She worked late, of course, because the media invite list for their upcoming charity banquet for a Brooklyn women’s shelter was not going to organize itself. But by six it was quitting time, thank God. She’d finished the most dire items on her to-do list. Finally. Before she left for the night she had to return a file of information on Nate’s foundation to Becca’s desk, so at least her own desk would be a clean and orderly place when she sat down there Monday.
Once again, Georgia had stayed later than any of the minion mob. As she passed the outer office, all their computer monitors were dark, except for one still displaying a screensaver of O’Doul scoring the winning goal in a game against Detroit last year.
Her Chuck Taylors made no sound in the corridor as she crossed to the C-suite. Becca was long gone—her computer dark, too. But just as Georgia set the folder on Becca’s desk, she heard Hugh Major’s voice coming from behind his closed door. And she heard him say, “The call was Vancouver. They want to talk about the rookie. Trevi.”
Georgia froze like a thief in the night. She ought to just turn and go, but there was no way she could stop herself from eavesdropping now.
There was a pause, and she assumed that Hugh was on the phone, listening to someone else talk. But then she heard her father’s voice. “Yeah? They want to show us a trade?”
Goose bumps broke out on Georgia’s neck.
“Yeah,” Hugh confirmed, and her heart seized. “Might be a shit trade, though. If they read the blogs, maybe they think you have issues with that player. They’re probably going to show us a crap deal just to see if we’ll bite.”
The next silence was lengthy. Please don’t, Georgia begged inwardly. She didn’t know if she was begging her father, the universe, or Leo himself. But Vancouver was really, really far away. She held her breath.
“Let’s see what they’ve got,” her father said. “Might be something we need.”
Georgia’s heart staggered, then fell down on the floor.
“You heading out?” Hugh asked. A shadow moved behind the frosted glass of the office door.
That unstuck Georgia from where she was frozen in place in the middle of the room. She slipped out and went back to her office alone.
She sat down at her desk. The building was so quiet she heard her chair creak. The silence was all too familiar. For a long time, Georgia had kept her own counsel, and silence was so common she’d stopped hearing it. Guess I’d better get used to it again, she coached herself.
For a little while there, life wasn’t so quiet. She’d been so swept up in Leo she’d forgotten that good things didn’t last.
Sitting there in her office chair, Georgia no longer saw the point of going home. So she lingered a little longer, chin propped into her hand, wondering what the hell was going to happen. And the more she thought about it, the more complicated the situation became.
She couldn’t tell Leo what she’d overheard. In the first place, it was highly confidential. Secondly, it would only worry him. It might come to nothing, anyway. Most trades managers and coaches discussed never happened.
So why was she gut-wrenchingly sure that this one would?
Several more miserable minutes passed while she pictured Leo on a plane to British Columbia, where the coach wanted him, and would give him more playing time immediately. She swore under her breath. If she leaked the news to Leo, he might actually do something rash, like throw himself at the mercy of her dad to stay in Brooklyn, thereby squandering the chance to play for a team that would let him reach his full potential.
Or, even more terrifying, he might not do that. He might leap happily on the first Air Canada flight and wave from the window.
Jesus lord, she couldn’t decide which sounded worse.
Even though it was already six, her computer dinged with one last e-mail for the day. Figures. It was from Hugh Major, so she opened it.
Hey, Georgia—on Monday afternoon I’m interviewing this candidate to add to our publicity staff. On Monday morning would you let me know what questions you’ll have for him? Have a great weekend!
Reluctantly, Georgia double-clicked on the resume that Hugh had attached. Please let her be a nineteen-year-old intern, she prayed.
Unfortunately, the candidate was a thirty-one-year-old guy, currently the associate director of publicity for an AHL team in the Midwest. As she scrolled down the page, her heart staggered into the basement and slumped against the cold, hard floor. The candidate had a degree in marketing from the Wharton School, and he’d played college hockey for North Dakota while starting his own T-shirt business in his spare time.
It was a good thing Georgia hadn’t met any mob contacts in Brooklyn, or she might have asked if anyone knew a good hit man.
She grabbed her Katt Phone and texted Becca. Summon the dumpling delivery drones. I’ll bring the wine.
Then she put on her coat and headed outside. When she reached her block of Water Street, she risked a look up at the building where Leo had been living. She was just getting used to the idea of having him nearby. Now she’d have to adjust again. That building would be just a building. And at work, she’d never turn a corner and spot Leo’s handsome face smiling at a teammate. She’d never hear his laughter echo from inside the locker room.
An ache bloomed in her chest. She crossed the street and let herself into her own building, where she would spend the evening panicking, just like in the bad old days.
TWENTY-SIX
SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 20TH
9 DAYS BEFORE THE NHL TRADE DEADLINE
BROOKLYN, NEW YORK
TOP TEAM HEADLINE:
“Bruisers to Face Rangers in Subway Matchup”
—The Times
In the thick of the season, sometimes morning skate was listed as optional on the team schedule. Players who were exhausted from seeing the most playing time could opt out.
Leo knew better than to take a morning off, though. It was no use looking like a slacker when you were fighting to keep your job. So in spite of the fact that he’d gotten drunk late into the night at a birthday dinner for Bayer at Peter Luger’s, he got himself up and out the door for a brutal practice first thing in the morning. Then he’d seen Ari, the massage therapist, and spent some time discussing stretches with the trainer.
Now it was noon, and in five hours he’d need to be at the rink for a game. But first he had to drive Silas’s car to Long Island for his mom’s birthday dinner. They’d scheduled it around him.
Grabbing his suit in a garment bag and his keys, he stopped to call Georgia.
“Hello?” her voice was soft in his ear.
“Hey, babe. Are you ready? I’ll meet you out front in five.”