“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.