Rookie Move

by Sarina Bowen

  “True.” It was the longest road trip on their schedule. And the backup goalie had to practice just as hard as any player on the team, even though he expected to play only occasionally.

  “When’s the earliest that I can sneak out of here without getting in trouble?” Silas asked.

  Georgia peeked at her watch. It was only nine o’clock. “After the president of the charity speaks. But that should happen in thirty minutes.”

  “Awesome,” Silas said, grinning at her. “If anyone stops me, I’m going to say you told me I could go.”

  “Do you want me to write out a hall pass, like in high school?” The question seemed appropriate since apparently high school was the last time she’d had a life.

  “Sure,” he teased.

  Georgia found herself smiling back at him. She still wasn’t reckless enough to ask him to dance. Becca was probably chewing off her fingernails across the room, wondering what she was waiting for. It was sort of fun to torture her pushy roommate this way. But even if she didn’t fulfill their bet, chatting with Silas got her mind off Leo for a few minutes. And that had been the point, anyway.

  “How shall we pass thirty minutes, then?” he asked.

  “We’re very busy holding up this wall,” she pointed out.

  He extended his drink, indicating the band playing in the corner. “I like this song. We could hold down the dance floor instead.”

  “Okay,” Georgia said quickly. Becca wouldn’t even know she’d chickened out and she’d have to scrub rotten mango juice out of the fruit drawer anyway. Georgia bit back a smile at this little deception as Silas removed the water glass from her hand.

  Guiding her toward the dance floor, Silas put a hand at the center of her back. She didn’t mind the warm pressure of his palm. It was steadying. There was something cheerful and open about Silas that she’d always appreciated. He didn’t have the intensity of Leo, but he was approachable. Dancing with a player under the scrutiny of the whole entire world just didn’t seem as weird as it should have. Because this was Silas, with his scruffy beard and easy hazel eyes.

  She put her hand lightly on the shoulder of his tuxedo jacket as he stepped closer. With a quick grin, he adjusted their dancing stance and turned her easily to the left.

  “You’re a good dancer,” she heard herself blurt out.

  He laughed. “You were expecting me to suck?”

  “No,” she said quickly. “Never mind me. I don’t dance much.”

  “Maybe you should dance more,” he suggested. His tone was light, and his smile easy.

  Holy crap, I’m actually having fun, she thought as he guided her around to the beat. And Becca has to clean the fridge. Winning!

  “What’s so funny?” Silas asked.

  “Not a thing. Did you take dance lessons?” she asked, just to turn the conversation away from herself.

  But Silas didn’t answer, so she studied his face. “Can I trust you?”

  “Sure. I’m a vault,” she promised.

  “My mother made me take six years of dance lessons. Seventh through twelfth grades.”

  “What?” she yelped. “Why?”

  “Because she’s from the South,” he said, as if that explained it. “Cotillion. Everyone had to.”

  “That is bizarre.”

  “Not where she’s from.”

  “That’s what I mean . . .” She had to pause because Silas lifted her hand above her head, and Georgia knew she was supposed to turn. “What’s bizarre is that a southern gentleman like you became a hockey player.”

  “True,” he said. “But my mama likes dancing and white gloves, and my daddy likes violence. So it’s all there.”

  Georgia smiled at him again, and was happy for the distraction, however brief.

  NINE

  “So tell me,” Amy said to Bayer’s girlfriend. “How does the wives and girlfriends’ club work?”

  The low hum of a headache that had troubled Leo since they stepped into the room rose in pitch to a dull throb. It had been a mistake to invite Amy. She’d been busy trying to worm her way into his life—and his pants—since the moment he and Silas had joined her in the limo.

  Silas was clearly the smarter of the two residents of apartment 407. He hadn’t brought a date. (“I don’t date,” he’d said with a shrug when Leo had asked.) And now? The young goalie was dancing with Georgia. Leo knew he shouldn’t watch, and he shouldn’t care. But his eyes kept drifting over to the two of them. They both looked about a hundred times more relaxed than he felt right now.

  And since his attention had drifted, Amy was getting her hooks in, absorbing all of the other women’s attention and advice. “Meet us for cocktails on the road!” one of them was saying. “We’re good at sneaking into the hotel after curfew. It’s a blast.”

  That’s it. He couldn’t let this go on. “Amy?” He took her hand. “Let’s dance. I want to talk to you.”

  She sort of slithered into his arms, smiling up at him. “I’m all yours.”

  Oh hell.

  He led her a short distance away, where they could chat privately. Then he took her hand and met her eyes. “I’m really glad you could come out tonight. This event is pretty crazy, and I thought you’d find it fun.”

  “It’s amazing,” she agreed. “I got a picture with O’Doul and his cute little date.” She slid her free hand into his jacket and over his abs. “And I got to reacquaint myself with you. Almost.” She grinned. “When can we go home?”

  He caught her wandering hand. “Amy, we’re not going home together tonight. I told you that.”

  “I know you need your sleep.” She took a step forward until her tits met his chest. “But it’s early. We could get started now.”

  Leo held back his sigh. He’d said it nicely a dozen times already, but Amy had selective hearing. So now he was going to have to be a little less subtle. “We’re not going home together. Not tonight, and not another time. We were finished after college, Amy. That was your choice, anyway.”

  She looked up at him with wide eyes. “But you moved to the Midwest. And even so, it was a bad decision. I’ve regretted it ever since.”

  Ever since last Friday, she probably meant.

  “I’ve moved on,” he said as gently as possible.

  “Really?” She took a half step backward. “Where is your invisible girlfriend, then?”

  “I just mean . . .” Fuck. “We’re over. It was good while it lasted, but we’re not getting back together. I’m sorry. There’s too much going on in my life.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “I was going to surprise you on the road. In Montreal. When have you not wanted a quick hotel fuck, Trevi?”

  Trevi. He’d always been a name on the back of a hockey jersey to her. That used to be fine with him, too. It wasn’t anymore, though. Maybe this wasn’t all Amy’s fault. But he was allowed to change his mind, right?

  “I’m sorry,” he said slowly. “I don’t want to argue. But I didn’t mean to start something up with you.”

  “Fine,” she snapped, her eyes dampening. “So you were okay using me for sex in college, but not anymore.”

  “Amy,” he whispered. “I was good to you in college.” If anyone had been used, he was pretty sure it was mutual. And once they’d gone exclusive senior year, he’d never looked at another girl. Even though she’d been awfully high maintenance, he’d put up with all her antics with a smile.

  “But you never loved me,” she spat. “I can’t believe I wasted so much time on you.”

  Now heads were turning in their direction. That couldn’t be good for anyone’s dignity. “Let’s walk out to the car,” he said gently. Thank God he’d asked the driver to wait, even if it was costing him a fortune. “We can talk more if you want.”

  “‘Talk’ is not what I came here for.” She’d raised her voice. And now she tossed her hair
in that age-old show of female defiance. “You are clearly too dumb to recognize a scoring opportunity when one comes around. Hope your teammates know. It doesn’t bode well for your stats on the road. Best of luck, rookie!” This last bit was delivered at a shout. And then Amy stomped away on her glittering high heels, her ass sashaying in that shiny dress. Dancers lost the beat on the dance floor, and the crowd parted for her.

  Then dozens of eyes landed on Leo, standing there stupidly.

  His neck was hot and his head throbbed. And he wanted nothing more than to tear his constricting bow tie off and hurl it across the room. Naturally his gaze fell right on Georgia, who was no longer dancing with Silas. She was staring at him in horror.

  Shit. Another PR disaster. Who knew the NHL would turn him into the kind of guy who caused a scene at least once a week? And he couldn’t even leave right now, because Amy might still be collecting her coat in the entryway and locating the car he asked to wait for her.

  Another drink, then.

  Leo took a deep breath and headed for the bar against the wall. While he waited for the bartender’s attention, he tried to imagine what his brother was going to say when he heard about this. The kid was going to laugh his ass off, probably.

  “Scotch, please,” he said when he reached the front of the line. He dug a couple of singles out of his pocket and tucked them into a brimming tip jar.

  “Leo,” a soft voice whispered.

  After taking his drink, he turned. There stood Georgia, looking both ridiculously hot and absolutely pissed off. All night he’d been trying not to notice her in that dark blue dress, which skimmed her taut body with one long sweep of fabric. She’d worn dresses dozens of times when they were young. But this one made it painfully obvious that she wasn’t a teenager anymore. It was sophisticated. Something a smart, sexy woman wore.

  Jesus. He found it impossible to stop his head—and other body parts—from revisiting the past.

  “That was quite a performance,” Georgia said, putting one hand on her silk-clad hip. Leo was envious of her palm. “Since when are you a spotlight hog? If I have reporters asking about the rookie and his messy dance-floor breakup tomorrow, you’ll officially be the most time-consuming player on my docket. God forbid my office should talk about hockey.”

  He heard every unfortunate word, even as he admired the pink tint to her cheeks and the fiery look in her eye. “Yeah, it was a lot of fun for me, too. I’m thinking I should just call it a night and slip out the back.”

  “Good plan,” she fired back.

  He took a big swig of his scotch, which was excellent. “Right. But if you do get calls tomorrow, try to remember that you invited her tonight.”

  Leo thought he’d gotten the last word, except he’d forgotten that Georgia always won a volley. “You dated her in the first place,” Georgia returned. “Or do I have that wrong?” Her big blue eyes narrowed, and she crossed her arms in front of her perfect chest. Hell, a guy could forget what argument he’d been making.

  That’s when he threw in the towel. When they were together, he always let her win the fights. Georgia was a smart girl, she never steered him wrong. And the makeup sex had always been spectacular. “Fine. I think it’s pretty clear tonight that I’m an idiot. Maybe the girl made a few good points there at the end.”

  Georgia’s lips twitched. Then she gave in and smiled. And it was like the sun came out. There was more warmth and humor in Georgia’s smile than he’d seen anywhere else in six years. His heart said, This. This right here.

  His brain didn’t weigh in at all, unfortunately. That’s the only explanation for the way he stepped forward to cup her cheek. His fingertips slid into the silky hair behind her ear.

  Those clear, pretty eyes widened slightly. But that didn’t stop him. For the first time in way too long, Leo leaned down and claimed her mouth in a kiss, right on her very sweet lips. Georgia made a soft, bitten-off sound of surprise. Damn, how he’d missed her. This was too much and yet not enough, either. He deepened the kiss, stroking her cheek with his thumb, his groin tightening at the feel of her skin under his hand. She tasted like the happiest years of his life.

  She tasted like his.

  But Georgia had more sense than he did—as always. She put one perfect hand in the center of his chest and gave him a little push. “Leo,” she warned softly as they broke apart. This wasn’t the time or the place for the reunion he craved, though neither his body nor his heart really cared. He straightened up, though, because her eyes asked him to. But he couldn’t have looked away—not even if he’d been promised a Stanley Cup win.

  And that was unfortunate. Because if he’d looked around, he might have seen the approach of Coach Worthington and his angry red face. Or at least his fist, which came shooting out to catch Leo square in the jaw.

  Leo’s head snapped sideways from the impact, and he stumbled back a step, his ass hitting the table beside the bar, where a hundred or so wine glasses were lined up, waiting for the next thirsty guests. The ensuing crash and tinkle of glass was deafening.

  As a reflex, Leo clapped a hand over his face at the point of connection. But he had to hold on to the bar with his free hand because the room seemed to tilt from impact. He closed his eyes, hoping he wouldn’t black out.

  “No!” he heard Georgia gasp, and the frightened edge to her voice helped him focus.

  He lifted his chin and opened his eyes, and the room righted itself.

  But people were scrambling around to stare. Heads turned from every direction to take in the latest scandal. Hugh Major, the general manager of the team, hustled over and tugged Coach Karl back a step. The man’s meaty hand on Georgia’s father’s arm was either a calming influence or a threat. Or maybe both.

  Glass continued to tinkle musically to the floor from the table behind Leo, and the pop and flash of several phone flashbulbs went off, the light bouncing erratically off the glass shards and guaranteeing that the newest Brooklyn Bruisers fiasco would make tomorrow’s gossip rags.

  Somehow, Silas slid between the growing cluster of gaping people, arriving at Leo’s side. “Come on,” was all he said before pulling him out of the scrum.

  Leo obeyed, straightening up to his full height and dropping his hands to his sides. After a few deep breaths he was steady on his feet as they entered the lobby.

  “You have a coat check?” Silas asked.

  “Uh . . .” Leo dug into his pocket, coming out with the paper tag.

  Silas took it. “Wait here. Two minutes.”

  His jaw throbbing, Leo leaned back against a pillar and looked up at the ornamental ceiling far above him. Someone had gone to the trouble to make the room look like a forest in winter. Tomorrow the place would be back to looking like a music hall.

  He had to wonder whether he’d be back to looking like a minor league player in the morning. Getting punched by the coach? Not an auspicious sign.

  * * *

  By the time Silas got him home in a cab, his phone had lit up several times with numbers he didn’t recognize. He didn’t answer any of them. The lights in the hallway outside their apartment were all too bright. He just wanted to put some ice on his aching face and go to bed.

  “How old is Georgia?” Silas asked as the door swung open, and Leo realized they hadn’t spoken all the way home.

  “Twenty-four,” Leo mumbled, his jaw stiff.

  “Can’t punch a man for kissing your daughter unless he’s robbin’ the cradle.”

  “Apparently you can.” It hurt to speak. Leo headed straight for his room.

  Silas chuckled. “You need anything? Motrin? Water? A lawyer, maybe?”

  “Just ice.”

  “I’ll bring you a pack.”

  Leo waved a hand. “You don’t have to, man.”

  “I know.”

  He stripped off the tux and got ready for bed, ignoring his phone. In the
mirror, his jaw looked swollen already. So he stopped looking at it. He took a pain reliever and lifted his suitcase off the bed and onto the floor. First thing tomorrow morning he’d be getting on a plane with the team and Coach Worthington. Wouldn’t that be cozy.

  Silas walked in, an ice pack in one of his hands, a phone in the other. “You’re not answering, apparently. The team’s doctor is looking for you.”

  “Thanks,” Leo grunted, taking the ice and—reluctantly—the phone. “Hello?”

  “Mr. Trevi, I hear you took a punch to the jaw.”

  “Yessir,” he said, trying to enunciate so the doctor would know he was okay, and leave him alone. He sat down on the bed. “It’s not too bad, though.”

  “How are your teeth?” the doctor asked. “Any looseness?”

  “No.”

  “Did the skin break or abrade either inside or outside your mouth?”

  “Don’t think so.” He didn’t feel like getting up to check, either.

  “Are you experiencing nausea or dizziness?

  “No. Just pain.”

  “On a scale of 1 to . . .”

  “. . . Just a three,” Leo broke in, inventing a number. “Hurts at the point of impact. I took a couple of Advil. I’m icing it.”

  “Tell me exactly what medication you took, please.”

  Didn’t he just do that? “Two ordinary Advil. Nothing fancy.”

  “Okay. I’m worried about a concussion, Mr. Trevi.”

  “Leo,” he corrected. “And I really don’t think it’s that bad.”

  “All right,” the doctor said mildly. “If you have nausea or dizziness, you can call me, and if it’s serious, you should always go to the ER or call 911.”

  “Got it,” Leo promised. He sure as hell hoped he didn’t have a concussion. What player ever sat out an NHL game because the coach punched him? It was almost impressive how many brand-new ways Leo seemed to have found to fuck up a pro career.

  “We’ll speak tomorrow morning,” the doctor said. It was a demand, not a question.

  Leo hung up, handed over the phone, then climbed into bed to put a terrible evening to rest. What a disaster. Except for that kiss . . .