by Sarina Bowen
Her dad shook his head. “It’s quittin’ time, Princess. Let’s go get a coffee. We’re done here.”
“Oh.” Georgia’s shoulders sagged with relief. “Okay. I’ll get my coat.”
They walked out into the late winter’s watery sunshine, where Brooklyn’s brick buildings rose up in every direction. They turned onto Hudson Avenue, but her father stopped in front of the only restaurant on the block. “Step in here with me for a minute,” her dad said.
“Why?” She looked up at the restaurant in front of her. It was on the fancier side, and she never ate here.
“Humor me,” her father said, opening the door and stepping inside.
She followed him, and the first person she saw inside was Leo. “What . . . ?”
“SURPRISE!” cheered several dozen people.
With her mouth open Georgia scanned all the faces before her. Becca and Leo’s family, including DJ and Lianne. The team. Ari the yoga instructor. Even Silas was here. “Wow,” she breathed. They were all here for her?
The next sound she heard was a cork popping, and that was DJ’s doing. “Gotcha,” he said. “We just wanted to celebrate your engagement in style.” He began pouring bubbly into a row of glasses on the bar.
Georgia was still stunned into silence, but Leo crossed over to her and her father, lifting a hand to squeeze his coach’s shoulder. “Thanks. Well played.” Then he kissed her on the nose. “Say something. I’m worried.”
“This is . . .” she tried. “Wow.” Two waiters had appeared carrying trays of something that looked delicious. “Are those . . . dumplings?”
“Of course.”
She turned around to face her dad, who let a smile crack through his usual crusty facade. “Thank you.”
“Of course.” He chuckled. “Should have seen your face when I stuck my head in your office, though. Didn’t mean to panic you.”
DJ handed her a glass of champagne, then kissed her on the cheek. “Cheers, beautiful. I still don’t know why you like my brother. But congratulations anyway. And my door is always open if you decide to throw him over.”
She took the glass. “Thanks, I think.”
“That won’t happen,” her father rumbled, taking another glass from DJ. “She even has a naked picture of him on her computer.”
“Omigod, Daddy,” she protested. “Shut up. That’s, uh, a publicity photo.”
On a bar stool nearby, O’Doul cleared his throat. “I’d like to make a toast. Just a quickie.”
He tapped a spoon on his glass, and the room quieted down a little bit. The bartender hurried to pass out glasses to those teammates who didn’t yet have one.
“Guys,” O’Doul said, raising his glass, “We’re lucky to have Georgia ‘Killer’ Worthington on our team, and now we’ve got College Boy, too. Maybe the kid made a few rookie moves this season . . .” There were a few guffaws at that, even from his coach. “But he made a great decision when he asked Georgia to marry him. So let’s wish ’em all our best.”
There was some more general hooting and catcalling, and everybody drank to their good fortune. Georgia spent the next half hour greeting everyone who had come out to wish her well. She accepted another tight hug from Marion Trevi, and kisses from Violet and Lianne. She took some hazing from the team, and ate some dumplings. Leo received his share of back pats and hugs and jokes.
After she’d thanked everyone in the room for coming out on a Monday afternoon just to say congratulations, she ended up in front of Nate Kattenberger, who’d come in late. He was catching up on his own glass of champagne and some of the exquisite passed appetizers that continued to circulate. “Number Three!” he crowed, holding up his glass. “Congratulations. I wish you all the best.”
Georgia thanked him, wondering not for the first time if he’d ever find anyone. How did an overworked billionaire find a date? And if a woman was interested in him, would he ever trust it?
Note to self. Some people’s romantic troubles were probably thornier than her own.
“Do you feel good about the roster?” she asked. “I have to say I’m a lot more relaxed about planning my wedding now that the trade deadline is passed.”
He made a wry face. “I wouldn’t sign off on a trade of Leo Trevi. He just got here.”
“Oh,” Georgia said slowly. “Well, never say never.” Surely every player had a price. Nate was a businessman. He knew that.
But the magnate shrugged. “While never is a long time, he’s a fabulous player, and I brought him to Brooklyn for a reason.”
“And what was that?” Georgia hadn’t quite cracked the code of why Nate did the things he did. She loved hearing any little insights into the famous Nate Brain.
Her young, genius, billionaire boss actually rolled his icy blue eyes. “The Bruisers aren’t just a team, Number Three. They’re a family. Remember that.”
While Georgia stared, he squeezed her elbow then crossed the room for another bit of salmon tartare on a wasabi rice cracker. After he shoved it into his mouth, he went over to Leo to shake his hand.
Her man smiled broadly, his sexy, scruffy jaw widening with humor at whatever the big boss said to him, the muscles in his forearm jumping as he pumped Nate’s hand. She could watch him forever.
“Wow, you’ve got it bad.” Becca nudged her, making Georgia realize she’d been staring at Leo with a swoony expression on her face. Her roommate offered Georgia one of the spicy homemade potato chips she held on a little appetizer plate. “These are amazing. It’s a good thing we can’t afford this place. Well—maybe you can now.”
“Oh, sure. I’m marrying Leo so I can run up his credit card.”
“You want to run up something.” Becca wiggled her eyebrows. “But not his credit card, I guess. Do you really have a naked picture of him on your computer?”
“Did everyone hear that?” Georgia’s face began to burn again.
“Only everyone here.” Becca giggled. “And that’s everyone you know. Oh well.”
Georgia groaned. “It’s a publicity photo. Swear to God. That eligible bachelor shoot for the charity calendar? They sent me the proofs.”
“Ooh.” Becca sighed. “Does that mean you have a shot of Castro’s booty, too? I might have to swing by your office and help you approve it. You know . . .” She paused, looking thoughtful. “Leo isn’t an eligible bachelor anymore. You should let the blog know. They might not use his picture.”
“Omigod! You’re a genius.” Georgia hugged her roommate. “I’m doing that the second I get home. That picture is mine.”
“Speaking of home. Can I ask you a question?”
“Sure. Do you think we should finally replace the Beast?”
Becca shook her head slowly. “Nope. My family—god love ’em—is onto its next crisis. It’s my sister and my baby nephew this time. Now that you’re getting married, could I give them your room? I mean—not until you’re ready.” She fidgeted. “She lost her apartment again. And she can’t even afford half our rent, but I figure I’ll just suck it up.”
“Aw, crap. I’m sorry. And yeah—you guys can have my room whenever you need it. Let me just talk with Leo and see if he has any reservations about me moving in soon.”
Becca snorted. “Are you kidding? He’d move you in tonight if he could. You practically live there already.”
She practically did. “Okay. I’ll ask him tonight.”
“You’re the best.”
“No, you are.”
“No, you.”
“Wait, not me?” Leo asked, swooping in for a kiss.
Georgia forgot to argue as he claimed her mouth. There were catcalls in the background, and Georgia heard her father make an ornery noise. She gave his chest a gentle shove. “Later,” she whispered, self-conscious. “Everyone is watching.”
“They’re taking notes,” he said against her lips. �
��They want to see how it’s done.”
Georgia drew back. “Arrogant!” She smiled at him.
“You love it,” he argued.
She did. She really, truly did.
Keep reading for a preview of Sarina Bowen’s next Brooklyn Bruisers novel
HARD HITTER
Coming soon from Berkley Sensation!
THURSDAY, MARCH 10TH
Standings:
3rd place in the Metropolitan Division
17 Regular Season Games to Go
It was four more days until Ari got O’Doul onto her therapy schedule. At first he’d agreed to see her at the rink in Toronto during the pregame warm-ups. But then “something came up,” and he rescheduled. Again.
Now the team was back home in Brooklyn. Ari waited for him in her treatment room at the practice facility. She was perched on the countertop, wondering if he’d show. He was five minutes late already.
A girl could start to take this personally. She’d held this job for almost two years without ever having the captain on her massage table. Before now she’d chalked up his absence to his exceptionally good health and flexibility. The wrist injury he’d had earlier in the season was not the kind of thing that sent a man off to the massage room, either. But now that he was in such obvious need of her help, it was odd that he wouldn’t seek it. Many of the other players would book a massage twice a day if her schedule allowed it.
Not O’Doul.
She’d asked him once in casual conversation whether he saw a private massage therapist. There were a few players who were so into massage that they paid up to have a private masseuse visit them at home in the mornings. As a veteran, O’Doul would have plenty of money to hire a staff of thousands if he wished.
When she’d asked, though, he’d just shaken his head.
Ari had a theory about O’Doul, though. He didn’t seem to like to be touched. During yoga class, she never corrected him with her hands, because she’d noticed early on that his postures got worse instead of better when she tried to adjust him. At first she’d assumed that it embarrassed him to be corrected by a woman.
But his reluctance to have a massage had shifted her thinking. Maybe O’Doul didn’t like to be touched at all. She’d tested this theory the other night at the bar, laying a hand on his broad shoulder in passing. He actually flinched a little.
Weird.
The training team was worried about a strain to his right hip flexors, so they’d asked for her help. And now here she sat watching both the door and the clock. If O’Doul didn’t show this time, she’d have to tell Henry—the head trainer—that she might not be the right therapist for O’Doul’s needs. If the man was sensitive to being touched, it might work better if he chose his own therapist.
This possibility made her jumpy as hell, though. It shouldn’t be the end of the world if one player snubbed the staff massage therapist. But job security was always at the back of her mind, and she really wanted to do well for this team. She wanted to do well, period.
Every hockey team had a staff therapist, but the role was usually held by a man. Ari was proud of her position on the Bruisers, and lately, the job was the best thing in her life. Since the breakup with her boyfriend of eight years, her job was the one steady thing in her life.
Luckily, this train of thought was interrupted when the door to her therapy room flew open to admit O’Doul. Right away she was struck by how absurdly handsome he was. It ought to be against the law to have a jaw that rugged and eyes the color of a tropical sea. As a massage therapist, Ari believed that all bodies were beautiful and miraculous. However, some were more miraculous than others.
But when she checked his expression, her confidence faltered. O’Doul was the only player who walked into her treatment room wearing the same expression that another man might wear to have a tooth extracted.
“Good afternoon,” she said, hopping down as he took off his coat.
He turned to face her the way a guy might face the firing squad. “Afternoon.”
“I’ll step out while you change,” Ari said, placing a sheet on the table. “If you’d feel more comfortable you can leave your undergarments on. When you’re ready, lie down on the table, using the sheet as a cover.”
“Got it,” he said, pulling his team sweatshirt over his head.
Ari stepped out of the room for a moment. She tied up her hair and fetched a bottle of massage oil off the warmer where she’d left it. Then she took a minute to close her eyes and visualize how she wanted the hour to go.
The team often snickered when she led them through visualization exercises, but Ari knew their power. It was hard to achieve something if you couldn’t imagine it working. With her back to the door, she first formed his name in her mind. Patrick. When meditating on her clients’ needs, she always used first names because they seemed more personal. When you put your hands on someone’s body, it was personal whether you wanted it to be or not.
Today I’m healing Patrick.
In her mind’s eye, he relaxed on the table. With firm but gentle hands, she’d probe his trouble spots. She pictured his hip flexor muscles, overlapping one another, the nerves stretching toward his groin in one direction and around to his lumbar spine in the other. She visualized her hands bringing him comfort, easing the strain, recruiting the deeper hip flexors. She’d try to ease any pressure he’d been shifting to his lower back. At the end of the hour, he’d be looser and more flexible. He’d feel more confident whenever he moved.
Ari opened her eyes. She could help Patrick if he’d let her. She knocked twice before re-entering the room.
“C’mon in,” came the gruff response.
She let herself in, then stopped for a moment at the stereo she kept on the countertop. She cued up a playlist and then washed her hands. “Daughter” had begun to emerge from the little set of speakers she kept on the counter.
“Pearl Jam?” he asked from the table.
“You don’t like it?” she asked. She would have figured him for a grunge rock guy. He was thirty-two years old with a macho streak a mile wide.
“No, I love it.” He chuckled. “Once I tried to get a massage at a hotel, and they were playing harp music. My ears were bleeding.”
“Okay, no harps. Got it.” Ari approached the table and looked her client over. Bodies were an everyday sight for a massage therapist. But this was a particularly stunning example. All athletes were muscular but O’Doul was cut. Even lying flat on a table he looked like a tightly coiled spring, ready for sudden physical exertion. The sheet had been casually draped across his waist, but everywhere else rippling muscle was visible, from his stacked shoulders to his thick calves.
He tucked his hands behind his head and stared up at the ceiling. “How long does this take?”
Ari laughed in spite of herself. “Sixty minutes, usually. And I haven’t killed anyone yet. I swear.”
“Okay. Sorry.” His mouth formed a tight line.
Right. Ari rubbed her hands together to warm them. She was oddly self-conscious for someone who gave six or more massages a day. “I’m going to ease toward your hip flexor strain, okay? I’ll want to relax the surrounding muscles, so they don’t contribute to your pain. You’ll let me know if anything hurts, and if you don’t approve of the pressure.” She folded the sheet back to reveal his thigh. She patted his knee to announce her presence, then used her left hand to palm his lower quad, and her right to slowly manipulate the muscle just above his kneecap.
The goal was to relax the athlete before working on the trouble spots. Though O’Doul seemed poised to make his escape at any moment. So she’d better not dawdle.
Slowly she worked her way up the outside of his hip. So far, so good. “Just checking in, here. How’s the pressure?”
“Okay,” he said tightly.
Hmm. Not exactly a rave review. She worked on, and eventua
lly he closed his eyes and sighed, which was always a good sign. If there were no risk of being caught acting silly, she would have given herself a victorious fist pump.
Taking her time, she loosened up all the ancillary muscles, the ones connected to his trouble spot. Her beat-up old iPod played a Red Hot Chili Peppers song and then transitioned back to Pearl Jam again.
All was right with the world until Ari moved her hands closer to Patrick’s inner hip. One by one, all his muscles tightened up until his entire body had the consistency of a concrete block.
“Patrick,” she said quietly, and his eyes flew open. “Are you in pain? Massage doesn’t have to hurt to do you good.”
“No pain,” he said quickly.
Liar. “You’re fighting me, though. Why is that?”
“Uh.” He sat up. “That’s the . . . trouble spot, right? Why would I want someone touching it?” The expression on his face was cautious for once.
“Well . . .” Ari replayed the words he’d just spoken, trying to find a clue to his reluctance. “Because I can help you? I won’t hurt you, I promise. Careful massage can reduce inflammation, and relax surrounding muscles, too. Is it possible that you had a bad experience with massage before?”
He gave his head a shake, as if her suggestion did not compute. “Nah. I just don’t like having, uh, weak spots.”
“Everyone does, though, right?”
“I suppose. But I don’t grab yours.”
She put a hand on his muscular wrist, the way she would anyone. But his eyes traveled down to that spot immediately, and she wondered if she’d just made another mistake. Had any other client ever been such a mystery?
“Hey,” she tried. “You told me a few minutes ago that you’d tried to get a massage at a hotel once. What happened that time?”
“Didn’t work out.” He gave her a wry grin. “It’s not you, I swear.”