by Savanna Fox
Georgia was with them, Bernadette right beside her. The din was so loud, Georgia could barely make out what her mom was yelling. “That’s him, number seventy-seven, right?”
“That’s him.”
He skated toward her, and she pumped her fist in the signature salute. He pumped one back, and for a long moment their gazes connected. He was on fire with excitement and determination.
They were going to win. They had to.
To her surprise, her eyes were damp. Who’d ever have guessed she could feel so strongly about a hockey game?
Bernadette, on her feet beside Georgia, leaned close to yell in her ear, “Business colleagues? I call bullshit, baby.”
Georgia pretended not to hear, and fought back a smile.
The national anthems played. Seeing the players shift restlessly, she couldn’t even imagine their anxiety and eagerness. The sense of anticipation in the arena was so thick, it could be sliced with a hockey blade.
And it was, when the puck dropped and Woody slashed it away from the Ducks’ player and swept it toward one of the Beavers, who was down the ice toward the Anaheim goal.
The action was fast, faster than in any of the other games Georgia had watched, or maybe that was because it was live. It was all so immediate. The huge men flying back and forth, the sound of blades slicing the ice, the whack of sticks hitting the puck, the players’ grunts of effort. The thud of bodies hitting bodies, and the shudder of the Plexiglas when players slammed into it.
It was so physical and primal and utterly masculine.
Somehow, it was easy to forget that all this speed and skill and effort was directed to getting that little black disk into the opposite team’s goal. She’d always thought it ridiculous how people got so worked up over players chasing balls—or in this case a disk—yet she was totally drawn in.
In the first period, both teams fought hard. One of the Beavers was sent to the penalty box, but even shorthanded, the remaining players—including Woody—stopped the Ducks from scoring on the power play. Every time Woody got the puck, one or more of the Ducks was on him, trying to block him, to hit him, to stop him from scoring. He battled back, came close with a couple of shots and assists, but at the end of the period, neither team had put a goal up on the scoreboard.
When Georgia and her mom got up and stretched, she realized her muscles were locked with tension. “This is stressful,” she admitted.
“Course it is. That’s your man out there.”
“He isn’t my man.” At least not for the long term. Even so, there was something outrageously satisfying knowing that hundreds of women in the arena were staring at Woody with hungry eyes, and she was the one he’d saluted before the game started. She was the one he’d come home to tonight—to lick his wounds or to celebrate his victory.
She really hoped they’d be cracking open a bottle of champagne.
“I’ll buy you another glass of wine,” Bernadette said. “Maybe it’ll settle your nerves.”
“Thanks.” They made their way to the line. “I wonder what Woody’s saying to them in the locker room? He takes it so personally.”
“How d’you mean?”
“He loves the sport, and he’s committed to his team. He feels responsible when things don’t go well, and he tries to keep them motivated and focused.”
Bernadette handed her a second glass of white wine, smirking. “But he’s not your man.”
Rather than answer, Georgia said, “Let’s get back to our seats.”
There, she watched the second period with nail-chewing anxiety. Even to her inexperienced eye, something looked different out on the ice. The Beavers had been strong in the first period, but now their play was almost like a dance. An absurd analogy, considering they were giant men, padded and helmeted, yet the moves, the patterns, almost seemed choreographed. The team was in sync. Woody’d told her about spatial and situational intelligence, and she could see it at play.
As the Ducks tried to get the puck away from Bouchard, who was powering toward the goal, Georgia kept an eye on Woody, zipping across the ice. Bouchard deked suddenly and slapped the puck to Woody, who was now perfectly positioned on the other side of the goal.
The Ducks’ goaltender flung himself across the crease, but not quickly enough. Woody flicked the puck over the man’s shoulder and into the back of the net. The first goal of the game.
Georgia leaped to her feet along with the rest of the Vancouver fans, everyone screaming, whooping, whistling. She and her mom hugged each other, and on the ice, Beavers pounded Woody on the back and banged the top of his helmet with gloved fists. A jubilant grin split his face.
When he broke away, he gazed toward her, and she pumped her fist into the air, laughing with sheer joy.
As the crowd settled back into their seats, Bernadette said, “I never in this world thought you’d date a hockey player. I’m impressed.”
“I’m not dating him.” Dating, for her and her mom, meant a serious relationship. Woody’d made it clear that was the last thing he wanted. And yet … It felt like dating. They liked each other, talked about the things that mattered to them, and when they had sex it felt like more than just a physical act.
She was naïve. Woody didn’t want love and commitment. She couldn’t let herself care about him, not as anything more than a friend and casual lover.
Besides, when you dated, you told the world. You didn’t hide it from your colleagues for fear your boss would think badly of you. Soon, Woody would be gone, but Georgia would still have her career. And, with any luck, more responsibility at Dynamic Marketing. But she had to be careful. Her competition, Harry, was keeping a close eye on the VitalSport campaign. He’d even read an early draft of their strategy, before she’d deleted mention of Ellen DeGeneres. Harry had snidely asked, “Any luck getting your guy on The Ellen DeGeneres Show?”
Oh yes, he had an eagle eye out for any weakness. She’d refused to let him get to her, merely smiling sweetly and saying, “You’re out of date. We rethought that and decided it doesn’t fit our overall game plan.”
The puck dropped in the face-off, and Georgia’s attention focused on the game. The play was fast and hard, both teams giving it their all. Once, Woody was slammed into the boards, smashing his bad shoulder. Georgia winced, but it barely slowed him for a second.
The period ended with the Beavers up one-zero, thanks to Woody’s goal.
At the beginning of the third period, Woody smashed into a Ducks player who crashed onto the ice and just lay there. In an instant, players, refs, and coaches surrounded the man.
“Oh God,” Georgia said, “I hope he’s all right. It didn’t look like that hard a hit. I mean, considering.” All the hits were hard when the men were so big and traveling so fast across the ice, but Woody had explained to her that physicality was essential to the game, and there were rules about what was and wasn’t okay.
The player finally rose. Shakily, with the help of a couple of others, he skated off the ice.
“He took a dive,” Bernadette huffed.
“What do you mean?”
“He’s exaggerating. Playing it up in hopes they’ll call a penalty against Woody. That’ll give the Ducks the power play, and the Beavers will be minus their most valuable player.”
Georgia gazed at her. “You really know this game.”
“What’s not to like? Lots of hot guys. Speed, excitement.”
A moment later, the announcement was made that a three-minute penalty was called. Woody, scowling, skated to the box as the crowd booed the referees.
Bernadette joined in loudly, and after a moment Georgia did too. She wasn’t a demonstrative person, but the energy crackling in the air got to her. When the crowd began chanting, “Ducks suck, Ducks suck, Ducks suck,” she screamed along with them.
The next three minutes crawled by as the Beavers, one man short, battled with everything they had to hold off the Ducks. They almost made it, but in the last few seconds the Anaheim team snuck the puck
into the goal on a rebound, to a chorus of boos. The score was tied, one all.
Woody, after a three-minute rest, jumped over the boards and back onto the ice as if he’d been turbocharged. Dashing into the fray, he took the puck away from the opposing team, powered across the ice, and sent a slap shot whipping into the Ducks’ goal.
Ten minutes later, the Ducks slipped a shot past the Beavers’ goaltender, Federov, tying the game two all.
When only five minutes remained in the final period, the Ducks put together an incredible series of shots on goal, and Federov whipped up, down, side to side, blocking every shot until finally he dove on top of the puck, stopping it just outside the goal line.
Woody extended a hand, pulled the man to his feet, and caught him in a bear hug as other teammates slapped the goaltender on his back and the crowd roared.
When the puck was in play again, neither team let up for a minute—and neither scored. In the last minute, with the prospect of overtime looming, the Ducks again bombarded the goaltender, maybe figuring Federov’s resources were drained. This time, Stu Connolly managed to hook the puck away.
He passed it to Woody, who took off. The Ducks, caught off guard, had only one defensive player in Woody’s way.
The audience was on their feet, cheering him on, chanting, “Hat trick, hat trick, hat trick!”
The Anaheim goaltender looked huge, padded legs straddling the goal, shoulders wide, hockey stick at the ready. It was a battle of skill and of mind reading, Georgia realized, each man trying to psych out the other.
Woody deked left, right, and the goaltender shifted in anticipation. Then Woody shot, so fast Georgia’s eyes couldn’t follow the puck, but somehow it sliced past the goaltender’s glove and slammed decisively into the net.
The arena exploded. There were twenty seconds left in the game, but it was over. The Beavers had won, and Woody’d made all three of their goals.
When the win was official, Georgia realized she’d screamed herself almost hoarse and happy tears dampened her cheeks. She and Bernadette hugged each other, bouncing up and down like kids.
The Beavers, sweaty and flushed, slapped and hugged and high-fived one another.
“It was Woody and Federov who did it,” Bernadette said. “They won the game.”
Georgia agreed, but said, “Woody says it’s a team effort. The little things count as much as the big, showy ones.”
On the ice, the Western Conference trophy was being presented, but Woody didn’t pick it up; nor did any of his teammates. “I’d think they’d want to hoist that thing in triumph,” she commented.
“There’s a superstition about touching it,” her mom said. “There’s only one trophy worth touching, and that’s the Stanley Cup. If they touch another along the way, it can jinx their chances.”
Georgia shook her head. “Athletes and their superstitions. Did you know the Beavers all went to one hairstylist for playoff hair and beard trims, to bring them luck?”
They chuckled together, and Georgia realized something. “This has been fun. I’m glad you came.” In fact, it was the most fun she could remember ever having with Bernadette.
“I’m glad you invited me.” Eyes a shade darker than her own studied her. “You never ask me to do things with you, baby.”
Georgia bit her lip. She’d told Woody that she and her mom got stuck in old patterns, ones she didn’t like. He’d suggested changing things up, and it had worked. She could leave well enough alone, or be honest. “When we get together, you’re always with the latest guy and it’s all about him. It feels like …” She paused, chewed her lip again, then said it. “Like you care more about the guy, and the couple thing, than about—”
“About you?” Bernadette broke in. “Oh, baby, that’s not true.”
Georgia had felt that way, but that wasn’t what she’d been going to say. She shook her head. “Than about you, Bernadette. It’s like you, your identity, is all about pleasing this guy rather than being yourself.” Or being a mom.
She expected denial, maybe anger, but instead her mom nodded slowly. “I hear you. Fabio told me the same thing.”
“He did? Hmm. I might like this man.”
“Then you have to come for dinner and—” Bernadette broke off. “Look, he’s coming over.”
Woody, helmet and face shield off, skated toward them. He gazed up at Georgia, an expression of pure happiness on his face.
She waved and then—oh, what the hell—blew him a kiss.
Laughing beside her, Bernadette did the same. Then, as Woody skated away, she said, “Bring him for dinner.”
“It’s not serious. There’s no point.”
Her mom linked arms with her as they climbed the stairs. “You don’t do casual, Georgia. I know you.”
The comment sent a pang through her heart. Was she wrong to think she could “do” casual?
Woody was such a different man from Anthony, and yet the pure pleasure she felt when she saw him, the way they were opening up to each other and sharing secrets, the intimacy of cuddling with him in bed were all things she’d experienced with her husband.
With Anthony, falling in love had been safe because they felt the same way about celibacy, commitment, and the sanctity—and desirability—of marriage.
With Woody, falling in love would be a recipe for heartbreak. That man wasn’t about to shelve his condoms in just one woman’s bedside table. She had to protect her heart. She’d enjoy the fun while it lasted, then move on.
“Bet you’re going out partying with your guy tonight,” her mom said as they jostled along with the jubilant crowd leaving the arena.
No, she and Woody weren’t partying—he would celebrate the victory with his teammates—but she’d see him later at his place. “Nope. I’m going to curl up with a book.” It wasn’t a lie. Her e-reader was in her shoulder bag, along with a change of undies.
Woody had told her the guys wouldn’t stay out late. The next game, the first of the Stanley Cup playoffs, was Tuesday. The Beavers would be facing the Washington Capitals, who’d won the Eastern Conference last night. The other team had the advantage of an extra day to rest, heal, and work on strategy. The Beavers’ advantage was that the first two games would be home games.
“A book?” Bernadette winked. “Well, I certainly hope he—pardon me, it—is a page-turner that keeps you on the edge of—”
“Stop!” Laughing, Georgia held up her hands in a T-shaped halt signal.
When Georgia had said to Woody that she guessed she wouldn’t see much of him if the Beavers made it into the playoffs, he’d said, “Hey, you’re my good luck charm. Course I want to see you.” This, from the same guy who didn’t usually date during the playoffs because it distracted him.
As for her, the woman who believed in independence, she’d agreed that they’d sleep at his penthouse apartment. He found his king-sized bed more comfortable than her queen.
She’d left plenty of food and water for Kit-Kat, and had Woody’s spare key tucked deep in her pocket.
He’d given her his key. She had to be careful not to read more into that than he meant. Who knew; maybe this was really just about jock superstition. He’d decided Georgia was good luck, so he’d keep seeing her until the end of the playoffs.
Well, she felt lucky too. This whole experience was amazing—the sex and everything else—and she’d be fine when it ended. No heartbreak for her. She was far too practical.
She and her mom had finally made it outside the arena. The euphoric crowd was dispersing slowly, with laughter and triumphant whoops.
From here, Georgia would walk to Woody’s place in Yaletown. “Thanks again for coming,” she said.
“Thanks for inviting me. I had a great time. Anytime your guy”—Bernadette winked—“pardon me, your book gives you a spare ticket, I’d be happy to keep you company.”
Twenty-five
Late Monday afternoon, Georgia, running a few minutes late, hurried into the Copper Chimney in Le Soleil hotel. The lov
ely art deco bar-restaurant was warm and welcoming, and three female faces gaped as she headed over to the book club’s table.
“Wow, George.” Marielle was the first to speak. “Love your new look.” The others chimed in too, and Georgia thanked them.
She’d gotten in the habit of leaving her hair loose and casual, and, though she still wore tailored suits, she now teamed them with silky VitalSport blouses in pretty colors. She’d had a lot of compliments, and not a soul seemed to take her less seriously at work.
It wasn’t just the hair and clothes, though, she thought as the group ordered drinks and snacks. She hadn’t had a headache all week, her skin glowed, she was drinking less caffeine, and she had more energy. Dr. Lily—and Bernadette—seemed to be right about sex being good for you.
She studied Marielle, who wore jeans and a turquoise sweater that looked great with her coffee-colored skin and wavy dark brown hair. “You look great too. Is it casual day at the law firm?”
Marielle beamed. “The regular receptionist came back from sick leave. Now I’m a dog-walker and I love it. But hey, isn’t it fantastic the Beavers are in the playoffs? How’s your marketing campaign going? Can’t wait to see photos of Woody Hanrahan.”
Kim, in an eye-catching white tee with silk-screened pink butterflies, said, “Oh, yeah! How’s the hottie hockey star working out?”
Georgia tried to hold back a smug grin. “Very well.” In more ways than you’ll ever know! “We had the first photo shoot this afternoon, in Stanley Park, and he’s as photogenic as we hoped he’d be.” Today had been leisure wear. He’d posed in several different outfits, with props ranging from a golf club to sexy models. Georgia’s favorite shots were the ones where he held a hockey stick and wore the same clothes as the night they’d dined at Hawksworth: black jeans and the classy takeoff on a hockey jersey, done in the Beavers’ caramel.
She and Woody had kept their secret, but some steamy private looks, subtle touches, and double entendres—not to mention the sight of his fantastic body as he tossed leisure clothes on and off—had made her seriously hot and bothered. She couldn’t wait to be alone with him later.
