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3
Gigi
As if the skimpy bodysuits weren’t bad enough, they brought out the, ‘pièce de résistance’ as Pierre said. Huge angel wings, complete with a billion white feathers.
And huge fans to blow on us.
It was official—we were hockey players, turned lingerie models.
If it weren’t all so humiliating, I would probably cry.
Pierre was continually fighting with the photographer about angles and lighting and—oh my gosh was I done with this day.
“Beauregard, we need you to pick up the young lady and swoop her sideways, you know?” Pierre said with an excited look on his face.
When I felt Beau’s hands on my waist, I nearly melted into a gooey puddle on the ice. The heat from his touch burned into my skin. I spun around. “What are you doing?” I said incredulously to Beau.
He pointed at Pierre. “Just doing what the man asked.”
I turned to Pierre. “You seriously want him to pick me up?”
Oh no, just standing beside Beau had been torture enough. Being in his arms? I would surely not survive that in a million years.
Pierre smiled, nodding fiercely. “Oui, like a swoop, you know?” he said, his arms out, moving from one side to the other. Then he proceeded to explain what he wanted.
For most of my life, I’d taken direction from coaches and advisors. Never had I ever had so much as a blip of trouble understanding or performing what was needed. Sometimes it took a lot of practice. But I got there eventually.
Right now, I had not one blessed clue what Pierre wanted from us. Beau kept using those big, manly hands of his, touching my waist and legs and—so help me if I spontaneously combusted from being so near to his hot, bare chest.
“Watch it, Moreau,” I warned him for the third time when his hand came dangerously close to my breast.
He huffed behind me and grumbled, “I’m not doing it on purpose. Get a grip, princess.”
There were many things I’d been called over the course of my life. Opposing teams were usually not kind to each other on the ice. However, one thing I had never been called before was a princess.
I was not a princess.
Anyone who knew me, knew I was not and would never be a princess.
Beau was using it as a term of weakness, and I was not weak.
“Shut up, I’m not a damn princess. You’re a princess,” I shot back at him.
“You’re accusing me of—things and—”
I whirled around. “Just keep your mangey hands to yourself, Moreau. Is that such a difficult request? Or do you need me to draw it out for you on a whiteboard?”
His face blanched. How his beautiful, tanned skin could turn pale, I didn’t understand. “Time out,” he said, then without another word, Beau grabbed my hand and started walking me down the carpet.
“Are you crazy? What are you doing?” I asked, trying to pull my hand out of his grip.
“Shut it. Honest to God, Gigi. Shut that trap of yours or—”
“Or what?”
He glanced down at me with such contempt I actually had a moment of pity for anyone who’d ever played against him. Instead of poking the bear any further, I decided to follow him out the doors of the rink.
Once the door shut behind us, he maneuvered me against a wall and leaned in. “You’re making me sound like some kind of pervert in there,” he said, stepping closer into me. I could smell him even better now, in the warmth.
