The Dirty Girls Book Club (37 page)

Georgia flicked off the reader. No, the last thing she wanted to read was a sex scene.

And so much for Emma’s story running parallel to Georgia’s.

Yes, if her friends were to be believed, Georgia would have no trouble finding another man who found her attractive. But she didn’t want another man. She wanted Woody.

She was such an
idiot
! The book club had talked about whether you could separate sex and emotion, and Georgia had believed—or wanted to believe—that you could. That
she
could. She’d been wrong, at least when that man was Woody.

She’d even fooled herself into thinking that he might come to feel the same way. But damn it, he should have.

Woody was such an
idiot
!

She was much, much better off without him. Maybe once she’d stopped sobbing her heart out, that truth would sink in.

Georgia thought about calling in sick on Friday. God knew, she felt sick. Sick at heart, and exhausted from a sleepless, tearsoaked night.

But she was a professional, and would not let her personal life interfere with her job. She dragged herself out of bed and into the shower. Lots of cold water reduced the puffiness in her face and the bloodshot appearance of her eyes. She’d plead a cold.

She dressed, then returned to the bathroom to take pills for her headache.

The image staring back from the mirror was the old Georgia. Without conscious thought, she’d harshly tamed the hair Christopher Slate had styled to be loose and curly, and reverted to her starchy clothing.

She studied herself. Professional, yes. No one would accuse her of using feminine wiles in her work.

But then, no one had accused her of that when she had curly, feminine hair and wore pretty blouses. She’d actually felt more confident—or had that been the knowledge that Woody found her desirable?

Damn it, she was the same woman. Woody might be a jerk, but that was his problem, not hers. Screw him. A woman should not let a man rule her life. If she let Woody have that kind of power over her, she was no better than her mom was—or, at least, used to be.

Georgia
was
attractive and she
was
professional, and there was no reason she couldn’t be both at the same time. She liked her new look, and liked not having tightly pulled back hair tugging at her temples, and stiff collars rubbing her neck.

Georgia pulled the clip out of her hair and ran her fingers through the strands, releasing the natural waves to tumble where they would. Then she replaced her starchy clothes with a new suit she hadn’t worn before, one in a soft shade of sage green, and a pale peach blouse from VitalSport.

She might be heartbroken, but it didn’t show. She looked like an attractive, professional woman who had a cold.

Woody had taught her to know and honor her body, even if he hadn’t been interested in her heart. Maybe there was a man out there who’d honor her heart as well. And if not, she was just fine on her own. She had a great career, good friends, and an improved relationship with her mother.

When she arrived at the office, Sandra, the receptionist, didn’t comment on her new suit or her puffy, bloodshot eyes. Instead, she said, “Oh my God, did you see the game last night? Wasn’t that terrible?”

“No, I didn’t. Did the Beavers lose?” It served Woody right for being mean to his “good luck charm.” She felt sorry for the rest of the team, though, and a win would certainly be better for the marketing campaign.

“Yeah, but that’s not what I mean. When they brought that stretcher in—”

“Stretcher?” Georgia broke in, her voice a raw screech. “What happened?” Woody. Was Woody hurt?

“Stu Connolly took a hit and—”

“Stu? It was Stu who got hurt?” Her racing heart slowed a little.

“Yeah, and they carried him out on a stretcher. The news this morning is that he had surgery and he’s out of danger, but it’s a back injury. He may be crippled.”

“That’s terrible.” The poor kid. And the team. The whole team must be hurting, and worrying. Woody, most of all, because he felt so responsible for his players.

Not that she cared about Woody’s feelings.

Sick at heart, Georgia walked to her office. Stu Connolly was twenty-one. A real up-and-comer, according to Woody. A kid from Texas whose family was so proud of him. A young man who might never walk again. It put her own problems in perspective.

And now she felt twice as bad as she had before.

But, after a night of wallowing in misery, she was here to work, and that was what she’d do.

Not that she was terribly productive, she found as she tried to concentrate, and it didn’t help that the biggest item on her plate was the VitalSport campaign. She couldn’t escape Woody. She went from evaluating photos, to working out details with
The Ellen DeGeneres Show
, to meeting with Terry to brainstorm ideas for Woody’s speech at the Boys & Girls Club fund-raiser. She even took work home with her.

When she picked up the phone that evening, she’d been so immersed in Woody this and Woody that, it almost wasn’t a surprise to hear his voice.

She took a breath. She was a professional, and she had to work with this man. “I take it you’re in Washington?”

“Just arrived at the hotel.” He sounded subdued, and no wonder.

“What’s the news on Stu Connolly?”

“There’s inflammation in his spine, and until it goes down, they won’t know the prognosis. It’s hell for him.” His voice grated. “For his parents. For all of us.”

“I’m sure. Poor Stu. To have his life change in an instant like that … It makes me wonder if it’s worth it, playing a sport like hockey.”

“Yeah, but the letter carrier can get hit by a bus.” He didn’t sound argumentative, just sad. “The CEO’ll die of a heart attack because he never gets off his butt. Every job has risks.”

Even hers, though she’d never anticipated that a broken heart would be one of them.

She drew another long breath. “We’ve confirmed the details for
The Ellen DeGeneres Show
. You’ll fly to—”

“That’s not why I’m calling.”

Damn. Was he going to sling more accusations at her? Coolly, she said, “Oh?”

He cleared his throat. “I want to apologize. I was a primo asshole.”

Oh! Cautiously, she said, “Yes, you were.” A trickle of warmth filtered into veins that had felt frozen for the last day. Had he realized she would never betray him? If he begged forgiveness, could she give it?

“I talked to my mom,” he said.

What did that have to do with his apology? “Yes?”

“It was her.”

“What was her?”

“Who leaked the details.” There was no heat in his voice. He sounded more resigned than angry.

“Your mother? Why on earth …?” Georgia realized, with a deep thud of sorrow, that no, Woody hadn’t decided to trust her. Instead,
he’d been told she was innocent of the horrible things he’d accused her of.

“I guess I was hot news after those gonch photos got out. Some woman from a sports gossip site decided to see if she could dig up some more stuff. She found out my mom lives in Florida, called the house and got the housekeeper, and spun some story so the housekeeper gave her my mom’s number in Switzerland.”

“But your mother has never talked about what happened.”

“This woman told her there was some bad press about me. Like, that I was an overpaid, arrogant jock.”

Georgia winced. It was exactly what she’d thought in the beginning.

“That I’d always led a privileged life,” he went on. “The reporter said she wanted to show that it wasn’t true.”

“Your mother fell for that?”

He gave a long sigh. “The woman caught her when she was vulnerable and made it seem like I needed her help.” Grimly, he went on. “Didn’t help that I’d left a voice mail saying I’d had a rough day.”

Did his mom have any idea how much the leak had upset him? “What did you tell her?”

“What could I? Told her thanks for trying to help me, but let’s not share any more family stuff.”

He hadn’t let on that his mom had hurt him, and that didn’t surprise Georgia.

“So, anyhow,” he went on, “I was an asshole to you and I’m sorry. I was upset and I just reacted.” He sounded exhausted, chastened, and genuine.

She appreciated the apology, but the fact that he hadn’t trusted her rankled, and so did the way he’d flung accusations. “I remember something you told me about hockey. You said that being tough, checking opponents, hard body contact, they’re all part of the game.
But you said a player shouldn’t use them out of anger. That emotions need to be controlled.”

He heaved another sigh. “I hear you. It took me a while to master that lesson on the ice. Guess I haven’t mastered it off ice yet.”

“That’s for sure.”

“What more can I say, Georgia? I was wrong and I’m sorry. I want us to get back together. Things aren’t the same without you.”

Another surge of warmth melted more ice in her veins. He missed her; he wanted her. Maybe he really did care. But did he trust her now?

His voice broke into her musings, tone lighter now, almost teasing. “ ’Sides, the Beavers want the Cup, and you’re my lucky charm.”

Now she got it. Heat flared through her at the thought that she’d even considered taking him back. No, she deserved better than Woody Hanrahan.

He wasn’t good for her. He had been, for a little while, before she realized she was falling for him. She’d fooled herself into thinking he cared about her, but he didn’t. He liked having sex with her and he had this crazy notion that she brought him luck. The superstition seemed ridiculous to her, but so did his entire team getting Christopher Slate to trim their hair and beads. Hockey players were weird.

Her tired body, her aching heart, felt every minute of lost sleep and every tear she’d shed. Heavily, she said, “I accept your apology. But our personal—whatever it was, because I know you don’t
do
relationships—is over. We’ll still work together. I wish you and the team the best of luck in the playoffs, and I hope Stu makes a full recovery. But that’s it, Woody. I have no more to give you.”

She took a breath and told him the rest of it. “In fact, I have
everything
to give to a man who deserves it, but that isn’t you.”

After a moment, he said, “Shit, Georgia. I’ve really blown it,
haven’t I?” He sounded so sad, so tired and worn down, she felt a touch of sympathy.

But she hardened her heart. He wasn’t shedding tears over her. He just hated losing his good luck charm, and his ego, unused to rejection, had taken a beating. He’d pull out of it. Even though the Beavers were the visiting team in Washington, there’d be puck bunnies eager to cheer up the handsome captain of the Vancouver team. The guy who looked so damned hot in the photos strewn all over the Internet thanks to Georgia and her team.

She hoped he and the stupid puck bunny would be very happy together, for the whole two hours their steamy affair lasted.

Yeah, right.

On Saturday, when Woody led the Beavers out on the ice at the Verizon Center in Washington, DC, he felt as if his skates were weighted down with lead. His energy and drive were in low gear, and he couldn’t ramp them up. Maybe he was coming down with the flu.

He couldn’t get Georgia out of his mind. He’d hurt her and she’d dumped him. And what if she really was his lucky charm, and without her he could no longer play?

Yesterday, when he’d called to apologize, he’d hoped that maybe bringing up that shared joke about her bringing him good luck would’ve softened her, but it hadn’t.

He missed her. She’d become important to him, and not just on the ice. Every other woman he’d dated, he’d been able to put out of his mind. But not Georgia. She was like a freaking ghost, haunting his thoughts and dreams. Making him feel like crap.

On top of that, his shoulder and back were killing him. The other players’ injuries were bugging them too. But their combined injuries were small potatoes compared to the fact that Stu’s spine was still swollen. The kid was hurting, but less from the pain in his back than from the idea that his sports career might be over. Woody didn’t think Stu’d even let himself think about the possibility of not walking again.

Woody eyed his teammates as they warmed up. Olssen, a second
line player who’d been in the first line before Stu replaced him, was back on the first line, as center. The dynamic between him, Woody, and Bouchard was different, but he was a great player, a more seasoned one than the rookie.

This morning’s practice had been okay, but not great. Tonight, they needed to function as a unit, to have power, speed, perception, and great instincts. Instead, they were dragging their fucking asses.

He could hardly yell at them because he was the worst of the bunch.

When “O Canada” began to play, he hoped the guys were all doing what he’d told them to. He did it himself. Focus, center, think about whom they were playing for: their country, their city, their club, their teammates, and their fans. Think about the reasons they were out here, the hard work they’d put in, the dreams that drove them. Find the quiet place, the place that was all determination and commitment, and shut out everything else.

When the national anthem ended, he felt better. Not great, but better.

He threw himself into the game. They all did. But it was an off night. There was no other word for it.

They ended up losing three-one. It was the third game in the playoffs and they were down one. The next game was two nights from now, Monday, here in DC. How the hell could he bring the team back to top form?

How could he motivate them when he felt like shit warmed over?

After the game, when the media’d been kicked out of the visitors’ locker room, Coach Duffy gathered the players together. He didn’t yell at them. Instead, he said quietly, “You played like a bunch of fuckwits out there. I know you’ve got stuff on your minds. You got injuries, personal troubles, shit going on. Stu’s on everyone’s mind.”

Heads nodded tiredly, grimly. Seemed like the guys were so worn down they couldn’t even straighten their spines and hold their
heads up straight. Woody realized he was slumping on a bench, and forced himself to straighten even though it shot daggers of pain through him.