Rookie Move

by Sarina Bowen

  Castro snickered. “Somebody’s a fan.”

  Georgia stepped back quickly, hoping she wasn’t drooling on herself. “Stop. You can get any girl in America with one of these shots. Don’t pretend that doesn’t interest you.”

  “Fine. They can oil my brown ass up. At least it makes a good story for the bar later. C’mon Trevi. Strip. We don’t have all day.” He grinned at Leo.

  Still frowning, Leo began to loosen his tie. “Can you take this?” he asked, handing his jacket to Georgia. “I don’t need to get oil on my suit.”

  “Of course.” She took the suit jacket and waited for his tie. And all the while she worked on her game face. It was not going to be easy to look casual while Leo stripped.

  “Crazy job you’ve got here, George,” Leo said in a low voice as he unbuttoned his shirt.

  “Just another day at the office,” she said, pulling her phone out of her bag and attempting to look bored. As if watching a hot athlete pose for a sensual photograph in the middle of a hockey rink was really not all that interesting.

  “Do I really have to do this?” he asked under his breath.

  “Nope. You don’t,” she said immediately. She wouldn’t force him to. “Baring your ass for charity is a pretty personal decision.”

  “What’s the charity again? It better be something important.” He handed over his shirt, and she absolutely did not stare at his abs.

  Okay, she only took one tiny peek. Just a glance, really. “It’s, uh . . .” What was the question? “The charity is called Everyone Play. They help spread awareness to keep sports free of homophobia.”

  He sighed, kicking off his dress shoes. “Sounds pretty worthy. So will you be the one oiling me up?”

  A shiver ran right through her, and she hoped Leo didn’t notice. But of course he raised a cocky eyebrow. Busted. “Nope.” She shook her head. “Sorry.”

  He made a pouty face. The same one he used to give her when she had to leave him to make it home in time for curfew. “I think I deserve some kind of reward, though. A kiss good night, later.” He picked that moment to drop his trousers and his boxers on the floor.

  Georgia gulped and focused her gaze on his ear. Must. Keep. Eyes. On. Ear. She could feel her heartbeat accelerating. As soon as he handed her those trousers, she would get out of there.

  “Um, George?” He asked, frowning. “Is there something wrong with my ear?”

  “Not a thing,” she said shrilly. “I’ll just go hang this stuff up for you.” She grabbed at the trousers, turned her back, and fled into the empty dressing room, locating the locker reading TREVI and taking a few moments to hang everything up.

  When she returned, Castro was signing a photo release form, but Leo was buck naked except for his socks, facing the wall of the tunnel while a female assistant rubbed oil down his thighs with two hands.

  “Stay away from my ankles,” he coached. “We need to keep the oil off my skates.”

  “Sure thing,” the assistant chirped. She stopped to douse her hand in more oil from a bottle sitting nearby. Whistling to herself, she ran her hands all over Leo’s calves, knees, hamstrings, and up his gorgeous muscular . . .

  Gah. Georgia took a deep breath and looked out onto the ice, where the photographer had positioned a tripod.

  “Uh, that’s getting kind of fresh,” Leo complained. “Kind of . . . ticklish there,” he said through gritted teeth.

  “Just doing my job, sir,” the assistant said.

  Do. Not. Look, she ordered herself. “Are you ready for your skates?” she asked him without turning her head.

  “Yeah, but they’re right here.” In her peripheral vision, he turned, sitting down on a folding chair to lace them up. “Shit that’s cold!” He laughed. “And I almost slid off this thing.” He bent over and laced up one skate and then the other.

  Georgia allowed herself one glance at his gorgeous upper body, his muscles shining like an oil painting come to life. “I’m going to check the security,” she said suddenly. “We don’t need some staff member snapping naked pics of you two and passing them around on Twitter.”

  Hearing this, the photographer stood up from peering into her camera. “Let me see if I can spot anyone.” She turned in a slow circle, studying the stands. “I think we’re good. I’ve got a guy in the lighting booth, but he’s supposed to be the only one up there.”

  Georgia stood up on the visiting team’s bench and scanned the mezzanine level. “I don’t see anyone, either.”

  “We should get hazard pay for this shit,” Castro said. “And now you’ve oiled up that chair. So thanks for that.”

  “Whew,” Leo said, straightening up, and giving an exaggerated shiver. “It’s a bit nippy in here. Hope that camera doesn’t capture goose bumps.” Then he stood, stark naked, and Georgia scrambled to find somewhere to put her eyes.

  “Where’d my helmet go?” he asked, looking around.

  Right. Stay focused. Find Leo’s helmet. Georgia dropped her eyes to the floor and searched.

  “Hey, George?”

  “Yeah?” her voice was hoarse, her eyes scanning the walls of the chute.

  “You have my helmet in your hand.”

  “What?” She looked quickly at her hands. Sure enough, one of them was clutching the strap to Leo’s helmet. Great. Now she was practically losing all executive function. “Uh, sorry,” she said, thrusting it in his general direction.

  “Now all I need is my stick,” Leo said. “My other stick.” Everyone except Georgia laughed. He grabbed his stick and stepped onto the ice with a smile that said, I’m making the best of this.

  The photographer beckoned from behind her giant camera. “Okay, HOUSE LIGHTS OFF! And Leo, take a warm-up lap. Then I want you to skate past me with one leg in front of the other, so we can’t see your peen.”

  “You won’t see it anyway,” he called, heading down the ice, the muscles in his gorgeous butt pumping. “It’s gone into hiding.” Georgia tried not to swallow her own tongue as a spotlight came up on Leo as he curved at the end of the rink and gracefully skated back toward the photographer, in full naked glory. “This gives new meaning to ‘dangling the puck,’” he said.

  “You are having way too much fun with this,” Castro pointed out.

  “Fun is the point,” the assistant said. “Be a crime not to have fun with that body.” Leaning forward for a better view, she sighed as Leo made another nude loop on the ice.

  Thank heavens the rink was mostly dark, so that nobody could see Georgia’s face. Leo had always skated beautifully and he’d always had the body of a god. But watching him skate around in the altogether was more than a girl could really be expected to take. Don’t look at his package, she coached herself as he came around the oval again. Don’t look . . .

  She looked, but was too late for the full monty. All she saw was a dark trail of trimmed hair down his belly, where it dove toward a V of pure muscle. Then his statuesque thigh swept forward, hiding the good stuff. She slammed her eyes shut. Self-torture was really not her style. But it was hard to believe that he used to be hers. That she’d once been the first woman to touch him.

  No, the first girl. They’d been so young. It was important to remember how far in the past it all was.

  “Yeah, like that,” the photographer was saying. “Now do it again, passing me closer. And slow it down just a notch. Drop your left shoulder and raise your chin . . .”

  Georgia gave herself a little shake. In mere minutes they’d be done. The lights would come up, and she’d be standing here with her tongue hanging out like a Saint Bernard. She tore her eyes off of Leo’s perfection and went back to the locker room to find the poor man a towel to wear on his way to the showers.

  SIXTEEN

  Georgia spent ten long hours at the rink, but the day only got more exciting after the photo shoot.

  After another nail
-biter of an afternoon, her father had put Leo on the game card. Then Leo did it—he scored his first NHL goal.

  It was the third period of the game, which was tied 2–2. Coach had switched up the lines midgame—probably trying to keep their opponent from getting too comfortable with their offensive style. Leo was skating with Bayer and O’Doul, who got a breakaway. The captain couldn’t find his shot, though, with both the opponent’s defensemen suddenly in his face. So he’d crossed the puck backwards to Leo.

  Who snapped it right past the goalie’s elbow into the net.

  Georgia had practically gone hoarse from screaming. Not that Leo could hear her all the way up in the press box. When she came to her senses, she pulled up a document of Leo’s bio and minor league stats. With shaking fingers, she’d e-mailed it to every journalist on the premises.

  In the hallway after the game, they’d all stuck their microphones into Leo’s face. Their camera spotlights illuminated his sweaty, victorious expression. “How does it feel to sink your first NHL goal?” the journos had asked.

  “It feels like pulling a win over Arizona,” he’d said.

  Not only had he scored the winning goal, his soundbite was humble and supportive of the rest of the team. He really was the perfect man.

  Georgia hadn’t even spoken to her father after the game, for fear of saying something that sounded exactly like a giddy teenager. So she went back to her hotel room alone. She put on a Bruisers T-shirt and pink flannel pants and got into bed. But she was too buzzed to sleep. Her head and her heart were too full to do anything but relive the day.

  She couldn’t even call Becca because it was already midnight, and the poor girl would be asleep. She sat back against the upholstered headboard, hugged her knees to her chest, and groaned. How did people fall asleep on nights like this? Was counting sheep passé? Had Nate come up with an app to solve this problem yet?

  There was a light knocking sound on the wall beside her head. Tap. Tap. Georgia held her breath, listening. Then it came again, this time in a familiar rhythm. Shave-and-a-haircut.

  Georgia reached up to finish the pattern: two bits.

  Her phone rang a second later. It was Leo calling.

  She answered at a whisper. “Hi.”

  “Hi. Everything okay? I heard you groan.”

  “I’m fine,” she said quickly.

  “Yeah? Then was it a good kind of groan?”

  She laughed. “No! Mind out of the gutter, Mr. Trevi.”

  “Mmm,” he said, his voice roughened. “That’s too bad, because I’m laying here naked, groaning your name.”

  The hair stood up on Georgia’s arms, and she suddenly felt warm all the way to the center. “Leo!” she scolded.

  “Kidding!” He chuckled. “I’m watching sports highlights on TV, actually.”

  “Geez!” she squealed, embarrassed.

  He laughed. “I’m sorry! I could make it happen for real. Come over here.”

  “No way.” She gave a little shiver at the idea.

  “Gigi, I’m awake because I’m too hyper to sleep. I just saw a clip of myself on the fucking television. It was entirely surreal. I need someone to talk to me, because I’m bouncing off the ceiling here. Please? Just come and watch TV with me. We’ll watch whatever you want. Here . . .” There was a pause and she thought she heard movement on the other side of the wall. Then she heard the sound of a lock sliding open. “I opened my door. Come visit.”

  She hesitated. “You make it sound so simple,” she whispered.

  “It is. I miss you. It doesn’t have to be a big deal. Just get over here and I’ll raid the mini bar. I think I saw Combos. Hang on . . .” There was the sound of rustling chip bags. “Got ’em!”

  Georgia was on her feet before her brain could really weigh in. “Cheese or peanut butter?”

  “Uh, Sweet and Salty Caramel?”

  Rawr. She ended the call and tossed the phone on the bed. I’m just doing this for the Combos, she told herself as she opened the door to his room and went inside.

  He was sitting on the bed, mirroring her former position exactly, phone still to his ear. Lowering it slowly, he gave her a shy smile. “Midnight snack?” He tossed the phone aside and picked up the bag, tugging it open.

  Again Georgia hesitated. Should she just climb up on the bed with him?

  He patted the spot next to him. Then he picked up the remote and nudged the TV volume up. The announcer was talking about college basketball now.

  Georgia sat down and swung her feet up. Leo handed her the open bag. They sat there crunching together for a couple of minutes, listening to the talking heads argue about who had the best chance to do well during March Madness. They finished the Combos quickly.

  “Carolina looks good this year,” Leo said, balling up the bag.

  “They look good every year. And yet it’s been a while.” She took the bottle of water he passed her and cracked it open. They watched several clips of unbelievably tall men flying toward the basket like gazelles.

  That’s when déjà vu set in. This used to be them on any given weekend. Snacks and commentary. Sports and snark and easy conversation.

  On the television, the presenter launched into the week’s sports bloopers. Leo drained his own bottle of water and tossed the empty onto the distant nightstand. He leaned back, his big body comfortable against the cushions. One of his hands fell onto her knee and gave a casual squeeze, then relaxed. He let out a chuckle at something funny on the screen. His big body was right there beside her. Close enough that she took in the scent of laundry soap and warm skin.

  Georgia closed her eyes and just absorbed the moment. It was simple. Georgia and Leo, parked beside each other after a long day. A moment of late night peace. How many times had they sat like this together? A thousand?

  The scene was so familiar, with one big exception. She wasn’t the same girl she’d been when they’d first watched the sports recaps together. That had been a different Georgia. Teenage Georgia thought that life would always be that easy. That her boyfriend would always love her. Weirdly, even though her mother had passed away when she was little, Georgia hadn’t really understood the power of loss until she was eighteen. She and Leo had probably watched this same television program the week before she’d been raped. Maybe they’d snacked on chips or passed a bottle of water back and forth. Maybe it was even the same brand.

  Struck by a pang of dread for her younger self, Georgia felt a ripple of despair. That teenager sitting on the couch had had an easy laugh and a generous spirit. She thought everything would always be easy.

  But it wasn’t. Not at all. She hadn’t known how everything could blow up so completely. That two people who’d always been so close could suddenly have a wall of fear and discomfort between them.

  Her eyes began to sting, and the TV went into soft focus.

  Damn it.

  Georgia slid off the bed and headed for the bathroom—Leo’s bathroom. So it wouldn’t look like she was sprinting away. She closed the door and flicked on the light, catching herself in the mirror. Her eyes were red and her face was flushed. Ugh. She sat down on the edge of the tub, annoyed at the older Georgia. This one fled into bathrooms and got teary.

  That was the problem with Leo turning up. Two weeks ago, if you’d asked Georgia whether or not she was doing well, she would have answered hell yes. She had a good life in Brooklyn and she didn’t walk around scared all the time. She’d healed, goddamn it. So what if she hadn’t dated anyone more than twice in six years? Good men were thin on the ground. It wasn’t because she was damaged goods.

  And yet . . . Leo waltzed into town and threw everything into high relief. Suddenly it was impossible not to compare her old life with her new one. And the new one didn’t stack up so well.

  Georgia pushed her fingertips into the corners of her eyes and took a deep breath.

 
There was a tap on the door. “Gigi? You okay?”

  “Yeah,” she bit out. A tear escaped its prison and trickled down her finger.

  The door opened a crack, and one brown eye looked down at her. Then the door opened further to reveal Leo’s concerned face. He held out a hand. “Come here, Gi. Come sit with me.”

  She shook her head. Sitting beside Leo would just make it ache.

  “Please,” he whispered.

  Georgia stood up. Her plan was to beat it to her own room before the trickle turned to a river. She’d never been a cryer, either. Not until after she’d been . . . A sob forced itself out of her chest.

  Two arms pulled her against the warm wall of Leo’s chest. She took a deep, shaky breath and bit her lip, trying to stop the fricking tears. But she’d been holding it all back for days. And he felt so good. Her eyes dripped like leaky faucets, and she pressed her forehead into his T-shirt so she couldn’t see her own miserable face in the mirror. “I’m sorry,” she said, the words garbled by the fresh-smelling cotton.

  “Nah,” he said softly. “Come on now.” He bent his knees and lifted her a foot off the ground, his forearm catching her under her backside.

  She closed her eyes and pressed her hot cheek against his shoulder. There was the sound of effort as he flung the comforter aside and deposited her onto the bed. Then he clicked off the lamp.

  Since the TV was already black, the room became dark, except for the low light shining through the open door from her own room.

  Leo traveled around to the opposite side of the king-sized bed and got in. His voice came through the dark, the sound a cross between a growl and a whisper. “Let me hold you.”

  She rolled, depositing her chin on his shoulder. Strong arms pulled her closer, until she was half on his body. It felt divine. Except for one problem. “I don’t even want to count all the times you’ve held me while I cried.” The words sounded bitter. But she was bitter. To be with Leo meant going back to that place where they both felt bad about what had happened, and what they’d lost.

  His hand sifted through her hair while she waited for him to say something. “I don’t like it when you’re sad,” he admitted. “But we had a lot more good than bad.”