“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!”