The Dirty Girls Book Club (29 page)

Woody, after a three-minute rest, jumped over the boards and back onto the ice as if he’d been turbocharged. Dashing into the fray, he took the puck away from the opposing team, powered across the ice, and sent a slap shot whipping into the Ducks’ goal.

Ten minutes later, the Ducks slipped a shot past the Beavers’ goaltender, Federov, tying the game two all.

When only five minutes remained in the final period, the Ducks put together an incredible series of shots on goal, and Federov
whipped up, down, side to side, blocking every shot until finally he dove on top of the puck, stopping it just outside the goal line.

Woody extended a hand, pulled the man to his feet, and caught him in a bear hug as other teammates slapped the goaltender on his back and the crowd roared.

When the puck was in play again, neither team let up for a minute—and neither scored. In the last minute, with the prospect of overtime looming, the Ducks again bombarded the goaltender, maybe figuring Federov’s resources were drained. This time, Stu Connolly managed to hook the puck away.

He passed it to Woody, who took off. The Ducks, caught off guard, had only one defensive player in Woody’s way.

The audience was on their feet, cheering him on, chanting, “Hat trick, hat trick, hat trick!”

The Anaheim goaltender looked huge, padded legs straddling the goal, shoulders wide, hockey stick at the ready. It was a battle of skill and of mind reading, Georgia realized, each man trying to psych out the other.

Woody deked left, right, and the goaltender shifted in anticipation. Then Woody shot, so fast Georgia’s eyes couldn’t follow the puck, but somehow it sliced past the goaltender’s glove and slammed decisively into the net.

The arena exploded. There were twenty seconds left in the game, but it was over. The Beavers had won, and Woody’d made all three of their goals.

When the win was official, Georgia realized she’d screamed herself almost hoarse and happy tears dampened her cheeks. She and Bernadette hugged each other, bouncing up and down like kids.

The Beavers, sweaty and flushed, slapped and hugged and high-fived one another.

“It was Woody and Federov who did it,” Bernadette said. “They won the game.”

Georgia agreed, but said, “Woody says it’s a team effort. The little things count as much as the big, showy ones.”

On the ice, the Western Conference trophy was being presented, but Woody didn’t pick it up; nor did any of his teammates. “I’d think they’d want to hoist that thing in triumph,” she commented.

“There’s a superstition about touching it,” her mom said. “There’s only one trophy worth touching, and that’s the Stanley Cup. If they touch another along the way, it can jinx their chances.”

Georgia shook her head. “Athletes and their superstitions. Did you know the Beavers all went to one hairstylist for playoff hair and beard trims, to bring them luck?”

They chuckled together, and Georgia realized something. “This has been fun. I’m glad you came.” In fact, it was the most fun she could remember ever having with Bernadette.

“I’m glad you invited me.” Eyes a shade darker than her own studied her. “You never ask me to do things with you, baby.”

Georgia bit her lip. She’d told Woody that she and her mom got stuck in old patterns, ones she didn’t like. He’d suggested changing things up, and it had worked. She could leave well enough alone, or be honest. “When we get together, you’re always with the latest guy and it’s all about him. It feels like …” She paused, chewed her lip again, then said it. “Like you care more about the guy, and the couple thing, than about—”

“About you?” Bernadette broke in. “Oh, baby, that’s not true.”

Georgia had felt that way, but that wasn’t what she’d been going to say. She shook her head. “Than about you, Bernadette. It’s like you, your identity, is all about pleasing this guy rather than being yourself.” Or being a mom.

She expected denial, maybe anger, but instead her mom nodded slowly. “I hear you. Fabio told me the same thing.”

“He did? Hmm. I might like this man.”

“Then you have to come for dinner and—” Bernadette broke off. “Look, he’s coming over.”

Woody, helmet and face shield off, skated toward them. He gazed up at Georgia, an expression of pure happiness on his face.

She waved and then—oh, what the hell—blew him a kiss.

Laughing beside her, Bernadette did the same. Then, as Woody skated away, she said, “Bring him for dinner.”

“It’s not serious. There’s no point.”

Her mom linked arms with her as they climbed the stairs. “You don’t
do
casual, Georgia. I know you.”

The comment sent a pang through her heart. Was she wrong to think she could “do” casual?

Woody was such a different man from Anthony, and yet the pure pleasure she felt when she saw him, the way they were opening up to each other and sharing secrets, the intimacy of cuddling with him in bed were all things she’d experienced with her husband.

With Anthony, falling in love had been safe because they felt the same way about celibacy, commitment, and the sanctity—and desirability—of marriage.

With Woody, falling in love would be a recipe for heartbreak. That man wasn’t about to shelve his condoms in just one woman’s bedside table. She had to protect her heart. She’d enjoy the fun while it lasted, then move on.

“Bet you’re going out partying with your guy tonight,” her mom said as they jostled along with the jubilant crowd leaving the arena.

No, she and Woody weren’t partying—he would celebrate the victory with his teammates—but she’d see him later at his place. “Nope. I’m going to curl up with a book.” It wasn’t a lie. Her e-reader was in her shoulder bag, along with a change of undies.

Woody had told her the guys wouldn’t stay out late. The next game, the first of the Stanley Cup playoffs, was Tuesday. The Beavers would be facing the Washington Capitals, who’d won the Eastern
Conference last night. The other team had the advantage of an extra day to rest, heal, and work on strategy. The Beavers’ advantage was that the first two games would be home games.

“A book?” Bernadette winked. “Well, I certainly hope he—pardon me,
it
—is a page-turner that keeps you on the edge of—”

“Stop!” Laughing, Georgia held up her hands in a T-shaped halt signal.

When Georgia had said to Woody that she guessed she wouldn’t see much of him if the Beavers made it into the playoffs, he’d said, “Hey, you’re my good luck charm. Course I want to see you.” This, from the same guy who didn’t usually date during the playoffs because it distracted him.

As for her, the woman who believed in independence, she’d agreed that they’d sleep at his penthouse apartment. He found his king-sized bed more comfortable than her queen.

She’d left plenty of food and water for Kit-Kat, and had Woody’s spare key tucked deep in her pocket.

He’d given her his key. She had to be careful not to read more into that than he meant. Who knew; maybe this was really just about jock superstition. He’d decided Georgia was good luck, so he’d keep seeing her until the end of the playoffs.

Well, she felt lucky too. This whole experience was amazing—the sex and everything else—and she’d be fine when it ended. No heartbreak for her. She was far too practical.

She and her mom had finally made it outside the arena. The euphoric crowd was dispersing slowly, with laughter and triumphant whoops.

From here, Georgia would walk to Woody’s place in Yaletown. “Thanks again for coming,” she said.

“Thanks for inviting me. I had a great time. Anytime your guy”—Bernadette winked—“pardon me, your
book
gives you a spare ticket, I’d be happy to keep you company.”

Late Monday afternoon, Georgia, running a few minutes late, hurried into the Copper Chimney in Le Soleil hotel. The lovely art deco bar-restaurant was warm and welcoming, and three female faces gaped as she headed over to the book club’s table.

“Wow, George.” Marielle was the first to speak. “Love your new look.” The others chimed in too, and Georgia thanked them.

She’d gotten in the habit of leaving her hair loose and casual, and, though she still wore tailored suits, she now teamed them with silky VitalSport blouses in pretty colors. She’d had a lot of compliments, and not a soul seemed to take her less seriously at work.

It wasn’t just the hair and clothes, though, she thought as the group ordered drinks and snacks. She hadn’t had a headache all week, her skin glowed, she was drinking less caffeine, and she had more energy. Dr. Lily—and Bernadette—seemed to be right about sex being good for you.

She studied Marielle, who wore jeans and a turquoise sweater that looked great with her coffee-colored skin and wavy dark brown hair. “You look great too. Is it casual day at the law firm?”

Marielle beamed. “The regular receptionist came back from sick leave. Now I’m a dog-walker and I love it. But hey, isn’t it fantastic the Beavers are in the playoffs? How’s your marketing campaign going? Can’t wait to see photos of Woody Hanrahan.”

Kim, in an eye-catching white tee with silk-screened pink
butterflies, said, “Oh, yeah! How’s the hottie hockey star working out?”

Georgia tried to hold back a smug grin. “Very well.”
In more ways than you’ll ever know!
“We had the first photo shoot this afternoon, in Stanley Park, and he’s as photogenic as we hoped he’d be.” Today had been leisure wear. He’d posed in several different outfits, with props ranging from a golf club to sexy models. Georgia’s favorite shots were the ones where he held a hockey stick and wore the same clothes as the night they’d dined at Hawksworth: black jeans and the classy takeoff on a hockey jersey, done in the Beavers’ caramel.

She and Woody had kept their secret, but some steamy private looks, subtle touches, and double entendres—not to mention the sight of his fantastic body as he tossed leisure clothes on and off—had made her seriously hot and bothered. She couldn’t wait to be alone with him later.

“Is he nice to work with, or an arrogant prick?” Marielle asked.

“He’s nice.” And even nicer in private. “He’s not thrilled about being a model, but he tries to cooperate.” Grinning, she said, “Poor guy had to wear makeup.” Partly for the cameras, and partly to conceal the fading bruise around his eye. “Apparently that’s not a tough-guy thing to do.”

Kim and Marielle chuckled, and even Lily, who’d been frowning, gave a grudging smile.

Georgia noticed that the doctor’s short, stylish blond hair looked tousled and there were tiny lines around the corners of her mouth that she hadn’t noticed before. “Lily, are you feeling okay?”

Lily waved a hand dismissively. “I’m fine. It’s been a long day and I missed lunch.”

“Appies’ll be here soon,” Marielle said. Then: “I’m really looking forward to the playoffs. The Beavers are pretty evenly matched with the Capitals.”

“If anyone wants to see Tuesday’s game,” Georgia offered,
“Woody says he’ll give me four tickets. As, you know, a business thing,” she added quickly.

Marielle whooped. “Yes, yes, yes!! I love your job perks.”

“Me too,” Kim said. “I’d love to come.”

“Oh good God.” Lily huffed. “Has everyone gone hockey crazy?” She picked up the martini their waiter had just placed in front of her and took a sip.

“Pretty much,” Marielle said cheerfully, “and it’s only going to get worse. I figure, enjoy the fun.” She raised her cocktail, which she’d chosen for its name: a Passion Paradise Martini.

“You always figure that,” Lily said a little snidely.

Marielle shot her a slitted-eye glance but said only, “The playoffs will be terrific. Our Woody against Alexander ‘The Great’ Ovechkin.”

Kim ran a hand through her spiky hair, its streaks the same pink as the butterflies on her tee. “Too bad the Beavers aren’t up against a weaker team.”

“The tougher the fight, the more the win means,” Georgia said. “And the Beavers
will
win.”

“You bet,” Kim said. “Here’s to that win!” She raised her glass of designer beer.

Marielle clicked her cocktail glass against it, and Georgia followed suit with her wineglass.

Lily raised her martini glass, but only to take a drink. “Ladies, this isn’t hockey club; it’s book club. Much as I’m not enraptured with the book, could we at least discuss it?”

Georgia turned to her. “You’re right. Sorry.” Who’d have thought she’d rather talk about hockey than a good book?

The waiter delivered their snacks—Indian-style crab cakes, lamb kebabs, and samosas—and they all dove in. A few minutes later, Lily gave a sigh of relief. “Now I feel better. Low blood sugar. Sorry if I was bitchy.”

Marielle flashed a smile. “No problem. And, Lily, I agree with what you said in your e-mail last week, about sex being healthy.”

“It’s like a vigorous walk,” Lily said. “Burns calories, tones muscles, releases endorphins.”

Marielle gave a wicked chuckle. “And it’s a whole lot more fun than a walk in the park. As Lady Emma is finding out.”

Kim, who’d been so quick to talk about hockey, said tentatively, “But sex is more than exercise. If it’s just physical, then why not”—she glanced around and lowered her voice to a whisper—“use a vibrator?”

“Gotta love vibrators,” Marielle said, “but let’s face it, they’re not all strong and muscular, you can’t cuddle with them or go out for a drink with them, and they don’t talk.”

“Men don’t necessarily talk either,” Lily muttered, eliciting another round of chuckles.

No, Woody wasn’t a chatterbox, but Georgia loved hearing the things he shared with her—about his team, his past, his love for the ice, his desire to be the best. It wasn’t trivial chat about the weather; when he opened his mouth, she really wanted to listen.

“Besides,” Marielle went on, “vibrators have a limited repertoire. They can’t possibly measure up to a skilled, attentive, sensual lover like le Comte de Vergennes.”

Georgia’d never had the slightest interest in trying a vibrator. “I’m with Marielle. There’s a lot to be said for a real, live, talented lover.”

“You’re putting an awful lot of weight on sexual satisfaction,” Kim said. “I mean, I have to admit it’s really nice, and I guess it’s healthy like Lily says, but it’s not exactly essential to life.”