whacking into each other, bashing each other into the boards, it’s uncivilized,” she protested. “Other sports aren’t like that, are they?” She’d caught only glimpses of sports like basketball and baseball as she changed channels, but she’d never seen the kind of violence she’d noted in last night’s hockey game.
“Hockey’s a Canadian game.” He grinned. “We’re tough guys up here, north of the forty-ninth parallel.”
His grin was infectious, but she resisted. “I can’t believe that’s the image Canada wants to present to the world.”
“Yet hockey’s our unofficial national sport.”
“Unofficial? What’s the official one?”
“Lacrosse.”
“Lacrosse?” No image came to mind. Had she ever channel-surfed past a game of lacrosse?
“See, you don’t even know what it is. Fans go for hockey. They like seeing guys getting bashed into the boards by a good, fair hit.”
“That doesn’t say much for the fans.”
“I’m sure there’s a psychological explanation. Bottom line, better they cheer for me smashing LaBecque into the boards than they gohome and beat up on their spouses.” His voice was heavy, his blue eyes shadowed.
She wrinkled her nose. “I hate to think those are the only two options.”
He gave a solemn nod. “Me too. Alls I’m saying is, there gotta be reasons hockey’s so popular.”
They were conversing, and he hadn’t touched his lunch for a good ten minutes. She’d let his poor grammar slide by. Instead, she took a bite of risotto and chewed slowly.
His fork went down and came up with a much larger portion of salad.
When he’d finished it, she said, “What were those men talking about? Conn Smythe?” She took another forkful of risotto to eat while he responded.
“The Conn Smythe Trophy is the award for the MVP in the NHL Stanley Cup playoffs. Uh, MVP means—”
“Most valuable player. That much I know. And NHL is the National Hockey League. But I’m not sure exactly what that is.”
Following her example, he’d eaten some pizza while she was talking. “Can’t believe you live in Vancouver and know so little about hockey.”
Some people had better things to do than watch grown men chase pucks. But saying so would be rude, and not an effective strategy. “I’ve never been into sports. Enlighten me.”
“Okay. The NHL is a formal organization with thirty clubs— what you’d think of as teams—that are franchises. Mostly American, seven in Canada. The players come from all over the world, and lots of Canadians play for American teams.”
“How’s it decided what team a player’s on?”
He swallowed the bite he’d been eating, and she realized he’d picked up the back-and-forth flow of eating and conversing. “There’s a draft, trades, free agents. It’s complicated.”
“And the season has all these games that build toward the Stanley Cup playoffs?”
“Pretty much. First we play some exhibition games against NHL clubs, European clubs, and so on. Then it’s regular season and we play clubs within the league.” He lifted his water glass.
Georgia stared at his hand, so large and brown. Surprisingly well shaped, but so very strong looking. That hand had touched her most intimate places with amazing delicacy. And deftness. As if he knew her body better than anyone ever had.
A tingly ache throbbed between her legs, craving more of that touch.
When Woody took a long swallow of water, his throat rippled.
She’d never been so physically aware of a man, but then, she’d never been with a man who made his living with his body. As well as his mind, if Terry was to be believed. She’d also never been with a man who’d brought her to climax.
“Then there’s postseason,” Woody went on.
Throat dry, she swallowed and tried to remember what they were talking about.
“That’s the Stanley Cup playoffs. An elimination system involving the top eight clubs. Two clubs play until one has won four games; then the winner advances
“Hockey’s a Canadian game.” He grinned. “We’re tough guys up here, north of the forty-ninth parallel.”
His grin was infectious, but she resisted. “I can’t believe that’s the image Canada wants to present to the world.”
“Yet hockey’s our unofficial national sport.”
“Unofficial? What’s the official one?”
“Lacrosse.”
“Lacrosse?” No image came to mind. Had she ever channel-surfed past a game of lacrosse?
“See, you don’t even know what it is. Fans go for hockey. They like seeing guys getting bashed into the boards by a good, fair hit.”
“That doesn’t say much for the fans.”
“I’m sure there’s a psychological explanation. Bottom line, better they cheer for me smashing LaBecque into the boards than they gohome and beat up on their spouses.” His voice was heavy, his blue eyes shadowed.
She wrinkled her nose. “I hate to think those are the only two options.”
He gave a solemn nod. “Me too. Alls I’m saying is, there gotta be reasons hockey’s so popular.”
They were conversing, and he hadn’t touched his lunch for a good ten minutes. She’d let his poor grammar slide by. Instead, she took a bite of risotto and chewed slowly.
His fork went down and came up with a much larger portion of salad.
When he’d finished it, she said, “What were those men talking about? Conn Smythe?” She took another forkful of risotto to eat while he responded.
“The Conn Smythe Trophy is the award for the MVP in the NHL Stanley Cup playoffs. Uh, MVP means—”
“Most valuable player. That much I know. And NHL is the National Hockey League. But I’m not sure exactly what that is.”
Following her example, he’d eaten some pizza while she was talking. “Can’t believe you live in Vancouver and know so little about hockey.”
Some people had better things to do than watch grown men chase pucks. But saying so would be rude, and not an effective strategy. “I’ve never been into sports. Enlighten me.”
“Okay. The NHL is a formal organization with thirty clubs— what you’d think of as teams—that are franchises. Mostly American, seven in Canada. The players come from all over the world, and lots of Canadians play for American teams.”
“How’s it decided what team a player’s on?”
He swallowed the bite he’d been eating, and she realized he’d picked up the back-and-forth flow of eating and conversing. “There’s a draft, trades, free agents. It’s complicated.”
“And the season has all these games that build toward the Stanley Cup playoffs?”
“Pretty much. First we play some exhibition games against NHL clubs, European clubs, and so on. Then it’s regular season and we play clubs within the league.” He lifted his water glass.
Georgia stared at his hand, so large and brown. Surprisingly well shaped, but so very strong looking. That hand had touched her most intimate places with amazing delicacy. And deftness. As if he knew her body better than anyone ever had.
A tingly ache throbbed between her legs, craving more of that touch.
When Woody took a long swallow of water, his throat rippled.
She’d never been so physically aware of a man, but then, she’d never been with a man who made his living with his body. As well as his mind, if Terry was to be believed. She’d also never been with a man who’d brought her to climax.
“Then there’s postseason,” Woody went on.
Throat dry, she swallowed and tried to remember what they were talking about.
“That’s the Stanley Cup playoffs. An elimination system involving the top eight clubs. Two clubs play until one has won four games; then the winner advances
Similar Books
