The Dirty Girls Book Club

by Savanna Fox

  She had that information. She knew the roster of injuries, information the Washington Capitals would love to get their hands on. But she’d acquired that privately, because she was—had been— sleeping with Woody. It wasn’t Dynamic’s information, and no matter how mad or hurt she was, she’d never use it against the team.

  “No,” she said firmly, “we don’t. Tell Woody he has nothing to worry about.”

  Uneasily, Billy eyed the two of them. “Woody, you heard George. Now, let’s all settle down, okay? There’s a game tonight. Shouldn’t you be at practice?”

  With a final long, piercing glare at her, Woody stalked out of the office without speaking another word to either of them.

  Billy stared after him, then turned to her. “Is there anything I need to know about?”

  “No.” He didn’t need to know that she felt so miserable she wanted to die.

  Focus? What the hell was focus? How could a guy focus when his teammates were tiptoeing around him like they were fucking ballet dancers? When the woman he’d let into his life had betrayed him? When he didn’t have an inkling whether the Capitals knew about the Beavers’ injuries?

  He’d told the coaches there was nothing to worry about, and could only hope he was right. When the puck dropped in Rogers Arena, he kept an eagle eye on the Caps. They were sure as hell trash-talking him, but they weren’t going after his shoulder, The Hammer’s knee, or any of the team’s other physical vulnerabilities. Thank God.

  Even so, the Beavers were having an off night.

  Washington scored in the first period and again at the top of the second. The Beavers didn’t get many shots on goal, much less actually get the puck into the net.

  Midway through the second period, Woody took a penalty for boarding and, cursing under his breath, took his seat in the penalty box. It’d be just their luck if Washington scored on the power play.

  The Caps tried their best, but Federov stopped every shot. Then Stu caught the puck on a rebound and, controlling it neatly, streaked toward the Washington goal. The Capitals’ defense landed on him, sending him crashing to the ice and into the boards.

  It was a hit, just like any other hit.

  Except, it wasn’t.

  Woody knew he’d replay that moment in his mind, in his dreams, for months to come. The rookie star, the kid on the first line who’d scored the game-winning goal on Tuesday, just lay there. Knocked out.

  Woody was leaping out of the box even before the whistle blew calling play. Everyone converged, the players and refs from on the ice and the coaches and medics from off the ice.

  The medics forced everyone to stand back and Woody watched, heart in his throat as Stu finally stirred and groaned, his face twisted in pain. The damned kid, full of heart, raised his head, put his hands behind himself, and tried to push up onto his feet. But his legs didn’t work.

  Woody would never forget the gut-ripped expression on the kid’s face when he realized his legs didn’t work.

  “Fuck,” Woody cursed. How bad was it? He’d been around long enough to know that an injury like this could blow over in a day or two, or it could be serious. Really serious.

  Would Stu ever play again? Hell, would he walk again? He was fucking twenty-one years old.

  No, that was negative thinking. Woody had to believe it’d turn out to be something minor, and the kid would be playing beside him when they took home the Cup.

  Stu was loaded onto a stretcher, and Woody skated alongside as he was taken off the ice. “Hang in there, kid. It’s gonna be okay.”

  “Sure, Captain,” Stu said, but his voice shook and his eyes were wide with fear.

  Woody watched the stretcher go. Yeah, it had been a hit just like any other. Except … Had Stu been distracted by all the shit that had gone down today, and lost his concentration? That’d make it Woody’s fault.

  Play resumed, the Capitals taking a three-minute penalty, but the Beavers couldn’t get it together to take advantage of the power play. They’d all taken that hit at some level.

  At the end of the period, Washington scored again.

  In the third period, the Beavers fought the good fight, but they were always a millisecond too late, too slow. At least they kept the Caps from scoring again and humiliating them even worse.

  In the locker room, there was nothing to say. Not to one another, not to the reporters.

  They all hurried to shower and change, then took off to Vancouver General Hospital.

  The assistant coach was already there. He said Stu was in surgery, and he’d spoken to the parents back in Texas. They’d be flying out as soon as they could get on a plane.

  Here in Vancouver, the team was the rookie’s family. And so, they waited.

  If Woody and Georgia were still together, he’d have called her. Hearing her voice would have helped him survive the wait.

  But they weren’t together. She’d betrayed him.

  Besides, he didn’t deserve to feel better. Guilt and worry churned in him.

  Coach Duffy came over. “Stop beating yourself up. It wasn’t your fault.”

  “I keep wondering if the shit that went down—my shit— distracted him. Hell, I’ve got a decade on him, and I lost my focus tonight.”

  “Stu didn’t lose focus. He took a hit. You know this shit happens. It’s the sport. The sport we all love.”

  He didn’t love it so much tonight. Not with Stu in surgery, maybe never going to walk again.

  Duffy settled back in a plastic chair and stretched until his spine cracked. “It’s been one hell of a day.”

  “You can say that again.”

  Eventually, a doctor came out. The two coaches went to speak to him. Woody watched, not breathing, willing the news to be good.

  The doctor disappeared again and the team rose to surround their coaches. “So far, so good,” Coach Duffy said. “They operated; there’ll be swelling in his spine. It’s too soon to know for sure, but once the swelling goes down there’s a really good chance he’ll be on his feet again.”

  There was a long silence, then the coach answered the unvoiced question. “They don’t know whether he’ll make it back on the ice.”

  The players exchanged grim glances.

  Coach Duffy ran a hand over his balding head, looking older than Woody’d ever seen him. “He won’t wake up for a while, and you guys won’t be able to see him. Go home. Home, not the bar. Get some sleep. We fly to Washington in the morning.”

  Reluctantly, the players wandered away. Woody stayed, and so did Mike Duffy.

  “Can’t use a cell here,” the coach said. “I’m going outside to update Stu’s parents.”

  He came back perhaps ten minutes later. “They couldn’t get a flight until early morning.”

  After that, neither of them spoke; they just sat side by side in those hard plastic chairs. Woody’s shoulder and back were killing him. He knew the coach’s hip would be too. A former Stanley Cup champ himself, he had his share of aches and pains.

  Woody’s thoughts turned back to Georgia. When she’d seen those gossip blogs, her shock had seemed genuine. So maybe she hadn’t leaked his personal business herself. But, no matter how much she protested, she had to have told someone. That person might not have even had it in for him, just been a chatterbox. A hockey fan who liked being in the know about one of the big-name players.

  Women talked to one another. He should’ve known better than to trust one.

  Except … Blabbing his personal business didn’t seem like something Georgia would do. She’d sure been pissed off when he accused her.

  But if not her, then who?

  Sam wouldn’t. He knew that. Absolutely knew it.

  Nor would Martin. But then, Woody’d have said no way would his friend and agent gamble away all Woody’s savings. The man was an addict, and addicts hurt people. Martin had called a while back to say he’d joined Gamblers Anonymous and was sticking with the program, but was that still true?

  “I gotta get some air,” Wood
y muttered. “I’ll bring back some drinks.”

  The coach nodded.

  Woody headed out of the hospital. Outside, the street was quiet and tree-lined. He pulled out his cell and called Martin. Who gave a shit that it was the middle of the night in Manitoba?

  The phone rang, kept ringing, went to voice mail. Woody hung up and called again. This time, a grumpy male voice said, “Who the hell is this?”

  “Woody.”

  “Woody?” The grumpiness changed to concern. “What’s wrong? Is it Stu? I saw the game.”

  “Are you sticking with the program?”

  “Program?”

  “Gamblers Anonymous.”

  “Gotcha. Yeah, you bet. You gave me a second chance, and I’m damned grateful.”

  It sure didn’t sound as if Martin had betrayed him again. But another possibility occurred to Woody. “You haven’t been talking to anyone about me, have you? Like, do you folks have those confessional things, where you all say how you screwed up and who you hurt?”

  “Yeah, but I’ve never named you. Just said that a friend trusted me to manage his money, and I screwed him over. You said we should keep this between the two of us, and that’s what I’ve done.”

  “How about other stuff, like my, uh, mom and dad? You talk about them to anyone?”

  “No. God, no. Why’d I do that?”

  “Someone did. The whole story’s on the hockey gossip blogs today.”

  “Shit. I’m sorry, Woody. I know you didn’t want people finding out about all of that.” He paused. “You believe me, right? I know I’m a fuckup, but I’d never tell people about your parents.”

  He wanted to believe Martin. “But who would? No one else knows. Just you and Sam.” And Martin’s wife, but she’d been dead for two years. And Georgia.

  “Sam would never—”

  “I know,” he interrupted.

  “I swear I haven’t told anyone. Maybe someone else from back home? No one knew the whole story, but it was obvious your dad was a drinker. Your mom’s doctor must’ve guessed some stuff too.”

  His mom had avoided the doctor, even for broken bones.

  “How is your mom, anyway?” Martin asked. “Last you told me, the chemo wasn’t doing the trick. I’ve sure been praying for her.”

  A realization hit Woody. He’d found out about the alternative treatment in Switzerland just after Martin had confessed his betrayal. His former agent didn’t know. The only person who could’ve told the blogs about that was Georgia.

  That sense of betrayal sank into him again.

  “Thanks for that, Martin,” he said heavily. “Actually, she’s in Switzerland, trying something new we heard about, and she’s feeling better.”

  “That’s damned good news.”

  “Yeah, it is.” Woody squeezed his eyes shut, mad at himself. “Shit, man, I’m sorry. I just realized that some of the gossip on those blogs was stuff you didn’t know. I was wrong to accuse you. It’s been a rough day.”

  “Yeah, I bet. How’s Stu doing?”

  Woody filled him in, and they were both quiet for a long moment.

  “Sure hope the kid comes out of it okay,” Martin said. “He has so much potential.”

  “I know.”

  “He reminds me of you.” A pause. “His parents flying in?”

  “Yeah. They’ll get here tomorrow. Coach Duffy and I are hanging around tonight so someone’ll be here when Stu wakes up.” “Give him my best.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  “Say, Woody,” Martin said hesitantly, “there is one other person who knows all that family stuff. Your mom.”

  He snorted. “Yeah, like she’d talk about that shit.”

  “You’re right. Course she wouldn’t. Well, I hope you figure it out.”

  “Me too. And sorry again. For accusing you, and waking you.”

  “No problem.” Martin cleared his throat. “It’s good to hear your voice.”

  A part of Woody wanted to say, “You too,” or apologize for not returning Martin’s earlier call, but he wasn’t ready to forgive and forget.

  Not with Martin, and definitely not with Georgia.

  Unless it hadn’t been Georgia

  Thirty-one

  Somehow, Georgia had managed to hold herself together at work on Thursday, but tears had glazed her eyes as she drove home. Once there, she’d rushed to the bedroom and collapsed on the bed in tears.

  Kit-Kat licked her face a few times. Then, unable to keep up with the tears, she curled into a comforting ball at Georgia’s side.

  Now, hours later, Georgia was still berating herself for being such an idiot. She’d thought Woody knew her. Liked her. Trusted her. She’d thought he was a decent guy, not someone who’d fling unwarranted accusations.

  Damn it, she’d let herself care. Let herself believe he might be her soul mate, let herself hope he might realize that commitment could be the most wonderful thing in the world.

  She had no hope of sleeping and so, in an attempt to take her mind off her misery, she opened her e-reader. Lady Emma had such a sensible approach to her relationship with the Comte. Georgia had told herself she was following the heroine’s example, but then somehow Woody had wormed his way into her heart. Would the same happen to Emma? Georgia almost hoped it would, so someone else—okay, a make-believe someone else—would be miserable too.

  The screen flashed to life on the last page she’d been reading, at the end of a chapter where the lovers had just had sex in a pile of fresh hay in the stables. Georgia clicked to the next page.

  “My dear Emma,” the Comte said, “my sources inform me that the scandal in Paris has blown over, displaced by at least a dozen new ones. It is time for me to return to my home.”

  That was no big surprise. Their idyllic world of sensual trysts was never intended to last, the same as Georgia’s fling with Woody. How would Emma take it?

  He was leaving. She’d known this day would come.

  Emma shifted position, and the hay beneath the rug he’d spread rustled, releasing a clean scent that was an intriguing contrast to the worldly cologne worn by her lover. Would he invite her to go with him?

  If he did, she would not go. Her home was here, and this was where her heart belonged. It did not belong to this foreigner, no matter the erotic intimacies they had shared.

  Drat that Emma. She’d managed to keep control of her heart. Georgia read on.

  No, Emma realized, he would not ask. Nor did she want him to. He had given her exactly what she’d wanted and needed—she was a more fulfilled, confident woman—and now it was time to end it. Yes, she had dreams of the future, but they didn’t include a rake. “I wish you well. When will you leave?”

  “In the morning.” He touched his lips to her temple, then trailed them down to her ear. “Which gives us one more night together.” He nipped the lobe of her ear. “Will you miss me, my dear Emma?”

  She smiled and arched her neck, so he could kiss his way down it. “Of course, Alexandre, but it is best that we part. I’m in danger of turning into a self-indulgent hedonist.”

  “You say it as if there’s something wrong with that,” he teased.

  Or was he teasing? The man lived his own life in much that fashion. She, however, was a different person. As thrilling and enlightening as this sexual education had been, she wanted more out of life. Yes, she thought as her lover sucked her nipple into his mouth, she wanted a man who attracted and aroused her, a man who tantalized, sometimes shocked, and always satisfied her in a physical way. But she also wanted emotion.

  “Damn right,” Georgia muttered. “And respect. And trust. We both deserve that, Emma.”

  There was passion, but little emotion between her and Alexandre.

  The man who teased her nipple with his lips and tongue, almost but not quite to the point of pain, had taught her to know and honor her body. Now she wanted a man who would also teach her to know and honor her heart.

  She would find him. She had noticed that men’
s gazes turned to her now, as much or more than to the chattering, colorful young ladies. She might not have the virtues of youth and a dowry, but she had attributes that men wanted, needed, and prized even more highly.

  “You are a delightful woman, Emma.” He lifted his head. “You will not return to being a drab, unhappy widow.”

  She laughed. “Indeed I will not.”

  Her future did not lie with le Comte de Vergennes, but he had changed her future. No longer was she restricted to choosing between the bleak options offered by her father, of an arranged marriage like her first, and by her brother, of playing the glorified servant.

  “Now,” she chided her lover, “would you please stop talking? There are other, more intimate parts of my body that crave your attention. If we have only one night, pray, sir, make the best use of it.”

  Georgia flicked off the reader. No, the last thing she wanted to read was a sex scene.

  And so much for Emma’s story running parallel to Georgia’s.

  Yes, if her friends were to be believed, Georgia would have no trouble finding another man who found her attractive. But she didn’t want another man. She wanted Woody.

  She was such an idiot! The book club had talked about whether you could separate sex and emotion, and Georgia had believed—or wanted to believe—that you could. That she could. She’d been wrong, at least when that man was Woody.

  She’d even fooled herself into thinking that he might come to feel the same way. But damn it, he should have.

  Woody was such an idiot!

  She was much, much better off without him. Maybe once she’d stopped sobbing her heart out, that truth would sink in.

  Georgia thought about calling in sick on Friday. God knew, she felt sick. Sick at heart, and exhausted from a sleepless, tearsoaked night.

  But she was a professional, and would not let her personal life interfere with her job. She dragged herself out of bed and into the shower. Lots of cold water reduced the puffiness in her face and the bloodshot appearance of her eyes. She’d plead a cold.

  She dressed, then returned to the bathroom to take pills for her headache.