He was turned on by a lesbian, one of the few women he’d ever met who didn’t get excited about the thought of visiting the locker room. Man, he must really be stressed over this stupid campaign, not to mention his mom’s illness and his agent’s betrayal, which were the only reasons he was here, needing money so badly he was letting himself be turned into a model.
But not a gonch model.
And George was not a puck bunny. This was about business, and he had to get his head—and body—into that game.
He narrowed his eyes and leveled George with a “no one’s fucking with me” glare. “You’re handling this campaign, so that makes you the head coach. Tell them I’m not modeling gonch.”
Her brow creased in puzzlement. “ ‘Gonch’ means underwear?”
He rolled his eyes. What red-blooded Canadian woman didn’t know that? Oh, wait. A lesbian. One who, from the way she’d gaped at him when she’d first seem him in that god-awful thong, might never before have seen a semi-naked guy in the flesh.
For some stupid reason, he wondered if he impressed her.
George turned to the other two men and said briskly, “He has a point. My understanding was that Mr. Hanrahan would model sports and leisure wear. No one mentioned underwear.”
Woody nodded firmly. “Damn right.”
The dude Sanducci from VitalSport said, “Underwear is clothing, just as much as T-shirts and jerseys.”
“It hardly falls under the term ‘leisure clothing,’ ” George said.
“Sure as hell doesn’t,” Woody pitched in, taking her assist and shooting for the goal.
Sanducci blocked the shot with, “You don’t wear underwear when you undertake leisure activities?”
It was a great save. Despite his state of pissed-offedness, Woody had to grin. “Depends on the activity.” And damned if now he wasn’t thinking about one specific leisure activity: getting George out of that tailored suit and shirt and checking out what lay beneath. Curves tempting enough that his body throbbed with awareness.
Of a lesbian. Yeah, he was losing it.
“We have a team of designers,” Sanducci said. “When one of the women heard we’d signed you for the Canadian campaign, she said, ‘
The Cowboy Way
.’ ”
Woody groaned. All his life, he’d heard the Woody jokes. Little kids had made that Woody Woodpecker
ha-ha-ha-ha-ha
laugh sound, and adolescent teasing had centered on “woody” being slang for a
boner. As an adult he’d been compared to Woody Harrelson in every role the actor had ever played—not just the various athletes, but the dim-witted bartender in
Cheers
, the psychopath in
Natural Born Killers
, and, yeah, the gonch model in
The Cowboy Way
. He wished his mom’s granddad’s name had been anything but Woodrow.
George said, “What are you talking about? Mr. Hanrahan’s a hockey player, not a cowboy.”
“It’s a movie,” Sanducci said, “with Woody Harrelson.”
“Oh.”
“There’s a huge billboard with Harrelson in a cowboy hat and boots and Calvin Klein underwear,” Sanducci said. “Woody Harrelson, Woody Hanrahan. Athletic guys in tight underwear. Grownup guys with real male bodies.” He grimaced. “Sorry; I’m quoting the designer. A lot of male underwear ads have models who look like they’re barely legal. Anyhow, the designer said we should start an underwear line, and whipped up some samples. It’ll be something special for the Canadian launch. We figure it’ll appeal to men because they respect and identify with Woody, and it’ll appeal to women because, well”—he shrugged—“the designer says that one’s obvious.”
Woody scowled. He had the feeling he was screwed. In the short time since his agent had betrayed him and lost all his money— millions of fucking dollars, including the money that should have paid last year’s income tax—he’d been flying solo. He’d trusted his own judgment when he’d read the VitalSport contract, which now seemed like a dumb move.
He honored responsibilities, but what had he gotten into? He wasn’t comfortable with the media, not like the phenoms like Crosby who’d grown up with it—and who didn’t have shitty family secrets to hide. Woody had avoided interviews and product endorsements until now, when he had no choice. Sanducci and Daniels liked how he hadn’t been “overexposed,” to use their word.
Well, now it seemed he’d be about as exposed as a guy could be.
“George,” Daniels said, “I want your team to meet with Woody tomorrow. Brainstorm; start on a strategic plan. The Beavers are in the Western Conference finals, so you’ll have to work around Woody’s game schedule. And speaking of games”—he turned to Woody—“don’t forget to wear a face shield.”
“What? What the hell?” The only time he wore a face shield was to protect a broken nose or similar injury. He was an old-style player and didn’t like having something in his field of vision.
“Did you read the contract?” Daniels asked.
“Sure.” And it hadn’t said anything about a face shield. Of course, it hadn’t said anything about gonch either.
“Then you’ll have seen the clause about protecting your face. Cuts and bruises, not to mention broken bones, aren’t photogenic.” The man’s voice held a note of warning.
Photogenic. He groaned. He was a hockey player, not a goddamn model. All he’d ever wanted to do was play hockey. And look after his mom. Which, right now, meant not only covering the mortgage and expenses for her luxury home in Florida, but paying for fulltime care, medical bills, and now the special cancer treatments in Switzerland. The very expensive alternative treatments that were the last hope of saving her life. Damn it, she wasn’t even fifty, and she’d had such a crappy life. She deserved a future.
He pulled his attention back to Daniels, who was rising and saying, “Marco and I will go to my office and sign some papers. George, I suggest you make sure Woody is clear on the details of the contract.”
She nodded. “Good idea.” Despite her words, she sounded less than enthusiastic.
Sanducci joined Daniels at the door, where the Dynamic Marketing dude turned back. “I forgot to mention—let’s target the Boys and Girls Club fund-raiser next month.”
“The what?” she asked warily.
“What d’you mean?” Woody asked. It was a charity he supported—one that the VitalSport deal would let him keep supporting—and they’d asked him to be guest of honor at their event. By that time, if things went the way Woody intended them to, the Beavers would’ve won the Stanley Cup.
He’d agreed to attend, on the promise that he didn’t have to give more than a five-minute speech. He was no public speaker and he sure as hell wasn’t going to give one of those sob-story motivational talks. The world knew all it was going to know about his personal history: he’d had a tough childhood, and it was his best friend’s dad who’d helped him get into hockey.
What guy wanted to reveal that his dad had beat up on him and that, even worse, he’d had to lie in bed and listen to his dad beat up on his mom? When, at the age of five, Woody had tried to help his mom, she’d slapped him—it was the only time she’d ever hit him— and told him to go back to his room and mind his own business.
Hockey’d been his escape. Getting out on the frozen lake in winter with his best friend, Sam. They’d been tough, scrappy kids, and they bashed each other around a lot, but it was equal and it was sport, so it was okay. Man, he’d loved the purity and power of skating, shooting, blocking, tussling with his friend. It was all so clean and simple.
Hockey’d been his ticket out of small-town Manitoba, thanks to his innate talent for the sport, and to Sam’s dad, Martin.
Martin Simpson. The man who’d been Woody’s agent since he was fourteen. The man he’d trusted to run his career and manage his money. The man who had confessed in tears that he had a gambling problem and had lost all Woody’s money—the money Woody needed now,
right now
, to save his mom’s life.
Martin belonged in jail. But Woody couldn’t turn him in. He owed his career to that man, and it’d shatter Sam if he found out
what his father’d done. Woody’d told Martin that if he joined Gamblers Anonymous and stuck with the program, his secret would be safe.
Martin had left a message on Woody’s voice mail a couple days ago, saying he’d followed through and was going to meetings. He’d asked Woody to give him a call. That wasn’t happening—at least not yet. Woody was still too pissed off.
Tuning back into the conversation, he realized Daniels had been explaining about Woody’s involvement with the Boys & Girls Club. “A couple of days ahead, we’ll do the formal campaign launch. There’ll be lots of interest, and eyes’ll be on Woody. George, you should aim for having a few ads ready by then: one that yells ‘sports,’ another that’s more leisure, and one of the underwear ones.” With that parting shot, Daniels and Sanducci left the room and the door closed firmly behind them.
“I thought it was my campaign,” a soft voice said.
He turned to George, who was frowning at the closed door. Absently, she rubbed the back of her neck where the stiff collars of her shirt and suit jacket met up with a few curly red hairs that were too short to be captured in that tight knot.
“Got the GM breathing down your neck?” he asked with some sympathy.
“What? Who?” Her hand dropped away from her neck and she turned to him, a dazed expression in those amber-ale eyes. Big eyes, fringed with darker lashes. Really pretty eyes. A man could get lost in there.
She didn’t look away for a long moment, then finally blinked and did. “What’s a GM?”
He blinked too. “General manager.” That had been weird. If she wasn’t lesbian, he’d have thought she wanted to kiss him. He’d have wanted to kiss her. In fact, under that scrap of thong, his cock was stirring.
“I wish you’d get dressed,” she said irritably. She seemed to be making a deliberate effort to not look below his neck.
For some reason, he wanted to rattle her buttoned-up cage. “You really do have a problem with nudity.”
“It has its place,” she snapped, “and this isn’t it.”
“Man and a woman alone together,” he teased, moving closer to her, so close that he realized she smelled like vanilla. He preferred that scent to sultry perfume. “Seems to me that’s a pretty good place to get bare-assed naked.” Then he snapped his fingers. “Oh yeah, you bat for the other team.”
Her brow pinched. “Are you homophobic?”
He stepped back. “Hell, no.”
“You made that comment about only a gay man wearing a thong, and now you’re down on lesbians. I have no patience with homophobes, and it won’t play well in a marketing campaign.”
“Jesus, I’m not homophobic. Don’t you have a sense of humor? I was just having a little fun with you.”
“Your idea of fun isn’t the same as mine,” she said, all starchy to match up with her clothes.
“Believe me, I get that.” Then, because he wasn’t a total jerk, “I’m sorry. Guess sexual orientation isn’t something I should joke about.”
She nodded stiffly. “Apology accepted, and no, you shouldn’t.” She took a breath, let it out. “I apologize too. I haven’t been entirely honest. I let you think … Well, the truth is, I’m not a lesbian.”
“Aha!”
“What does that mean?”
“That my body’s not all confused.” In fact, his cock surged as if he’d given it permission to really get turned on.
She shook her head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I’ve wanted you since I first saw you.”
“Wanted me?” Fine brows arched. “Give me a break. Does any woman fall for that line?”
Women
threw themselves at him without him even opening his mouth. “It’s not a line.”
“Just because you’re in your underwear, that’s no reason—” On the word “underwear” she’d lowered her gaze, and now she stalled completely.
The thong had given up the battle and his swollen cock bulged out the top. Weird how he could be naked in the locker room with female sports reporters and have no physical reaction, yet this woman with her man-tailored suit and skinned-back hair really got to him.
How long was that flaming red hair, and what did it look like when it was down?
Her gaze was still fixed on his package. Maybe there was something to be said for the stupid black gonch, after all.
Her body quivered, but other than that she didn’t move. “You really are aroused.” Her voice was barely a whisper.
“Man, yeah.”
She wasn’t moving away. Wasn’t looking away. Wasn’t slapping his face or acting insulted. She was quivering. With arousal. He knew it.
He moved past her and locked the door to the conference room. “George”—no, that wasn’t right—“Georgia,” he corrected himself. She was no guy, even if she downplayed her femininity.
“Wh-what?” Her eyes were huge as they stared into his.
“There’s something I need to know.”
“To know?”
He went to stand behind her. When she started to turn, he caught her shoulders and held her still. “Hang on.”
“What? What do you need to know?”
Her hair was secured by a clip. “How long your hair is.”
“What are you doing?”
He eased out the clip. “This.” Shiny locks tumbled past her
shoulders, halfway down her back. Fiery locks, and he knew there’d be fire in her blood. He wanted to know the woman inside the starchy exterior.
No, he wanted to be inside that woman.
She froze as he ran his fingers through her glossy hair. It slipped and slid like silk as he delved beneath the flames to touch her neck, circling it loosely. He stroked down her throat and found her pulse points. Their wild rhythm made him smile.
At least one thing was finally going right today.
Georgia couldn’t believe the hockey player was stroking her. Couldn’t believe she was letting him, and that each caress from the rough pads of his fingers made her body throb with an intensity she’d never experienced.
She couldn’t believe he was standing, all but naked, behind her, fully aroused. Aroused by her.
She wasn’t that kind of woman. Not the kind who got aroused, and not the kind to engage in suggestive, much less downright erotic, behavior.
Woody moved closer so that the front of his body pressed into her back, and through the light wool of her pants his hard shaft thrust against her. She should be shocked. Appalled. And yet it took every ounce of self-control to not wriggle her backside against that firm pressure. What was she doing? She had to pull away, had to stop him.