters, and stripped off their gear. The losing streak was finally broken—and in the nick of time.

Thank God.

His teammates had played well tonight, but the truth was, they’d been doing that all along. It was Woody who’d made the difference. For the last three games, he’d played like crap. Tonight, it had all come back: the joy of the game, his instincts, his skill. He’d been in the zone from before he even skated onto the ice, and he’d never stepped out of it.

Who cared that his eye was still swollen enough that his vision wasn’t great? He was even getting used to the face shield, and was grateful for it when he took a high stick that might’ve split his cheek and taken him out of the game long enough to get stitched up.

Who cared that the Ducks were on top of their game too, and determined to stop him? As for his shoulder, he hadn’t even felt it.

Some of the guys were jumping around in a masculine version of a happy dance, but he’d save that one for when they took home the Stanley Cup.

Finally, the reporters had gone and the players had showered and changed into their suits. Now his shoulder hurt, confined by that tight fabric. He hoped Viv was right, and his new suits wouldn’t feel like straitjackets.

“Woody?” It was Mats “The Hammer” Hammarstrom, their star defensive player.

“Yeah?” Woody saw that the players were gathering, with the coaches and the GM in the background looking curious.

“We change our luck tonight,” Hammarstrom said. “This is good thing, but why?”

“Why?” Woody asked, not sure what the Swedish player meant.

“What made the difference?” Dmitri Federov, their Russian goaltender, clarified.

“You did an amazing job of blocking shots, Dmitri,” Woody said. “The defense shut the Ducks down at every opportunity; everyone was in the right place at the right time.” He drew a breath, then admitted, “And I finally extracted my head from my ass and started playing real hockey, like you guys deserve from me.”

There was a moment of silence, likely in acknowledgment of the truth of that last statement. Then Philippe Bouchard, from Quebec, who played left wing in the first line to Woody’s right wing, said, “
Non
, it’s your hair and beard.”

“ ’Scuse me?”

“Yeah, dude,” Stu Connolly, a rookie who was so good he’d moved into the first line in his first season with the Beavers, chimed in with his Texas drawl. “You got that lucky trim, right?”

When Woody had shown up today, the guys had been on his
case. They’d cursed about his “pretty boy” hair and beard trim, saying it could cost them the Conference. Knowing that a lack of confidence would hurt them on the ice, he’d said, “Nah, it’s gonna change my luck.”

Now Bouchard announced, “I’m gonna get my hair cut and my beard trimmed.”

“Me too,” Stu said. “Where’d you get it done?”

A little stunned, Woody said, “His name’s Christopher Slate. But—”

“Got his number?” Stu asked. “We’re flying out tomorrow afternoon. Gotta get in first thing in the morning.”

Suddenly, BlackBerrys and iPhones were in everyone’s hands.

Woody glanced at the coaches and the GM, and caught them exchanging quiet words and grins.

Yeah, athletes were superstitious. Woody didn’t know whether the real power was in the lucky charms and rituals like putting on your left skate first that mattered, or whether it was the confidence they gave the players. But if his teammates believed they’d play better if Christopher Slate trimmed their hair and beards, then they probably would. Besides, it might psych out the Ducks.

He pulled Christopher’s card from his wallet. The stylist had written his cell number on it. “In case of a hair emergency,” he’d said in all seriousness.

At the time, the phrase “hair emergency” hadn’t computed. But Woody knew one when he saw one. “Let me call and see if he can fix you up. How many guys want—”

A clamor of “Me”s and “Yah”s cut him off.

Christopher didn’t even laugh when Woody told him what they needed, and he set up appointments for every single guy.

“Now we go get a steak,” The Hammer said with satisfaction.

“Lobster for me,” the Texan rookie said.

“Woody, you are coming?” Federov asked.

“Yeah, in a minute.” He was starving too, and celebrating the victory with the team was an important part of being captain. “Just have to make a call.”

As the guys trooped out, Woody heard Connolly joke, “Setting up a booty call.”

Yeah, or so he hoped. The guys might have their theory about lucky haircuts, but Woody had his own. Georgia was his luck. When she was huffy, he was so distracted he played poorly. When she was nice—especially when they had sex—he felt so great that he fell into that natural zone that made the game such a joy.