John’s frown hardened. But for now, Georgeanne still had him by the short and curlies. He wasn’t getting any pleasure out of the experience, but Georgeanne obviously liked her grip. Well, she’d better enjoy it while it lasted, because in the end, what Georgeanne wanted wasn’t going to matter very much. She didn’t want him to pay child support or his share of Lexie’s day care and medical insurance. Through his lawyer, he’d offered generous support, plus full day care and insurance. He wanted to support his child and was willing to pay for whatever she needed, but Georgeanne had refused everything. According to her attorney, she didn’t want anything from him. In the end it wasn’t going to matter. The lawyers were in the final stages of dotting the i’s and crossing the t’s. Georgeanne would have to take what he offered.
He hadn’t seen or talked to Georgeanne since that morning at the beach house when she’d freaked out over nothing. She’d blown everything way out of proportion, calling him a sneaky liar when he hadn’t really lied to her. Okay, maybe that first night when she’d come to his houseboat he might have lied by omission. So they’d agreed not to hire attorneys, but he’d already hired Kirk Schwartz two hours before she’d showed up on his doorstep. He’d already had a basic idea of his rights even before he’d talked to her that night. Maybe he should have told her, but he’d figured she’d just get pissed off and try to keep Lexie from him. And he’d been right. But even now, he wouldn’t change what he’d done. He’d needed to know. He had to know his legal options in case Georgeanne moved or married or refused to let him see Lexie. He’d wanted to know who was listed as Lexie’s father on her birth certificate. He’d wanted information. His future with Lexie was too important not to know his legal rights.
The image of Lexie standing in the kitchen at his house in Cannon Beach was still vivid in his mind. He remembered the confusion on her face, and the bewildered look in her eye when she’d glanced over her shoulder at him as Georgeanne had dragged her down the sidewalk. He hadn’t wanted her to hear about him that way. He’d wanted to spend more time with her first. He’d wanted her to find as much joy in the news as he had.
He didn’t know what she thought now, but he would shortly. In two days he would see her for his first short visit.
John entered the coaches’ office and shut the door behind him. Virgil Duffy sat on a Naugahyde couch, wearing a linen suit from Fifth Avenue and a tan from the Caribbean.
“Look at that,” Virgil said, pointing to a portable television screen. “That kid’s made of cement.”
Sitting behind his desk, Larry Nystrom didn’t look as enthused as the owner. “But he can’t hit the lake from the dock.”
“He can be taught how to shoot the puck. You can’t teach heart.” Virgil looked at John and pointed toward the screen. “What do you think?”
John sat on the other end of the couch from Virgil and glanced at the television just in time to see a rookie Florida Panther nail Philly Flyer Eric Lindros to the boards. The six-four Lindros took his time getting to his feet before slowly skating to the bench. “I can tell you from personal experience that he hits high, like a linebacker. And he hits hard, but I’m not sure he has seed. How much?”
“Five hundred thousand.”
John shrugged. “He’s probably worth five, but we need a guy like Grimson or Domi.”
Virgil shook his head. “Too much.”
“Who else are you looking at?”
Virgil hit the fast-forward button and together the three men reviewed other prospects. The team trainer brought in a stack of paper and sat across from Nystrom. While the video played, the two men went over each sheet.
“Your body fat is less than twelve percent, Kowalsky,” the coach commented without looking up.
John wasn’t surprised. He couldn’t afford to let weight slow him down anymore, and he’d worked hard to keep it off. “What about Corbet?” he inquired of his teammate. The Chinooks right winger had reported to training camp looking as if he’d spent his summer rooting around an all-you-can-eat barbecue pit.
“Good God!” Nystrom swore. “He’s twenty percent fat!”
“Who is?” Virgil asked, and hit the stop button. The tape ejected and a local station flashed a Pampers commercial on the screen.
“That damn Corbet,” the trainer answered.
“I’m going to have to light a fire under his lard ass,” the coach threatened. “I’ll have to suspend him or send him to Jenny Craig.”
“Get him a trainer,” John suggested.
“Get him on one of Caroline’s diets,” Virgil suggested. “When she goes on one of her diets, she gets real cranky.” Caroline was Virgil’s wife of four years, and only a decade younger than her husband. As far as John could tell, she was a nice woman, and they seemed happy together. “Give him a cup of white rice and two ounces of dry chicken before each game, then sit back and watch him kick ass.”
The Pampers commercial ended and a voice John hadn’t heard in almost two months spoke to him from the television. “You made it back just in time,” Georgeanne said from the twelve-inch screen. “I’m about to add a shot of sin, and y’all don’t want to miss this.”
“What the hell…” John muttered, and sat forward.
Georgeanne picked up a bottle of Grand Marnier and poured about a shot into a bowl. “Now, if you have children, y’all will want to set aside a bit of the mousse before you add the liqueur, or liquid sin as my grandmother used to refer to all alcoholic beverages.” Her tilty green eyes looked into the camera and she smiled. “If you must abstain from alcohol for religious reasons, are under the age of twenty-one, or if you prefer your sin served straight up, you can choose to forgo the Grand Marnier altogether and add a little grated orange peel instead.”
He stared at her, like a dumb mesmerized rodent, remembering the night he’d served her a big dose of straight-up sin. Then the next morning, she’d whacked him with a stupid little doll and had accused him of using her. She was a lunatic. A vindictive crazy woman.
She wore a white blouse with a big embroidered collar and a dark blue apron that tied around her neck. Her hair was pulled back from her face, and little pearls dotted her earlobes. Someone had made an effort to subdue her overblown sexuality, but it didn’t matter. It was all there. It was there in her seductive eyes and full red mouth. Surely he wasn’t the only one who could see it. She looked ridiculous, like a Bay Watch babe playing at a cooking show. He watched her spoon mousse into little porcelain pots and keep up a steady stream of chatter at the same time. When she finished, she raised her hand, parted her lips, and sucked chocolate from her knuckles. He scoffed because he knew, he just knew, she was doing that shit for ratings. She was a mother, for God’s sake. Mothers of a young daughters shouldn’t behave like sex kittens on television.
The television suddenly went black, and John became aware of Virgil for the first time since Georgeanne’s face had flashed on the screen. The owner looked stunned and a little white beneath his tan. But other than shock, his face gave nothing away. Not anger, nor rage. Not love, nor a sense of betrayal, for the woman who’d left him at the altar. Virgil stood, tossed the remote on the couch, and without a word, walked out the door.
John watched him go, then turned his attention to the other men. They were still in a discussion about body fat. They hadn’t seen Georgeanne, but even if they had, John wasn’t sure they would realize who she was. Who she was to him. Who she was to Virgil.