by Sarina Bowen
The big defenseman paused to give her a grin. “Yes, ma’am. I’ll be there. And I’m bringin’ someone, but I haven’t decided who.”
Georgia made a note on her pad. “Okay. E-mail me her name at least forty-eight hours before, okay? You don’t want to stand around while they hunt for your date’s name on the last-minute list.”
“Will do.” He lumbered off and she snagged one of the next two guys to emerge, asking him the same question.
When she next looked up, Leo was standing just two feet away, looking down at her with those sweet brown eyes she’d always loved. “Hi, Georgia,” he said.
“Hi,” she attempted. But the word only made it halfway out, and the result was something more like a halting gasp.
“Look,” he said, shifting a duffel bag on his broad shoulder. “I’m really sorry about the press conference. I didn’t think—”
“I know,” she said way too quickly, cutting him off. Reliving that moment was not something they should do. “Let’s just move on.” And that came out snappishly. Damn it. “Um, there are some promo things you’re going to need to do in the next few weeks. I need to e-mail you a list. Where should I send it?”
He studied her for a second before answering, a serious expression on his rugged face. “My e-mail hasn’t changed, Gigi. Send me anything, anytime.”
“Right.” She swallowed. “Okay. The, uh, first thing you need to know is that the entire team is required to attend the Brooklyn Arts Benefit a week from tonight. It’s black tie—a cocktail party. And you need to send me the full legal name of your date, so that she’ll be admitted to the party without a delay.”
He frowned. “I don’t have time to find a date. What if you went with me? Are you spoken for?”
“Uh . . .” What? “I can’t,” she snapped, her shock getting the best of her. “That’s, um, nice of you, but I could never date a player.” Jesus. He didn’t ask to date her. “I mean, I can’t appear to be dating a player,” she rambled. This was getting worse by the second. “. . . And I work that night anyway. Hard. Long hours.”
Holy hell. She couldn’t even string a coherent sentence together. If anyone overheard this halting conversation she’d never work in PR again.
And now Leo was staring at her as if she’d sprouted two extra heads. “Well, all right. If that’s the way it’s going to be.” He sighed, and she crumbled a little inside. The heap of awkwardness between them was piled higher than the ice shavings outside the Zamboni door. It was so tall she couldn’t even see over the top.
She clearly needed to get out of there before sticking her foot in her mouth again. Taking a step toward the door, Georgia mumbled something about calling if he had any questions, then she made her escape.
Or she tried to. But Leo wasn’t having it. He used those long legs to keep up with her. “Wait, Gigi.” He put a hand on her elbow just before they reached the double doors. “Can we have coffee sometime? Just to catch up?”
Her heart did the tango around the inside of her chest. He wanted to have coffee together. That’s something a well-adjusted woman could do with her ex-boyfriend, right? “Uh, okay? I usually have a publicity meeting with new players. We should do that anyway.” It was yet another tepid response. Way to go, Georgia. But she couldn’t bear for him to know just how hard the whole situation was for her.
His expression flattened. “Fine. Okay. We’ll do that.” He opened the door and held it for her. Gratefully, Georgia slipped past.
But neither of them made it very far before an ear-piercing shriek split the air, and a flying body shot past the rink workers and launched itself at Leo.
“Treviiiiiiii!” The girl’s voice was pitched almost as high as a dog whistle. “Oh my God, baby! You looked so good out there!” As Georgia stared, a beautiful woman attached her body to the front of Leo’s. Then she attacked his mouth with hers.
Leo took a staggered step backward before finding his balance. And even though he looked quite astonished to be suddenly kissing this girl, the sight of her lips on his mouth was actually sickening. Something went wrong in Georgia’s stomach as the stranger grabbed Leo’s rugged jaw in both her hands and leaned in even farther. Her fingernails were perfectly painted, shiny and rich-looking. And her hair fell in silky sheets down her back as she held him.
Georgia had the sudden urge to use her clipboard to whack the back of the girl’s perfect head. And even though she knew she should just walk on past them, she couldn’t have looked away for any amount of money.
After a minute, Leo eased the woman to her feet on the floor. “Amy,” he huffed when he pulled his mouth free. “This is a surprise. It’s been, how many mon—”
“But you’re here!” she squealed. “In New York! I couldn’t believe it! I wasn’t going to miss your first practice! Omigod, why didn’t you call me? When did you get in?”
“Uh, yesterday,” he said, catching her hands as they wandered his body. “It was, um, sudden.”
At least Georgia wasn’t the only one capable of stammering.
“Well, let’s go!” the interloper said, grabbing his hand. “We can have a late lunch, and you can tell me everything.”
“I think I’ve got a meeting,” he said.
Later, Georgia would wonder why she intervened. “The training meeting isn’t until four,” she heard herself say.
Amy leapt on this bit of wisdom without even a spare glance to see who’d offered it. “So you’ve got an hour and a half!” she said, tugging on him.
“Leo,” Georgia added before the girl could succeed in either pulling him out the doors or dislocating his arm, “don’t forget you need a date for the Brooklyn Arts Benefit.”
The girl’s head whipped around then. “A benefit? Where?”
“Brooklyn Academy of Music. This coming Saturday.”
“Wow, I’m free on Saturday. I’ll have to get a new dress! This will be awesome.”
Finally, Georgia got a grip. She tore her eyes off the couple and headed back toward her office.
On the way it occurred to her to wonder what she was going to wear to the benefit. And she hated herself a little for worrying about it.
SIX
SUNDAY, JANUARY 31ST
29 DAYS BEFORE THE NHL TRADE DEADLINE
BROOKLYN, NEW YORK
TOP TEAM HEADLINES:
Brooklyn Hosts Tampa at 7pm
—ESPN
It’s All in the Family on Team Bruisers.
Players Fight Over Coach’s Daughter
—Pucker Up Blog
Leo sat down for what felt like the first time in a year. Yet he only had a few minutes to relax before it would be time to head over to the stadium.
Installing himself in Silas’s apartment had been the easiest part of his week, though. All he’d brought to Brooklyn was his gear and some clothes. He didn’t even have sheets for the king-sized bed in the room he’d just rented. He’d had to borrow a set from Silas.
From his seat in the center of Silas’s giant L-shaped sofa, he admired the high ceilings and the hip, industrial look of the room. The goalie’s apartment was nicer than Leo had expected, and now he knew why the guy was so eager for a roommate. Leo’s half of the rent was double the rate he’d paid for his own place in Michigan.
“This neighborhood is pricey,” Silas had admitted when he told Leo the price. “But we’re a five minute walk from the practice rink, which is pretty sweet.”
And all that money bought a lofty interior and a sleek, modern kitchen. The place had floor-to-ceiling windows, great light, and a giant TV hung from one of the exposed-brick walls. He could get used to this place.
Leo’s room was a decent size, too, though rather empty. It needed a rug and a dresser. Maybe a desk. But Leo knew it would be foolish to run out and furnish the place. He’d told Silas he wasn’t superstitious, but it was hard to think of this pa
d as home when it was obvious that Brooklyn was still trying to eject him.
On the belt parkway there was a highway sign reading: Leaving Brooklyn. Fuhgeddaboudit. Every time he looked up into Coach Karl’s angry face, Leo felt like he should have that sign tattooed on his own ass.
What did that man want from him, anyway? Blood? Sweat? Tears? Whatever it was, Leo would give it for a chance to stay in the big house. He’d shown up at the rink both mornings for the workout of a lifetime. First there’d been an hour of yoga, which was just weird, but at least it had loosened him up. And then a long, sweaty practice.
“Good energy,” the trainer had said this afternoon. “You’re killing it,” the associate coach had added. “You have the fewest trouble spots of anyone on our roster,” the team therapist had said when Leo went to his office for a primary consultation.
Karl Worthington had said nothing at all.
Leo leaned back against the cushions and closed his eyes. He was tired. And it was hard to know which of his many issues to try to resolve first. He had to impress the coach. That was a given. But then there was a long list of loose threads in his life that needed his attention. Should he worry first about sending movers to clear out the apartment he no longer needed in Michigan? Even if Coach Karl demoted his ass to the minors, it would be to one of the East Coast teams that the Bruisers controlled. Or should he worry about Georgia, and the awful tension between them? Or—and this only compounded the other problem—the sudden appearance of his ex-girlfriend Amy?
Leo and Amy had dated for all of his senior year of college. But she’d lost interest when Leo moved to Michigan to play in the minors. That league apparently didn’t make the cut as far as she was concerned. And weirdly, Leo hadn’t spent any time missing her. He’d chalked it up to being busy. But now that she’d reappeared and seemed ready to pick up where she’d left off, he wasn’t feeling it. Not at all. Yesterday she’d dragged him to lunch, but all she wanted to talk about was herself and the clubs she hoped he could get her into. As if he had time to go clubbing.
He’d given her a polite kiss on the cheek good-bye, and then begun preparing his Dear Amy speech. You’re great, but I’m going to be really preoccupied settling in here for a while. And I just can’t be who you want right now. Or something like that.
But he’d forgotten about that fricking charity benefit Georgia had brought up and basically invited Amy to. And when Leo had turned on his phone today after his workout and two hours of watching tape of Tampa with the team, he’d found twenty texts from Amy, a quarter of them photos of dresses she’d tried on.
The last one was some kind of strapless shimmery thing, and she’d written, “I chose this one!”
So it looked like he’d be seeing her at least once more. But after the function he’d be sure to tell her that, sorry, it wasn’t going to be a regular thing. And wouldn’t that be a fun chat. Amy didn’t like hearing the word no.
Leo opened his eyes and checked his phone for messages. There were three hours left until the puck dropped on tonight’s home game against Tampa, and he had no idea whether he’d be suiting up for it. The past hour had found him checking his phone every three minutes like a teenager waiting for a girl to text him back.
It was pretty ridiculous.
There was one message that helped, though. He found an e-mail from his old college coach, the guy who’d seen him through his first trip to the Frozen Four junior year. Coach had retired after that season, and Leo had missed everything about him—his crusty exterior, which concealed an empathetic man, his rueful smile when they lost, and his speeches, which always quoted one or two dead presidents.
Leo—
Can’t believe I saw your name on the New York Times website yesterday. One of my guys in the NHL? I live for moments like this.
Whether your career is one game or a thousand, I’ll always be proud of you. Not only are you fast as blazes but you have a steady character and a good heart. Make sure you use all those gifts, and not just your slap shot. Congratulations, kid. You deserve this.
All my best,
John
Damn. That could help a guy get through the day.
“Want to head over to the rink soon?” Silas emerged from his own room and crossed to the kitchen with his coffee mug. He patted his stomach. “If we go now, there will be food.”
Leo stood up, happy to have his new roommate break up his grim train of thought. “Sure thing. You can help me find the ice level door.” As the new guy, he didn’t even know where to flash his shiny new Bruisers ID to get in.
“Cool. I’ll change.”
Leo went into his own room to put on a suit. Now that was an unfamiliar ritual. In the minors, you could still roll up to the rink in your sweats. The idea of glamming up the sport of hockey was pretty amusing, really. They could sell $200 bottles of champagne in the corporate boxes, and they could charter jets for the road trips. But down on the ice, the game itself was just the same. Leo would bet any amount of money that the refs still kept the pucks on ice in an Igloo cooler in the penalty box.
Back in the living room and waiting for Silas, Leo wandered over to the window to look down at the street below. The late afternoon light cast a purplish hue on all the brick buildings. Water Street was narrow, and one of the last streets in New York City to be paved with old bricks. It was a hell of a lot more atmospheric than the town he’d called home three days ago.
A bright yellow taxi slid to a stop at the curb, its door opening. As Leo watched, Georgia Worthington got out. Even from this peculiar angle, revealing the top of her head, he knew immediately it was her. Something inside his chest lifted at the sight of her. She clutched a shopping bag in one hand and paid her fare with the other.
Leo looked down, subconsciously giving himself a once-over. Maybe his new apartment’s buzzer would ring in a moment. She might be stopping by to finish the conversation that had been aborted yesterday at the practice rink. She must realize how badly they needed to talk.
His forehead against the glass, Leo watched the taxi slide away. Georgia looked once to the left and then to the right, taking a moment to check her surroundings. It was good that she did that—a woman alone on the city streets as dusk fell. He hoped she wasn’t fearful living here. But it was still a good idea to be aware.
Then Georgia turned her back to him, shaking out a set of keys. She climbed two steps onto the stoop of the smallest facade on the block—a walk-up sandwiched between two larger buildings. Fitting her key into the lock, she let herself in, disappearing inside a moment later.
“Okay!” Silas called from behind him. “Are you ready to head over?”
“Guess so,” Leo mumbled, disappointed. He realized how ridiculous it had been to imagine Georgia was on her way to see him. She couldn’t even have known where he was staying. And she sure as hell hadn’t asked.
His gut told him they had unfinished business. But maybe that was just wishful thinking.
He pulled on his overcoat and followed Silas out the door. The two of them took a short ride down the building’s shiny elevator from the fourth floor to the lobby. Like the Bruisers’ headquarters, this apartment building was a converted factory, so all the ceilings were fourteen feet high except for the soaring lobby, which was doubly tall, with leather club chairs and oriental rugs. The place was gorgeous. A uniformed doorman greeted Silas and offered to fetch him a cab.
“That’d be great, Miguel.” He and Leo followed him outside while he flagged one down at the corner.
Leo looked up at the little apartment building where Georgia had disappeared. The third floor had an illuminated window where he was pretty sure there’d only been darkness before. Is that where she lived? It made sense that someone who worked for the team would choose this neighborhood.
A taxi pulled up, and he folded himself into the back seat, following Silas. “You know any of your neighbors?” h
e asked the goalie.
“Nah,” the goalie said as the cab accelerated. “It’s New York. The only way to survive the crowds is to pretend the other eight million people don’t exist.”
Leo looked out at the darkening streets and wondered whether he could put Georgia out of his mind, at least for tonight. Worrying about her wouldn’t do either of them any good if it got him kicked off the team.
“Oh, man.” Silas chuckled. “This can’t be good for you. Fucking gossip rags.”
“What?” He turned to see Silas grinning at his phone. He took it from the goalie’s hand and squinted at the screen, which showed a page from the Post. The headline was
NEW ROOKIE AND CAPTAIN FIGHT OVER A GIRL. BUT CAN THEY FIGHT OFF TAMPA?
There were two photos. The first was a shot of himself sitting beside O’Doul on the dais at the press conference, both of them wearing sour expressions. The second picture was one that Leo hadn’t seen in years—he and Georgia seated together on their high school bleachers, their arms around each other, smiling gleefully. He couldn’t remember what they’d been laughing about that day. It had been more than six years since they’d been that young and carefree.
Jesus. It hurt to look at it. He passed the phone back to Silas without comment.
“So that’s why Coach doesn’t like you?” Silas asked. “You were involved with his daughter? And that’s why you jumped down O’Doul’s throat.”
Leo sighed. “Yeah. It was a long time ago, though. If I’d kept my trap shut the other day, this picture wouldn’t have surfaced.”
“Where’d they get it?”
“Our high school yearbook, if you can believe it.”
“Dude,” Silas said, the word full of sympathy. “That shit should stay buried. I do not want to see my eighteen-year-old mug in the news.”
