by Savanna Fox
One thing he knew for sure about hockey: you could never count on a win.
Twenty-eight
The practice went well, Woody got a massage that loosened up his bad shoulder, and he had lunch in the players’ lounge with some of the other guys. He’d have been in a great mood except for one thing. The next item on his schedule was the underwear shoot.
There was only one way to deal with shit that was inevitable: suck it up and get on with it.
Shoulders squared, he entered the studio. Only to reel back in horror. He’d hoped for one photographer—male, of course—and one camera. Instead, the room was full of people and equipment. Terry Banerjee was there, and Marco Sanducci from VitalSport, but most everyone else was female.
Georgia, looking stunning in a dark gray skirt suit and a coral-colored blouse, came over to him. “Woody.” She held out her hand as if to shake his.
He’d take any kind of contact he could get, so he put his hand into hers.
Rather than shake, she tugged him firmly into the room. “You look shell-shocked.”
Viv came to join them and Georgia gave his hand a subtle squeeze, then released it.
The blonde winked. “This is the highlight of the campaign. I’ve really been looking forward to today.”
A grin twitched the corners of Georgia’s lips, but she held it back.
“As have I,” she said evenly. “After all, it’s the underwear line that’s being launched first in Canada.”
“What’re all these people doing here?” he grumbled.
“The woman with Marco is the designer of the line—who’s very disappointed we ruled out thong photos, by the way. Then there’s the team of photographers, there’s hair and makeup, and—”
“They’re women,” he protested.
Georgia’s lips twitched again. “You’re so perceptive.”
Viv took over. “They’ll do a great job at capturing the image we want to convey.”
“I have to model underwear in front of all these people?”
“Got a problem with nudity?” Georgia asked, a wicked gleam in her eye. “You’d never survive in the locker room.” Those were pretty much the exact same words he’d taunted her with, the day they met.
“Ha-ha,” he said without humor.
“I’m sure we won’t be the first women to see you in your undies,” Viv joked.
“I’d bet on that,” Georgia put in, and he could see she was fighting to hold back a laugh.
His mood lightened, but only a little.
“I’m still not sure we should have ruled out the thong,” Viv said. “Maybe we should take some photos just in case.”
“No fucking way,” he said before he noticed the twinkle in her eyes.
Georgia touched his arm, bare below a VitalSport golf shirt that he wore with a pair of their casual pants. His skin heated with sexual awareness. If her plan was to distract him from his misery, it was working.
She gazed up at him, face serious now. “Woody, I’m sorry this is uncomfortable for you. But you’ve faced the media in a locker room in less than your underwear. You’re a physical guy who’s comfortable with his body. Right?”
“Usually.”
She smiled and released his arm. “I think you have two options. One is to be the tough guy and grit your teeth and get through it.”
That was what he’d figured on.
“But that’s not the best approach,” she went on. “You’ll be miserable, and it’ll show in the photos. Why not relax and have fun with it?”
“Fun? You gotta be kidding.”
“You complained about going to Christopher Slate,” Viv pointed out, “and look how well that turned out.”
“It’s a matter of attitude,” Georgia said. “Like when the Beavers go on the ice, they could be intimidated by their opponents, worrying about how they’ll measure up, feeling their injuries. But that’s not what they do, is it?”
He shook his head. “We go in strong. Determined to play our best and to win.”
“Attitude is a choice. You can make the choice to be positive about this.”
Crap. She was right. He twisted his lips into a rueful smile. “You make a good argument, Coach Malone.”
She beamed, eyes and smile lighting up her face.
Who could resist that smile? “Okay, I’ll be positive.” He winked and said, “Just for you, sunshine.”
When he’d called her that at the first Dynamic Marketing meeting, she’d glared at him. Now she chuckled. “Thanks. Now, what do you hockey players say? Go suit up?”
“Yeah.” Which meant putting on layers of protective gear, not stripping down to gonch. But hell, he was going to be positive.
Resignedly, he trudged over to the cluster of women and forced a smile. “Okay, ladies, I’m putting myself in your hands.”
As they got under way, he felt self-conscious, but Georgia’s warm smiles and nods of approval boosted his confidence, and all the women were professional and friendly. Georgia was right; being comfortable with his body helped. Being comfortable with women did as well.
It wasn’t long before he was joking with the women who applied spray tan to body parts that never saw the sun, tousled his hair, and instructed him to stand this way, hold that prop, put his arm around the blond model, give a sexy smile.
What bugged him the most was that Sanducci was flirting with Georgia. The dude was handsome, successful, and he had the kind of poise and sophistication Woody would never master, no matter how many deportment lessons he endured. He couldn’t hear what they were saying, but Georgia’s body language told him she wasn’t flirting back. Still, he wondered if, when the two of them split, she’d take up with Sanducci.
“Woody, what’s wrong?” the photographer asked. “You’re scowling. Frown lines are bad. Broody and mysterious is sexy. Frowning, definitely not.”
He’d been scowling? Woody told himself there was no reason he should care whom Georgia dated down the road. Right now they were having a good time, and she knew she was his lucky charm. She’d never dump him during the playoffs.
And the Beavers would win the Cup. He focused on how it’d feel to skate around the ice with that massive trophy held high above his head, and it was easier to smile again.
When everyone finally proclaimed it a wrap, Woody sighed with relief and went to shower off the spray tan, body oil, and makeup. The pounding spray felt good on his aching shoulder. After this, he’d go for a run, soak in his whirlpool tub, then ice his shoulder. Georgia would come over for dinner and an early night. Good company, great sex, and a solid night’s sleep. What better way to set himself up for tomorrow night’s home game?
He hoped the other guys were behaving themselves. The married ones loved days like this, where they could pick their kids up from school. Some of them had wives who didn’t have jobs or who worked from home, and they’d be getting in some couple time. It was the young guys like Stu Connolly he worried about. Vancouver loved the Beavers, and if a rookie hit a sports bar, it’d be less than a minute before someone wanted to buy him a drink. If he hit the Roxy, puck bunnies would swarm him.
At practice, the guys had been on their game and motivated. They wanted the Cup as badly as he did. He had to trust his men to stick to the program.
A couple hours later, Woody sprawled on the couch watching a soccer game on TV and anticipating the look on Georgia’s face when she found out about the surprise he had for her. Oh yeah, they’d be having sex before dinner tonight.
His phone rang. When he answered, the sound that greeted his ears was hyena-like laughter.
“Who the hell is this?”
“Stu.” One word came through amid the howls.
Shit. The rookie was drunk. God knew what trouble he’d gotten himself into. Woody straightened up and clicked off the game. “Where are you? What the fuck’s going on?”
“You didn’t say it was fucking gonch.” The words came out in gasps strung out through more laughter.
Words
that didn’t make sense. “What’re you talking about?”
“Oh man, it’s going viral. I’m in this sports bar”—his voice sobered for an instant—“one beer, I swear, that’s all I’m having. Anyhow, this girl’s friend tweeted her, and she checked out YouTube on her iPhone, and now everyone’s looking at it.”
“At what?” Woody almost screamed.
“That video of the gonch shoot.”
Woody clenched the phone in a death grip. “Video of a gonch shoot?” A sinking feeling crept through his body, chilling him.
“The girls are going crazy. They think you’re the hottest thing they’ve ever seen.”
Video of a gonch shoot? Phone to his ear, Woody hurried into his office, where he kept his trophies, photos, and business stuff. He turned on his computer.
“I’m texting the other guys,” Stu said. “No one’s gonna want to miss this.”
“Stop texting; stop drinking,” Woody ordered. “Go home and focus on hockey.” With the phone hooked between his ear and shoulder, he typed YouTube’s URL into his browser, then his name and, shuddering, “underwear.”
“Hope they’re paying you a lot of money for this,” Stu said, then hung up.
Woody found the video: Woody Hanrahan RAW—Canadian hockey star models VitalSport underwear, posted by “Woody’s insider fangirl.” Two minutes long? He clicked on it, then sat, barely breathing.
Terry’d been unobtrusive today, moving around with his video camera so constantly that he was part of the background. And this was the result. Footage shot to look amateur, candid, furtive, of Woody in white boxer briefs joking with the blond model, Woody in skimpy chocolate-colored briefs as the makeup girl sprayed fake tan on the top curve of his ass. Woody’s face in close-up, then a jerky pan down his body, lingering on his pecs, his abs, and, yeah—fuck it!—on his package barely confined in the pouch of black briefs.
He buried his face in his hands and groaned.
Then, remembering what Georgia’d said, he went to Facebook. Yup, there was a page—WoodyRAW—with several gushy updates posted over the course of the afternoon, accompanied by photos. Fuck. He studied them with morbid fascination, wondering which ones, blown up to poster size, would adorn the locker room tomorrow.
How the hell could Georgia do this to him?
Woody leaped to his feet and paced, and gradually sanity overcame anger.
He’d known, since the shock of that first morning, that he’d have to model gonch. Georgia had told him last night about the social media campaign. He sure wished she’d told him the details, though, so he didn’t find out from a rookie who was laughing his head off over it.
He reminded himself of the bottom line. He had a damned good reason for doing all of this: saving his mom’s life. He wished he could talk to her right now, but it was the middle of the night in Switzerland.
Still, he could call the clinic and leave a voice mail. “Hey, Mom. Hope you’re getting a good night’s sleep. Just wanted to tell you I’m thinking of you. I had kind of a rough day—nothing serious, okay?—and it made me want to talk to you. So, I’m just saying hi, and I hope you feel better every day.” He paused. “Okay, good night, then. Or good morning, which is what it’ll be when you get this message. Love you.”
Feeling marginally better, he fought the urge to grab a beer. One drink was his limit tonight, and it’d be a glass of wine at dinner with Georgia. After he gave her flak for keeping him in the dark.
When she knocked on the door, then opened it, he went to meet her. She was wearing her work suit, and there was an anxious expression on her face.
“There’s something I have to tell you,” she said.
“You’re an hour too late. I’ve seen the YouTube video and the Facebook page. Didn’t check Twitter. Tell me there’s nothing more.”
She sighed. “No, that’s it. I’m sorry. I’d hoped to get to you before anyone else did, and tell you in person. How upset are you?”
“Upset? I’m a guy. I don’t get upset. I get pissed. Why didn’t you tell me?”
She winced. “I told you that we’d be—”
“Yeah, yeah, but not that it’d start with a fucking video of me in fucking gonch.”
“Terry was in charge of this part of the campaign. We held off on posting stuff from the Stanley Park shoot because, while it’s strong, it doesn’t have the same punch. Today, at the underwear shoot, he realized this material was seriously hot, so he started posting it.”
“You should’ve told me before I left.”
“I didn’t know. Terry didn’t tell me. He should have, but he was excited, and so sure it was right. He’s young; he gets carried away. I’ve spoken to him about it.”
Woody sighed. “It was gonna happen sooner or later.”
Sympathetically, she said, “And this was the right timing. The video already has ten thousand hits.” She touched his arm. “It’s good. You look great.” She moved closer. “Hot.”
His annoyance faded. “You think?”
“Very hot.”
Starting to feel a little cocky, he said, “Hot enough to turn you on?”
Her eyes glittered as she stared up at him. “Most definitely.”
“How about if I tell you I’m wearing one of those damned thongs?”
Her eyes popped wide-open. “You are? I thought you hated them.”
“Sure do. Can’t wait to take the thing off. Or,” he added suggestively, “have someone take it off for me.”
Her hands were already at his belt, opening the buckle.
“It was so cool,” she said, head bent as she worked the fastenings of his pants, “watching you at that shoot. All the women thought you looked fantastic, and I kept thinking, ‘I’m the one he’ll be with tonight.’ ”
Words like that really stroked a guy’s ego. But even better were the hands fumbling inside his pants and caressing the front of his thong as his body stirred to life.
His pants slid down and he kicked them off. He pulled the golf shirt over his head and stood there naked but for a black thong.
A rapidly swelling black thong.
Georgia stepped back and twirled a finger. “Turn around.”
He obeyed.
“You really do have a tight, taut, amazing butt,” she said appreciatively.
“And it’s touchable,” he pointed out.
“I noticed that when the makeup girl was fake-tanning you,” she teased. “She seemed to enjoy it.”
The woman—Wendy—had slipped him her phone number. A number he wouldn’t be using. Yeah, Wendy was striking, funny, and if Georgia wasn’t in his life, he’d have held on to that number. But Georgia was in his life.
Wait. She was temporarily in his life. After the playoffs, she’d go looking for that soul mate guy—who wasn’t Marco Sanducci—and Woody’d move on too. He always moved on.
Yet it was hard to imagine being with anyone other than Georgia.
Especially when her hands slid over the naked curves of his ass and massaged his glutes in a way that was totally different from how the male massage therapist did it.
She came around to stand in front of him, peeling off her suit jacket and tossing it on the couch. Then she stepped forward until the fronts of their bodies touched. “We never really said hello.”
He put his arms around her as she did the same. “Hello, Georgia.”
“Hello, Woody. Have you stopped being pissed?”
“You’re distracting me nicely.”
“I’m sorry the VitalSport campaign turned out differently than you expected.”
“Not your fault.” He grinned. “It has some unexpectedly good aspects.”
“Would this be one of them?” She came up on her toes to kiss him, the front of her body pressing closer against his, and his cock grew harder.
She’d have felt better naked, but she still felt damned good as he held her and kissed her, letting her sweet mouth soothe away the days’ problems. Oh yeah, sex before dinner was definitely going to hap
pen.
Or maybe not. She pulled away.
But when she kicked off her shoes and sank to her knees on the Persian area rug, he liked where this was headed.
She leaned her head against his belly, her wavy hair tickling softly. “You’re too big for that thong.” Her tongue licked the crown of his cock, and he realized his erection had escaped the confines of the gonch.
“Only when you’re around.” Man, her tongue felt good, running in crazy circles around him, then flicking across the eye of his cock. “Feel free to take it off.”
“Thanks. I think I will.”
She eased the underwear down, bit by bit, following with her tongue, her lips. Lapping, sucking, teasing every inch of him until the blood surged hotly through his entire body.
When the brief garment hit the floor, he stepped out of it, wondering if she’d stop. Not sure if he hoped she did, so he could strip off her clothes and get inside her, or if she didn’t, and kept torturing him this way.
Her hand grasped his shaft, her lips closed over the top, and she took him into the wet, silky warmth of her mouth.
“Oh, fuck,” he murmured under his breath. “That’s so damned good.”
He tangled his fingers in her hair and held on as she began to suck rhythmically.
It was like she was milking an orgasm from him, pulling it from the base of his spine, to his tightening balls, to the root of his cock.
He groaned and clenched his muscles against the need to come.
Her tongue swirled around him as she sucked and her hair tickled him with fiery strands. She made wet, hungry sounds mixed in with “mmm” noises, and soft fingers toyed with his balls.
His climax gathered, urgent and demanding. “I can’t hold on,” he gasped. “Have to come.”
Slowly, she freed her mouth. Tilted her head back. Looked up at him.
Georgia, on her knees, wearing her gray business skirt and coral-colored blouse. Her creamy cheeks were flushed, her red hair a wild tumble. She smiled. “Then do it.”
She bent her head again, and sucked him in.
