by Sarina Bowen
Silas shrugged. “See you in the morning. We have yoga first.”
“Of course we do.” Leo walked out of the bar, shaking his head.
FIFTEEN
TUESDAY, FEBRUARY 9
20 DAYS BEFORE THE NHL TRADE DEADLINE
PHOENIX, ARIZONA
TOP TEAM HEADLINES:
“Arizona Favored to Win Against Brooklyn Tonight at Home, Adding to a Three-Game Streak”
—Phoenix Eagle Sports Page
Georgia carried her yoga mat into the room that Nate had reserved and took a spot in back, like she always did.
The team’s yoga classes were taught by Ari, the team’s massage therapist, which meant that yoga classes were held at least three times a week even when the team was on the road. Georgia hadn’t been to a class in a while, though. Last week she’d bailed on yoga twice, because the idea of watching Leo do sun salutations was distracting as hell. And then the whole team had missed a couple of sessions, because Ari had taken some sick days, which was unusual.
The exotic, tattooed instructor, in her trademark pink leotard and tights, gave her a cheery wave from the front of the room, which Georgia returned. But then she noticed Ari’s blue boot cast on one foot.
Well, that explained the massage therapist’s absence. Bummer.
Georgia unrolled her hot pink mat and sat down to stretch. Up in front she spotted Nate. The owner had flown out to see tonight’s game, probably on his private jet. He was already limbering up in the front row on his purple Bruisers mat. Nate was a little nutty about his yoga. There were other NHL teams who had yoga and meditation as part of their training program. But this class had been Nate’s own initiative, and he liked to get the whole organization involved. Coaches—and publicists—were encouraged to participate.
Which was why, to Georgia’s amusement, her father wandered in a minute later, wearing an ancient track suit and a scowl. It hadn’t occurred to her that Dad would have to do downward dog and the warrior pose with the rest of them. Maybe next time she’d smuggle in her phone and snap a few pictures. Her aunt Joanie would be so amused.
Inevitably, Leo arrived, entering the room with a yoga mat in hand. And inevitably, Georgia’s heart tripped over itself at the sight of him. She watched his eyes sweep the room and land on her. Then he walked right over and positioned himself in front of her. “Morning,” he said under his breath.
“Morning,” she repeated, feeling a prickle of sweat under her arms. Really? She had to spend the next hour trying not to stare at his butt? He’d worn a pair of Harkness College sweatpants to class, but instead of hiding everything they seemed to cling to his muscular thighs.
As he unrolled his mat—lime green—she wondered where he’d gotten it. She could hardly picture him wandering into one of the boutiques in Brooklyn and purchasing it. But who knew? Maybe Leo was a yoga pro. Maybe he had mats in every color of the rainbow. She needed to keep in mind that they didn’t really know each other anymore. Aside from a hot and heavy make-out session and a few texts, they’d been apart for longer than they had ever been together.
In fact, if Ari asked them to meditate later, Georgia would choose restraint as today’s guiding principle. Control. Distance. Reserve. They were all good words, and she would rhyme them into a mantra if it made it easier to rein in crazy thoughts about Leo Trevi.
He’d sat down on his mat and was currently rolling his wide shoulders, the same ones she’d gripped with both hands while they’d tried to fuse themselves together at the mouth.
Gah! Restraint.
Restraint.
Restraint.
Even if her unruly little heartstrings still vibrated whenever he walked into a room, their former connection was just that. Former.
Luckily for Georgia, Ari brought the class to attention. “Good morning, yogis! Let’s have a seat, please, cross your left leg and then your right. If you have tightness in your hips or lower back, please feel free to sit up on a block or straighten your legs at any point . . .”
Georgia assumed the position, then lifted her clasped hands in imitation of the teacher. Ari began the familiar series of wrist and forearm circles that always began her classes. There was a comfort in this, and Georgia understood why Nate made yoga a part of their routine no matter where they were. Living out of your suitcase was disorienting, and at least once a season Georgia gave herself a bruise or a stubbed toe while trying to find the bathroom in the middle of the night in a strange hotel room. But the geography of her yoga mat was always the same. And Ari’s soothing voice and warm-up routine were a pleasant way to wake the body.
The players still joked about Ari’s high-minded language. They felt weird “centering” themselves or “finding inner peace” in yoga-speak. (“I’ll show you my inner piece, babe. Heh heh.”) But that was just trash talk. After they got used to the routine, they always stopped fighting it. An hour from now, everyone leaving this room would have warm, limber muscles and a calm attitude.
At the front of the room, Nate sat comfortably in the Sukhasana position, his lean body displaying perfect posture. Later, when the poses became more difficult, he’d be inverting himself with statuesque form while the highly paid athletes around him shook and shimmied like a pack of wet dogs. The boss man was ridiculously good at yoga.
At the side of the room, Georgia’s father grimaced through a simple forward bend. Georgia looked forward to watching her father try to tackle the tougher poses, but she was suddenly robbed of this fun about fifteen minutes into the class, when the cheater actually bailed. “Please excuse me,” he said to Ari. “I have a conference call.”
She gave him a look that said, Conference call my ass. Ari may be the queen of yoga but she was a Brooklynite through and through. You don’t bail on her class. It simply wasn’t done.
But her father marched through the room with as much guilt as Napoleon exiting Mount Tabor. He gave her a grin, but it snagged when he noticed Leo right in front of her. As he passed, his sneer seemed to say, Stay away from my daughter.
Leo didn’t even glance up at him. Point Leo.
The class progressed to sun salutations, and Georgia managed not to laugh when Leo fell out of the transition into downward dog. It was entirely distracting to have him in front of her, though. His reverse warrior made his T-shirt ride up, giving Georgia an oblique view of his happy trail as his muscled torso twisted to the side . . .
Turn away from the light, she ordered herself.
But there was something about the warm room and her increasingly limber body which began to make her a little crazy. As her body moved and stretched in close proximity to Leo’s, it took only a short leap of imagination to reposition them in fun and interesting ways. His long arms put every perfect muscle on display when he moved, and when Ari invited the class to “find your center,” Georgia felt like begging Leo to find hers.
It was a long hour, and when the minutes of private meditation and visualization arrived at the end, Georgia’s visualizations were much more stimulating than usual.
When the class finally ended and Leo turned around, he gave her a look hot enough to heat the place for a bikram class.
Yowza. None of that. Georgia rolled up her yoga mat and beat a fast retreat back to her room for some alone time. It was bad enough that she’d have to take him to a naked photo shoot in a few hours.
A tepid shower helped. Then she sat down to her overstuffed inbox, which proved to be the perfect libido-killing distraction. It was only nine in the morning, and already there were fires to put out at work. She took a minute to call Becca to check in. “Hey, lady!”
“Hey, babe! How was yoga?”
“Well, I think I’m ready to start dating again.”
Becca was momentarily shocked into silence. “Really. That’s awesome, sweetie! I need to say up front that I deserve details—juicy, juicy details.”
“Good luck with that. Okay.
Who should I date?”
There was another silence on the line. “I thought we were talking about Leo Trevi. Georgia? Who is this?”
“Bec! I can’t date a player. I mean—professionally it’s a horrible idea. And there is zero privacy in the clubhouse. Can you imagine?”
“So it’s not the ideal setup. But he’s perfect, right? And that’s what matters?”
Georgia sighed. “I’m really rusty, though. Out of practice. Atrophied. I need a warm-up date. Someone to limber me up.”
Becca laughed. “There’s nothing like dating a guy you don’t actually like to limber a girl up. And a year ago you swore off dating apps for good. So where are we going to find this warmer-upper man?”
Those were good points. “I’m screwed.”
“No,” Becca insisted. “But you should get screwed. Tonight if possible. By a hot rookie forward.”
“Don’t think I’m not tempted.”
“So, God. Just do it.”
“Really, Bec? Of all the people on the planet, that one is the—” She almost said the scariest choice. But Georgia didn’t get scared. “—the riskiest one.”
“Risky how? I thought you dumped him.”
“Oh, I did. But not because I wanted to. I was just accepting the inevitable. He fell out of love with me, but you can’t dump the weepy rape victim. So I did it for him.”
“How nice of you,” Becca said, her tone just barely on the right side of patronizing. “So what the hell was that kiss, then? I saw that boy make his move. Hell, everyone saw it.”
That was true. And confusing as hell. Then there was yesterday’s shenanigans . . . “Maybe he wants the last word,” Georgia suggested. “Leo is competitive. I dumped him, and now he wants a turn.”
“Oh my God. You are the most cynical girl alive.”
Was she? It hadn’t always been true, but being a rape survivor at eighteen could do that to a girl. “I hate this. I hate that he’s making me think about everything that happened in the past. Two weeks ago I didn’t have to look at his ridiculously handsome face and wonder if he was attracted to me. And then wonder why he stopped being attracted to me.”
“You’re right, there’s no cure for that kind of torture. Oh wait. What if you asked him?”
No can do. “I’ll take it under advisement.” But seriously—she and Leo were never having that conversation. It was ten times worse than asking a man, Do I look fat in these jeans? Before her attack they’d had sex constantly. Afterward he’d taken to giving her dry pecks on the cheek. As if he couldn’t retreat fast enough. Sure, he’d hold her on the couch when she was sad, which was all the time. But if she ran her hand down his chest and left it tauntingly on his inner thigh, he’d pick it up and move it elsewhere.
His body language said, Yuck. And she’d died a little inside every time he’d pulled away from her.
“I don’t know what to tell you, sweetie.” Becca sighed. “At least one of us shouldn’t be lonely.”
“But we’re not!” Georgia insisted. “So what if we don’t have a guy? We have a great roommate. We have great jobs . . .”
“. . . Decent jobs, which we’re both in danger of losing.”
“Okay, decent jobs. Fine. And an apartment in one of the nicest neighborhoods in the world.”
“There’s a mouse in the kitchen again.”
“Damn it! You’re not making this whole pep talk thing easy.”
Becca laughed. “It isn’t, though. Because I want a guy in my life. I want a partner, and kids. I’d go gay for you, hon, but adoption is expensive. And then there’s the matter of your not having a dick.”
“It’s always something with you.” Georgia wished she could just fly home now and sit on the ugly couch with Bec. Where things were easy.
“Did Nate make it to yoga? He was worried about flight delays out of Teterboro.”
“He made it. Looking Zen as ever.”
“In his I-am-not-afraid-to-wear-tight-shorts shorts?”
“Yep.” Georgia hesitated. “Do you think he has the technology to hear everything we say on these things? Maybe he monitors us.”
“Maybe. Did I tell you that I plan on working an extra twelve hours today? And I’m skipping lunch just to get some extra work done.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Love you, George. I have to go get some actual work done.”
“You’re very convincing. Bye!”
* * *
Georgia waited in the hotel lobby for her calendar boys. The blog had asked for Castro as well as Leo for their au naturel pictures.
Castro was the first to arrive. “Hey, Killer,” he said with a smile. Castro had quite a nice smile, actually. He was a winger who’d been Nate’s first trade after he’d acquired the team. He had the most unusual coloring Georgia had ever seen on a man—flawless brown skin and unexpectedly pale hazel eyes. No wonder Hockey Hotties wanted to photograph him. If he left hockey, he had a future in modeling.
“Hey, Castro. I guess that nickname is going to stick around.”
“Seems so.” He grinned.
Thanks, Dad. She surveyed the busy lobby, and her vision snagged on a tall, dark, sharply dressed man coming toward her.
Leo.
You’d think after a couple of weeks she’d be used to the sight of him. But no such luck. He wore his game-night suit and cocky smile, and her heart did a slutty shimmy just at the sight of him. She was thoroughly confused about what it meant to have him back in her life, but her subconscious wasn’t confused at all. Whenever he appeared, all her senses leapt to attention. And now she knew what that muscle felt like under her hands when they kissed . . .
“Hi, gorgeous,” he said, looking as dashing as ever.
Yowza. It was going to be a long afternoon. “Hey there. Are you ready to play tonight?”
His smile faded. “We’ll see.”
“How was practice?”
“Epically bad.”
Noooo. “Did something happen?” She didn’t know how much more drama she could take.
He gave his head a slow shake. “Nope. Just not my day. And I can’t afford to have days like that. Not even one.”
“I’m sorry,” she said. No matter how confusing it was to have Leo around, she wanted him to have his chance.
“Where are we headed, anyway?” He held the hotel’s front door open for both her and Castro. “Some photography studio?”
“Nope. The rink. These are going to be action shots.”
Leo scratched his chin, which was sporting a delectable amount of scruff. “Like, in the locker room?”
“Probably,” Georgia hedged. She didn’t really know what the photographer had in mind, but they were about to find out.
The three of them got into the waiting limo. “There’s only twelve months in the year,” Castro pointed out. “And thirty NHL teams. Are they seriously going to use two of us? Or am I going to get cut in favor of pretty boy here.”
“Better to be cut from a beefcake calendar than from the team,” Leo pointed out.
“True.” Castro chuckled.
“That’s probably why there’s two of us,” he grumbled. “In case one of us gets sent down before this thing goes to print.”
“That’s the spirit,” Georgia said, poking him in the knee. His muscular knee . . . Focus, Georgia. But it was hard to mentally keep her distance when they were in the same vehicle together.
It was a short limo ride, thankfully. They showed their Bruisers IDs to the security guard at the stadium door, and a staff member led them through the bowels of the arena to the visitors’ dressing room, where the photographer and her two assistants waited.
“I’m Gloria,” the photographer said. She was a stocky woman with a beautiful face, a dozen earrings, and a militant flattop. “You must be Georgia. Thank you for bringing me these two
healthy hunks of man meat.”
“Um . . .” Georgia sputtered.
“I’m Castro,” the player said, holding out his hand. “How do you want this to work?”
The photographer sized him up from head to toe and up again. “Nice,” she said. Then she turned to Leo and did the same. “Okay, let’s start on the ice itself. You’ve got your skates, right? Follow me.” She pushed through to the chute door and led them down to the visitors’ bench. “I’m going to set up, and then Gracie here will help you prep. I’ve got someone standing by to change the lighting.” She waved a hand vaguely toward the mezzanine level. “So who’s first?”
“He is,” Castro said quickly, pointing at Leo.
“Aw, hell,” Leo grumbled.
“Okay.” The photographer rubbed her hands together. “I want to put you on the rink in nothing but your skates.”
“Brrr,” Castro said, cackling. “Things are gonna be shrinking, then.”
Georgia bit her lip, and Leo scowled.
“You’ll be holding your helmet in a very strategic place,” the photographer continued. “The shot will be sensual, but not pornographic.”
“Good to know,” Leo said under his breath.
“Stop your whining,” the photographer said with a grin. “I’m going to make you look like a super stud. Now drop trou and my helpers will get you oiled up.”
Leo spoke up. “Um, why the oil?”
“You have to glow. Look at this.” The photographer took a binder out of the side of her giant camera bag and handed it to Leo, who flipped it open to a spread in the middle.
Everyone went silent, because they’d all misjudged the photographer. She was a freaking artist. These shots showed a series of football players posing in various sporty locations—a locker room, lounging on bleachers, or standing on turf at night, the stadium lights illuminating their sculpted bodies. They had a surprisingly ethereal quality, each image a moody masterpiece. The light played over each man’s musculature, making the athletes look like a race of superhumans.
“Whoa,” Georgia breathed.
