2
Gigi
The guys had on tight, white jeans. No shirts.
The girls had on tight, light green bodysuits. No pants.
I marched out onto the ice, more angry than I think I’d ever been in my life. “This is not acceptable,” I said to the photographer, holding the skimpy bodysuit and silver high heels in my hands.
The photographer frowned at me. “Look, lady, I didn’t choose your outfits. I’m just here to take your pictures. Take it up with him,” he said, jerking his thumb over to a guy I’d never seen before.
The man had thick black glasses, a bright orange sweater and a pink scarf.
“What’s the problem?” a voice sounded from behind me—a voice I’d heard on TV nearly weekly during his interviews before and after games. My knees started to wobble before I even turned to him.
I spun around quickly and tried my best to hide my reaction to him. “The problem? The problem is this,” I said, holding up the scraps of a bodysuit. “And this,” I said, showing him the shoes, dangling from my fingers. That’s when I noticed Beau’s very bare, very hot, very manly chest.
Immediately, my pulse began to race quickly. Even though I was still mad at him and even though he was a jerk—he was an extremely sexy jerk. His height made me feel nearly diminutive compared to him.
And Heaven help me, his shoulders were great bricks of stone I wanted to dig my fingers into.
I’d always been good at math and I could quickly observe he was sporting more than a six-pack. His muscles were lean, yet defined—and perfect.
He looked at the bodysuit and shoes, then at my face. “Yeah, the problem is you aren’t wearing them. Go change, Martin,” he said, nodding his head toward the doors.
Completely aghast, I responded, “I’m not putting this on. It’s demeaning to women. What the heck do high heels and barely-there bodysuits have to do with hockey?”
Beau took a deep breath, his hands sitting on his hips. “Gigi, everyone else is wearing it. Nobody has an issue with it besides you,” he said, his big, strong arm swinging around the rink.
“And if everyone here jumped off a cliff, would you?” I asked, putting a hand on my hip and jutting it out, trying my best to give him some attitude.
He leaned into me and I swear I could feel the heat radiating off his chest. “If it meant getting away from you? Yeah, I probably would. Go change, Martin. Stop being a goddamn princess,” he said before swaggering back to the guys.
“I’m going to strangle that asshole,” I said under my breath as I watched Beau’s back muscles flex while he walked.
“Mon chéri,” I heard a familiar voice call.
When I turned my head, I saw Marcel, one of the owners—and my godfather. “Hey, Marcel,” I said, then hurried over to give him a hug. He and I did the double-cheek kisses. I hadn’t seen him or Angelique in so long.
“How happy am I to see you, my dear?” he said, and with his strong accent it sounded more like, “appy”
I grinned up at him. “I’m happy to be here, Marcel. I can’t thank you enough for this opportunity,” I said before broaching the reason for my current freak out.
Marcel waved his hand at me like he was shooing me away. “Oh stop it, now. Enough with the thanking already. But tell me, why are you not dressed? All of your friends are waiting for you?” His head tilted to the side as he looked at me with concerned eyes.
“These costumes are a bit—revealing,” I said, feeling a blush rise on my chest and cheeks.
His eyes floated over both teams. “Oui, I see what you mean. Pierre is our stylist and he did all of this. Pierre, une minute, s’il vous plait?” he called to the man in the orange sweater.
Pierre walked gingerly on the ice, almost like a penguin. It took everything in me not to laugh. “Allô!” he said, slipping back a bit as he waved. Luckily, I was near enough to grab his arm and keep him from going down. “Oh, thank you, merci,” he said, clutching onto me for dear life.
I’d let go of the bodysuit and shoes in order to save poor, frightened, Pierre. Bending down, I scooped up the silly costume that I had absolutely no intention of wearing. I didn’t wait for introductions. “Pierre, I’m Gigi, nice to meet you,” I said, shifting the stilettos under my arm and offering him my hand. He held onto me as his feet slid again.
“Salut, Gigi, a pleasure to meet with you,” he said, his accent also strong. He pronounced “with” like “wit”.
Figuring it would be unwise to let go of the man, I held onto him as we spoke. “Look, Pierre, I have a problem with these—clothes. I can’t put this on. We’re hockey players, not strippers.”
Pierre gasped, smacking his hand against his chest. “Oh, mon Dieu! Gigi, of course not. What we need to convey here with these two, talented teams is strength.”