by Sarina Bowen
Fuck, Leo whispered under his breath. The other team had played Silas perfectly, and now all the momentum belonged to them.
The second half of the game felt like the longest that Leo had ever played. He and the other forwards played their best, but all their shots were thwarted. By the middle of the third period, the score was four to zero. A green-looking Beacon skated out to replace Silas.
Beacon held off any further goals, but the damage was done. Leo, sweat dripping down his face, battled until the final buzzer without a goal. His hip ached from a rough check into the boards, and his quads were on fire. And with nothing to show for it.
Afterward, the locker room was quiet, and not in a good way. Leo took a long shower and tried not to wonder what the bad game meant for him personally. He got dressed slowly, and when the locker room door opened, he heard Georgia’s sweet voice cajoling O’Doul into an interview with the Post.
He couldn’t wait to go home and drop into bed. If only Georgia were there to curl up beside him. He had a strong urge to take her aside and plead his case. Kiss her. Bribe her. (Not that she was the type to be swayed by gifts. But he was desperate.) Whatever it took.
But he’d already shown her he cared—he’d done everything short of getting down on his knees and begging. If she needed her space until his future was sorted out, he’d be patient.
He’d have to be.
TWENTY-NINE
MONDAY, FEBRUARY 22ND
7 DAYS BEFORE THE NHL TRADE DEADLINE
BROOKLYN, NEW YORK
TOP TEAM HEADLINE:
“Bruisers Look Forward to Road Trip and Redemption in the Midwest”
—New York Post
Georgia was probably going to lose her mind.
She’d stumbled through the past couple of days waiting for the other shoe to drop. NHL trades often happened quite quickly. There may be only a day or two between the initial interest and signing. The athlete was never given any notice. One minute he’d be lacing up his shoes for a session in the weight room and a few minutes later he’d have to throw a few essentials into a bag and leave the building. It was brutal, but it was all part of professional sports.
Whenever her phone rang, she dreaded answering it. And every time Becca came into her office, she expected her friend to bring bad news.
“Are you mad at me or something?” her roommate finally asked. “Every time I see you today, you look at me like I ran over your puppy.”
“No! I’m good.”
Becca gave her the side eye. “All right. I came to ask if you wanted to grab burritos with me for lunch.”
“Great!” she said with false cheer. “I’ll get my coat.”
The following morning featured a yoga class, and Georgia ran in at the last second, scanning the backs of everyone’s heads, steeling herself against the possibility that Leo would be missing.
From a corner she hadn’t checked yet he turned around to meet her gaze. Busted. She braced herself for his look of disappointment or irritation. But he only winked.
Weird.
Ari started them off with a guided meditation. Georgia closed her eyes and tried to concentrate.
“You are sitting on the beach, on a warm, breezy day,” Ari began. “The waves are lapping onto the sand in a soothing, rhythmic way that matches your breathing. Focus on your breath. Allow your breath to find its natural, unhurried pace. Let the ocean sync with your body. There is peace between you and the world . . .”
Georgia’s eyes snapped open. Her father wasn’t in the room. She flicked her eyes back and forth, double-checking. Where was he? On the phone to Vancouver?
“When you breathe in, it is clean, salty air. When you exhale, you rid yourself of worry and anguish.”
No, Vancouver is three hours behind. It’s five in the morning there.
At this rate, she’d make herself insane before West Coast business hours. And she hadn’t breathed out a single breath of either worry or anguish, damn it. The hour passed slowly. Waiting on bad news was lonely work.
After class, Becca squeezed her elbow. “I’m going to Ohio with the team tonight. Nate is flying in from Silicon Valley to see the game.”
“Oh,” Georgia said, still too caught up in her own misery to really hear whatever Becca was saying.
“Look,” Becca said suddenly, grabbing Georgia by both shoulders. “I’m sorry to do this, buddy, but it’s time I staged an intervention. I’m calling an emergency meeting at noon today,” she said.
“Wait, really?” Georgia squeaked. “For who?”
Becca’s eyes grew round. “You and me! That’s who.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re a freaking zombie and it’s driving me insane. Be at the usual meeting spot. Noon sharp.” Becca marched off to start her work day, leaving Georgia alone with her worries.
Three hours later, Georgia entered the nail salon and made her way to the back, where Becca waited in a pedicure chair. “Did you pick your color?” her roommate asked.
Georgia held up the random bottle of pink polish she’d chosen at the front desk. She didn’t care as much about nail polish as Becca. But in this neighborhood, there were very few places they could go at lunch without fear of being overheard by others in the organization. The nail salon was a safe place to gossip. None of the Brooklyn Bruisers would be caught dead in here.
“Remember—this is an intervention.” Becca took the bottle from her hand and set it down out of sight. Then she passed Georgia a different one.
Georgia squinted at it. “Purple?”
“It’s a subtle purple,” Becca argued. “You always choose the same shade of pink.”
“So?”
“It’s so safe. Be daring.”
“Wait. Did you just dare me to use purple?”
“I double dog dare you.”
“Uh-huh. Does this mean I can dare you to come along next time I go paragliding?”
Becca opened her mouth and then closed it again. “Would you like the pink polish back?”
Gotcha. “No. I’ll go with the purple. But I’m just saying—fearlessness comes in a few different colors.”
“Touché. I’m going with one of these two blues. What do you think?” Her roommate held up two awful shades.
Georgia kicked off her shoes and removed her socks. “I think you should choose whichever one makes you happy.”
“But they make me happy in different ways,” her friend said, staring at the bottles. “But enough about my issues. What the hell is on your mind? Because I know it isn’t nail polish.”
Georgia waited while the nail technician finished setting up her station. Then she climbed into the seat next to Becca and dropped her bare feet into the warm water. The nail technician gave her ankle a pat and then went to collect her tools. “Can I ask you a question?” Georgia said, dropping her voice. “If you heard that Leo was getting traded, would you tell me?”
Becca blinked. “Shit. Is that why Hugh has been on the phone with Vancouver?”
Georgia’s heart tumbled down a flight of stairs. “Damn it.”
“Oh, baby. I’m so sorry. Are you sure they’re looking at him? It could be anyone.”
Georgia nodded, miserable. “I overheard something I shouldn’t have.”
“No wonder you’re as jumpy as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs.” Becca patted her hand. “What does Leo say?”
“I haven’t told him! Publicists who leak trades? They get fired. And even worse—I haven’t dealt with it well. I told him we need to cool it off.”
“You are an idiot,” Becca said immediately.
“Tell me what you really think,” Georgia muttered, making the other nail technicians laugh.
“No, but you are. Because Leo has probably thought about this already. Maybe he has a contingency plan for this. Or maybe
he’d like the opportunity to tell you how he feels.”
Georgia groaned. “But I can’t tell him. If I tell him, it endangers both our jobs. I wish I’d never overheard it in the first place. It’s eating me up. I look at him now and just think of how hard it would be to get over him a second time.”
“I’m sorry, baby.”
“He just RSVPed to the next team benefit. His date is someone named Honey Cove.”
“What?” Becca yelped. “That sounds like a prostitute.”
“I know. She’s going to be worse than the last one. I just know it.”
Becca giggled, then clamped a hand over her mouth, and the nail techs all clucked their tongues in sympathy. Becca wiped her eyes. “Karma is a bitch, Georgia.”
“Thanks for your unwavering support.”
“Correct me if I’m wrong. But the last time you pushed Leo away, you regretted it later.”
“Your point being . . . ?”
Her roommate leaned over and gave her shoulder a shove. “Don’t be thick. If Leo gets traded tomorrow, you’ll regret being cold. And if he doesn’t, you’re acting like a freak for no reason. Miss Honey Cove wouldn’t be on the guest list without your help.”
It was hard to argue with that logic. Except for one problem. “But every time I look at him, or let his mom hug me, I want to puke from nerves. And what if he survives these trade discussions, and then they start up again after the play-offs? It never ends.”
“So you just deal. The next team that’s interested could be the Rangers. They’re across the river. Don’t borrow problems when they’re falling from the sky like a springtime downpour.”
“Speaking of downpours, Hugh just sent me another resume for a dude with twice as much PR experience as I have.”
“This calls for dumplings,” Becca sympathized.
“Ain’t that the truth.” She looked down to see the first stripes of purple painted onto her big toe. The color was surprisingly pretty.
* * *
When Georgia walked down the aisle of the jet that night, Leo watched her with kind eyes. And when they ended up on the same elevator at the hotel, he held the door while she stepped off. This time, Georgia was not at all surprised when their rooms turned out to be adjacent.
“Sleep tight,” he said softly just before her door closed.
Georgia stomped into her room and dropped her bag. Then she went into the bathroom to perch on the bathtub and call Becca. “Really?” she grumbled when her friend picked up the phone. “Again?”
“I just wanted to make sure there were no barriers when you finally come to your senses.”
“He’s so freaking nice to me, even though I’ve basically dumped him,” Georgia grumbled. “How does he do that?” If Leo was going to get traded, she wished it would happen already, putting them both out of their misery.
“Maybe he just isn’t falling for your bullshit.”
“But it’s not bullshit! I don’t want to do this again. It sucks.”
“Then don’t! Just admit to him that you’re scared.”
Georgia very nearly corrected her roommate. She almost argued the point. “I am scared,” she whispered instead.
“Oh, hallelujah. An honest answer.”
“But what does that fix? He’s not scared. We used to be equals. But now I’m always going to be the one who’s worried. It’s still the same old problem. I used to be fearless, until one night I learned how to be afraid.” Her throat closed around the words, so she had to choke out the last few. “And nothing was ever the same.”
“Oh, sweetie,” Becca soothed. “Are you in your room? I’m coming up.”
After Becca disconnected, Georgia just sat there in the hotel bathroom feeling pathetic. There were tears running down her face. Again! She’d spent six years trying to prove she was still courageous. Then Leo Trevi came to town and it took less than a month to demonstrate just how small and cloistered her life really was.
There was a knock on her door, so Georgia left the bathroom to yank open the door. Becca stood there in a hotel bathrobe, her trademark black negligée showing at the neck. She clutched the sort of tiny wine bottles that came out of the hotel minibar.
“I jump out of airplanes,” Georgia said in what must have seemed like a complete non sequitur.
“That scares the shit out of me,” Becca said, pushing past her.
“But I am the worst kind of fraud.” Georgia yanked the hotel wine glasses off the TV stand and was surprised when Becca laughed.
“You aren’t,” she said kindly. “All that scary shit you do is like a dialogue you have with yourself about bravery. It’s not fraudulent. It’s just not the kind of brave you need right now. That boy is crazy about you. Tell him you might be separated.”
“But . . .” Georgia swallowed hard. When you’ve been stupid, it’s hard to admit it out loud. “When I was eighteen and out of my mind, I sent him away and he didn’t argue. Is it awful that I was so mad about that? I didn’t think he’d actually just vanish like he did. That’s what I wanted to avoid—him having to make some kind of high stakes decision. I didn’t want to know what he’d choose.”
“So you fired him first,” Becca said. “Thereby guaranteeing your own misery.” She twisted open both bottles. “Overpriced red? Or overpriced white?”
Georgia took the white because she knew that Becca preferred the red.
They poured. They sipped. Georgia’s eyes watered still.
“Look,” Becca said, sitting on the bed. “You are brave every day. There’s no disputing that. You’re the top female publicist in a malecentric organization. You’re an athlete and a kick-ass single woman. But maybe this is one of those times when you have to go backward to go forward. Leo stirred up a lot of shit that you don’t like to think about. I know you hate being scared. But if you can’t be scared with him, you’re just stuck.”
“Ugh. I hate stuck.”
“I know. Me, too. Let’s watch some trash TV and criticize everyone.” Her friend scrambled onto the king-sized bed and yanked the covers down. “It’s late. You can get unstuck tomorrow.”
“’Kay.” Georgia changed into her PJs and got into bed beside her. They drank bad wine and then fell asleep beside one another. And Georgia had courageous dreams.
* * *
In theory, neither Georgia nor Becca was needed at the rink at seven thirty the next morning, the way the players were.
But that didn’t stop someone from pounding on Georgia’s hotel room door the next morning.
When Georgia staggered to the door and pulled it open, Nathan stood there in a suit, every hair perfectly in place. “Have you seen Becca?” he demanded. “She’s missing.”
From the other side of Georgia’s king-sized bed, Becca sat up quickly, her face puffy from sleep. “Where’s the fire? Who’s missing?”
Nathan peered around Georgia, who saw his neck flush, possibly because Becca slept in those skimpy little bits of lingerie. “You two shared a bed? Are we that stingy with the travel budget?”
Becca shook herself awake. “No, Nathan. Slumber party! We did each other’s hair and got wasted on wine coolers.” She slipped out of the bed, and Nate averted his eyes, his neck flushing even more deeply. “What do you need, anyway?”
“Uh.” He looked confused. “The, um, ticket sales figures for Thursday’s game. Do you have them?”
“Give me fifteen minutes, sunshine,” she said, heading into the bathroom.
After that unusual wake-up call, the day was the usual crazy ride. Georgia worked through the morning practice, then took O’Doul and Bayer to an appearance at a local radio station. She ate lunch while returning e-mails then put on some workout gear and made her way over to the stadium in time for a noon yoga class.
As it turned out, admitting to Becca she was scared to lose Leo unfortunately did not make her any
less scared. Even as she showed her ID to the security guard and began walking through the underbelly of the old stadium, her stomach quivered. Would today be the day Leo disappeared?
There were six days left until the trade deadline. How did athletes live with that axe hanging over their heads all the time? Every season was like a long game of Russian roulette.
Georgia wandered around the poorly marked venue hallways, wondering if maybe the whole team had been traded. The place was practically a labyrinth, and just as charming—the hallways were just concrete tunnels lit by caged lightbulbs overhead.
Sexy.
Just when she was starting to get frustrated, Georgia heard Leo’s voice. She’d know the cognac tones of his laugh anywhere, and that was definitely him behind a partially open door marked VISITORS. She stopped walking, her shoulders sagging with relief.
“You okay?” someone asked.
Georgia spun around to spot O’Doul stretching in the shadows, against one of the barren concrete walls. “I’m fine,” she said quickly. Heart palpitations over the trade deadline are perfectly normal for someone my age, right? “Is it time for yoga?”
“Almost,” he said. “Walk with me.” He tipped his head toward the far end of the hallway.
Since Georgia had no idea where the class would be held, she was happy to fall in step with him. “What’s up, captain?”
He chuckled. “I hear that Hugh wants to make us all go out for karaoke next week. Singing is not really my idea of a good time, but listening to these guys stink it up on stage sounds like a blast.”
“That’s kind of the point of karaoke,” she pointed out.
“You sing? I can’t quite picture it.”
There had been a time in her life when Georgia was always the first one onstage. “I’m good at lyrics. I do Eminem pretty well.”