The Dirty Girls Book Club (28 page)

In the back of the limo, there was a long, profound silence, and he knew each man was envisioning the same thing.

It was Stu who broke the moment. “What time’s our flight in the morning? Once we eat, I’m getting together with that sexy Asian sports reporter.”

“Flight’s at nine,” Woody said. “Don’t be late.”

He’d have told Stu that sleep was a better idea than sex, but hell, the kid was young and did fine with no sleep. The Texan liked to party a bit, but he didn’t do drugs, never got drunk, and always showed up on time for practice and worked his butt off.

In fact, he wasn’t all that different from Woody, though now Woody usually confined the late nights to regular season and kept his focus on hockey during the playoffs.

This thing he was into with Georgia was different. Now that they were finally in sync, she no longer distracted him on the ice. The thought of her gave him a charge of energy and happiness that made him feel even more in the zone when he was playing.

“You got a booty call tonight, Cap?” Stu asked slyly.

Call
being the operative word. Oh, yeah, he’d be phoning Georgia. “That’s for me to know.” He fought back a smug grin.

Late Sunday afternoon, Georgia joined the excited crowd streaming toward Rogers Arena. The only time she’d been here before was for the Stars on Ice figure-skating show, and then the crowd had been 90 percent female. Today, she saw men and women, young and old, and lots of families with excited children. Numerous people wore brown-and-caramel Beavers jerseys or tees.

The woman waiting by gate three, her red hair pulled up with artful casualness so that curly tendrils drifted free, wore a V-necked Beavers tee with her figure-hugging jeans. Was the neck of her T-shirt lower than everyone else’s, or was it just that she was particularly well-endowed? Was it husband number three or number four who’d paid for those breasts?

“Hi, Bernadette.”

Her mom hugged her. “Look at you! My little girl’s finally turning into a woman.”

Was that a compliment or a backhanded insult? Georgia wore a Beavers jersey along with beige pants. Neither garment was a size too small like her mom’s, but the clothes accented her own curves. Her hair was loose and free, and she’d added dangly copper earrings.

“So,” Bernadette said, eyes gleaming, “you’re dating a hockey star.”

“I keep telling you, he’s a business colleague.” No, she didn’t want
her mom knowing she was sleeping with Woody. Next thing, Bernadette would have them married off.

When Woody’d offered her two tickets, Georgia had thought twice, thrice, even four times before inviting her mom. When she’d mentioned the possibility to Woody, she’d said that, while she loved her mom, things were never easy between them. They always fell into the same old patterns.

He’d responded, “Then change it up. See what happens.”

And so she had.

As the two women jostled their way through the gate among the boisterous crowd, Georgia tried to be nice. “I’m glad you came, but I’m surprised you were willing to leave your new guy.”

“We’re going to have a late dinner after the game. Fabio’s golfing right now.” She narrowed her eyes. “We’re not bonded at the hip.”

“Seems to me that when you get together with a new guy, it can be pretty, uh, intense.” As in, bonded at the hip.

“That’s what love’s like, baby.” She paused. “Well, maybe not for you and Anthony. You guys were so young when you became friends.” For once, there wasn’t an edge to her voice. Bernadette had approved of Anthony and his obvious love for Georgia.

“True.” They’d been fourteen, and love had grown out of friendship, more mellow than intense.

With Woody, it could be pretty intense. But of course that was lust, not love. Which was likely what Bernadette was experiencing with Fabio. That, and her perpetual need to be half of a couple, to have some guy think she was wonderful.

Feeling a little sorry for Bernadette, Georgia looped her arm through hers. “A drink? I have a feeling beer’s the popular choice.”

“I feel more like wine.”

Georgia couldn’t help thinking that if her mom had been with Fabio and he’d wanted beer, that was what she’d have had too. “Sounds good. I’m buying.”

In a concourse that smelled of pizza, burgers, and mini-doughnuts, they got plastic tumblers of wine, white for Georgia and red for Bernadette.

“Where are we sitting?” her mom asked.

“Woody offered me options, and I chose seats close to the ice.”

“Cool. We’ll get all that ‘roar of the greasepaint and smell of the crowd’ stuff up close and personal.”

Trust Bernadette to find a way of mentioning a musical she’d once played in. A freelance graphic designer by profession, she was also an amateur actress. She was talented at both careers, but never achieved a lot of success because she didn’t give them top priority. The men in her life always came first.

To Georgia’s mind, a man who loved you should care about your career—and vice versa. That was how it had been with her and Anthony, who’d been working on his PhD in sociology when he died.

She and her mom found their seats, six rows up and roughly in the middle of the arena. They’d be able to see the action on both sides.

“This is exciting.” Bernadette bumped her shoulder against Georgia’s as people poured into the building to fill the seats.

“It is.” The air almost crackled with it. A nervous shiver rippled through Georgia. The next three hours would determine whether Woody and the Beavers made it into the Stanley Cup playoffs.

If she was a praying woman, she’d have gone down on her knees. She knew how much the playoffs meant to Woody.

“You’re looking great,” Bernadette said. “Love the hair. The job’s going well, and this new campaign you’re in charge of?”

Surprised that her mom had remembered, much less commented, she said, “Yes, it’s great. Thanks for asking.”

“And you’re feeling good? How about those headaches?”

“You know, I haven’t had one in days.” Hopefully, being with her mom wouldn’t trigger one tonight.

Bernadette winked. “Great sex cures all ills.”

“I’m not—”

The crowd’s roar stopped her before she could finish the lie. The players were coming into the arena, and everyone leaped to their feet, chanting, “Bash ’em, Beavers!”

Georgia was with them, Bernadette right beside her. The din was so loud, Georgia could barely make out what her mom was yelling. “That’s him, number seventy-seven, right?”

“That’s him.”

He skated toward her, and she pumped her fist in the signature salute. He pumped one back, and for a long moment their gazes connected. He was on fire with excitement and determination.

They were going to win. They had to.

To her surprise, her eyes were damp. Who’d ever have guessed she could feel so strongly about a hockey game?

Bernadette, on her feet beside Georgia, leaned close to yell in her ear, “Business colleagues? I call bullshit, baby.”

Georgia pretended not to hear, and fought back a smile.

The national anthems played. Seeing the players shift restlessly, she couldn’t even imagine their anxiety and eagerness. The sense of anticipation in the arena was so thick, it could be sliced with a hockey blade.

And it was, when the puck dropped and Woody slashed it away from the Ducks’ player and swept it toward one of the Beavers, who was down the ice toward the Anaheim goal.

The action was fast, faster than in any of the other games Georgia had watched, or maybe that was because it was live. It was all so immediate. The huge men flying back and forth, the sound of blades slicing the ice, the whack of sticks hitting the puck, the players’ grunts of effort. The thud of bodies hitting bodies, and the shudder of the Plexiglas when players slammed into it.

It was so physical and primal and utterly masculine.

Somehow, it was easy to forget that all this speed and skill and effort was directed to getting that little black disk into the opposite team’s goal. She’d always thought it ridiculous how people got so worked up over players chasing balls—or in this case a disk—yet she was totally drawn in.

In the first period, both teams fought hard. One of the Beavers was sent to the penalty box, but even shorthanded, the remaining players—including Woody—stopped the Ducks from scoring on the power play. Every time Woody got the puck, one or more of the Ducks was on him, trying to block him, to hit him, to stop him from scoring. He battled back, came close with a couple of shots and assists, but at the end of the period, neither team had put a goal up on the scoreboard.

When Georgia and her mom got up and stretched, she realized her muscles were locked with tension. “This is stressful,” she admitted.

“Course it is. That’s your man out there.”

“He isn’t my man.” At least not for the long term. Even so, there was something outrageously satisfying knowing that hundreds of women in the arena were staring at Woody with hungry eyes, and she was the one he’d saluted before the game started. She was the one he’d come home to tonight—to lick his wounds or to celebrate his victory.

She really hoped they’d be cracking open a bottle of champagne.

“I’ll buy you another glass of wine,” Bernadette said. “Maybe it’ll settle your nerves.”

“Thanks.” They made their way to the line. “I wonder what Woody’s saying to them in the locker room? He takes it so personally.”

“How d’you mean?”

“He loves the sport, and he’s committed to his team. He feels responsible when things don’t go well, and he tries to keep them motivated and focused.”

Bernadette handed her a second glass of white wine, smirking. “But he’s not your man.”

Rather than answer, Georgia said, “Let’s get back to our seats.”

There, she watched the second period with nail-chewing anxiety. Even to her inexperienced eye, something looked different out on the ice. The Beavers had been strong in the first period, but now their play was almost like a dance. An absurd analogy, considering they were giant men, padded and helmeted, yet the moves, the patterns, almost seemed choreographed. The team was in sync. Woody’d told her about spatial and situational intelligence, and she could see it at play.

As the Ducks tried to get the puck away from Bouchard, who was powering toward the goal, Georgia kept an eye on Woody, zipping across the ice. Bouchard deked suddenly and slapped the puck to Woody, who was now perfectly positioned on the other side of the goal.

The Ducks’ goaltender flung himself across the crease, but not quickly enough. Woody flicked the puck over the man’s shoulder and into the back of the net. The first goal of the game.

Georgia leaped to her feet along with the rest of the Vancouver fans, everyone screaming, whooping, whistling. She and her mom hugged each other, and on the ice, Beavers pounded Woody on the back and banged the top of his helmet with gloved fists. A jubilant grin split his face.

When he broke away, he gazed toward her, and she pumped her fist into the air, laughing with sheer joy.

As the crowd settled back into their seats, Bernadette said, “I never in this world thought you’d date a hockey player. I’m impressed.”

“I’m not dating him.”
Dating
, for her and her mom, meant a serious relationship. Woody’d made it clear that was the last thing he wanted. And yet … It felt like dating. They liked each other, talked about the things that mattered to them, and when they had sex it felt like more than just a physical act.

She was naïve. Woody didn’t want love and commitment. She couldn’t let herself care about him, not as anything more than a friend and casual lover.

Besides, when you dated, you told the world. You didn’t hide it from your colleagues for fear your boss would think badly of you. Soon, Woody would be gone, but Georgia would still have her career. And, with any luck, more responsibility at Dynamic Marketing. But she had to be careful. Her competition, Harry, was keeping a close eye on the VitalSport campaign. He’d even read an early draft of their strategy, before she’d deleted mention of Ellen DeGeneres. Harry had snidely asked, “Any luck getting your guy on
The Ellen DeGeneres Show
?”

Oh yes, he had an eagle eye out for any weakness. She’d refused to let him get to her, merely smiling sweetly and saying, “You’re out of date. We rethought that and decided it doesn’t fit our overall game plan.”

The puck dropped in the face-off, and Georgia’s attention focused on the game. The play was fast and hard, both teams giving it their all. Once, Woody was slammed into the boards, smashing his bad shoulder. Georgia winced, but it barely slowed him for a second.

The period ended with the Beavers up one-zero, thanks to Woody’s goal.

At the beginning of the third period, Woody smashed into a Ducks player who crashed onto the ice and just lay there. In an instant, players, refs, and coaches surrounded the man.

“Oh God,” Georgia said, “I hope he’s all right. It didn’t look like that hard a hit. I mean, considering.” All the hits were hard
when the men were so big and traveling so fast across the ice, but Woody had explained to her that physicality was essential to the game, and there were rules about what was and wasn’t okay.

The player finally rose. Shakily, with the help of a couple of others, he skated off the ice.

“He took a dive,” Bernadette huffed.

“What do you mean?”

“He’s exaggerating. Playing it up in hopes they’ll call a penalty against Woody. That’ll give the Ducks the power play, and the Beavers will be minus their most valuable player.”

Georgia gazed at her. “You really know this game.”

“What’s not to like? Lots of hot guys. Speed, excitement.”

A moment later, the announcement was made that a three-minute penalty was called. Woody, scowling, skated to the box as the crowd booed the referees.

Bernadette joined in loudly, and after a moment Georgia did too. She wasn’t a demonstrative person, but the energy crackling in the air got to her. When the crowd began chanting, “Ducks suck, Ducks suck, Ducks suck,” she screamed along with them.

The next three minutes crawled by as the Beavers, one man short, battled with everything they had to hold off the Ducks. They almost made it, but in the last few seconds the Anaheim team snuck the puck into the goal on a rebound, to a chorus of boos. The score was tied, one all.