by Kate Meader
Violet threw up her hands. “Why are you looking at me?”
Isobel laughed. “We’ve all seen you getting cozy with Cade Burnett. Heads huddled, whisper-whisper, et cetera, et cetera.”
Harper blinked. “I thought you had your eye on St. James.”
Violet smiled serenely. “I’m equal opportunity when it comes to these hunks of brawn. This is the year of the V, chicas—and I mean that in all the ways it can possibly be taken.” Her brow crimped, some other thought taking over for the briefest second. “But you can strike Nessie off the list.”
“Nessie?”
“Loch Ness,” Violet said. “Because he’s Scottish and gives off the still waters of mystery vibe.”
Harper had heard plenty of names for the broody captain of the Rebels: Laird of the Puck, the Gentleman Enforcer, and the team nickname, Highlander. Nessie was a new one.
Violet chuckled. “I might have thrown that one at him, and he looked at me like I’d asked what was under his kilt.”
Harper had no problem imagining Bren’s reaction. Not exactly known for his cheerful disposition, since emerging from rehab he’d been as dour as a rainy day in the Scottish highlands. She grabbed a few mugs and started pouring coffee.
Isobel coughed slightly. “Nice diversion, Harper, but I think we need to also talk about the fact you had a fling with Billy Stroger.”
Her blood turned to ice. “It was years ago. Dad said I shouldn’t, so that was like cock nip. The thrill of the forbidden and all that.”
Isobel looked sympathetic, while Violet studied her more closely. “Yeah, but what exactly happened?”
No amount of sisterly bonding would help loosen her tongue on that topic. “He wasn’t performing well so we traded him out. He took it personally. And that, ladies, is why hockey and sex do not mix.”
Better they see her as a hard-ass who’d happily trade a lover. No sentiment because, dammit, there’s no crying in hockey.
Isobel poured cream into her coffee. “He doesn’t seem your type at all.”
“What’s my type?”
“Kenneth,” they both said in unison.
Boring, staid, wouldn’t-hurt-a-fly Kenneth. She supposed that wasn’t entirely wrong, but why did it sting to be filed away so quickly? Although she had been holding Kenneth at arm’s length, perhaps it was time to let him off the bench. Spending time with him would crowd out all thoughts of a certain Cajun ice warrior.
She was almost sure of it.
This was not how Remy imagined spending his first free Saturday night in a month, but then Chicago had been just one long cavalcade of surprises so far.
Cade “Alamo” Burnett sat on Remy’s sofa, whupping all comers at Star Wars Battlefront on Remy’s PS4. Alamo was from, you guessed it, San Antone, and was about as arrogant as you’d expect from someone born in the Lone Star State. His fingers feverishly worked the controller as he played Boba Fett, the badassest bounty hunter in the galaxy, against a bunch of anonymous online players.
After about two minutes, he twisted his wrist, unleashed a weird war cry, and smashed the Rebel resistance back to wherever the hell they’d X-Winged in from.
“Yeeeessss!”
“Congratulations, dude,” Callaghan said. “You just beat a bunch of twelve-year-olds.”
Burnett smirked. “Are you kidding? Those little fuckers play this 24/7. You bet I’m proud to crush their spirits.”
An hour ago, Erik Jorgenson had led several of the players into Remy’s apartment, saying they’d heard Remy had “the video games.” Remy liked their goalie, Erik, or “Fish” as the team nicknamed him. He came from O-Vik, a small town near Bumblefuck, the Arctic Circle. Considered the holy city of Swedish hockey, it had produced more NHL players per capita than anywhere in the world. People said it was the air, the water, the northern lights. Remy assumed there was only so much sex you could have during all-dark days in winter; if you were surrounded by that much snow, hockey would be your life.
“So none of you guys have your own PS4?”
“Uh, we’re worth fucking millions, DuPre,” Ford said. “Of course we have our own PS4. But we figured you were lonely, not knowing anyone, so we came over.”
“Your woman was sick of you fussing around her, right?”
Callaghan grinned. “Bingo.”
Ford’s girlfriend was pregnant, which he’d learned the night of his birthday party. He wouldn’t shut up about it in the locker room, so lord only knew how annoying he was at home. Remy guessed Addison had pushed him out the door tonight with instructions to stop hovering.
In truth, Remy was glad for the distraction. After that fight with Harper two nights ago, he’d been irritable. Not even a ten-mile run today had cast off visions of her wounded expression.
Like she had a right to be hurt. Jesus.
He wasn’t enjoying that guilt curdling in the pit of his stomach. Neither did he enjoy that this morning’s in-shower fun times with his right hand only caught fire when the memory of how she’d tasted popped in for a visit.
“How long for the food?” Burnett asked. As soon as the guys arrived, Remy had done what he always did when his teammates came over: he dragged out his stockpot.
“You could’ve ordered pizza.”
“Pizza in Riverbrook sucks, man. They don’t know what they’re doing this far from the big smoke. Besides, we heard you were den dad to your last crew.” He grinned big. “Can’t wait to try that gumbo, Jinx.”
Taking that as his cue, Remy headed into the kitchen, with requests for more beers and “something salty” from Jorgenson, who apparently thought sodium was a food group. A knock on the front door redirected his journey.
St. James stood on the threshold, looking as awkward as, well, an alcoholic at a party. He held up a six-pack of Sam Adams Octoberfest, which did not make it any less uncomfortable. Gretzky, who’d been sitting at the petulant Scot’s feet, pushed past Remy with a loud toot to announce his arrival.
“Heard we were playing video games.” That gruff brogue challenged Remy to disagree.
“Sure,” Remy said, “accepting” the beers shoved in his midsection as Bren walked by.
“Highlander!” Erik called out cheerily while the rest of the gang joined in.
Bren waved and waited for Remy to move into the kitchen. They hadn’t talked much in the few weeks since Remy’s arrival, though the team seemed to have his back. That’s what your hockey family did, even when you fucked up royally. Remy didn’t know all the details beyond the guy’s need for detox after he apparently showed up for a game drunk out of his tree in the final days of the regular season.
“What’ll it be?”
“Water would be good.”
While Remy grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge, Bren approached the stove like a bomb sat on it. “Smells good.”
“Seafood gumbo. Old family recipe.”
Bren took the water Remy offered. “You still pissed?”
How in hell had St. James heard about his fight with Harper? He played dumb. “About what?”
“Your trade.”
Oh that. He guessed he had been a bit sullen about it. “I’m coming around. Winning always helps.”
“You played a blinder in Boston. I guess you had something to prove against your old team.”
Bren took a slug of his water while Remy considered his next move. Time to get down to brass tacks. “Apparently we’re headed to the playoffs.”
St. James’s smile was about as lively as Remy had ever seen it. “Harper’s not given to hyperbole, but it won’t happen without us coming together. I was surprised she asked me to wear the captain’s band again, but I’ve always trusted her. She had my back when the rest of ’em were ready to bail on me.”
Bren’s burst of honesty was as unexpected as that pretty picture he painted of can-do-no-wrong Harpe
r. First she’s bringing Ford and his woman together by trading him in, now she’s holding St. James’s hand on the road back to recovery. None of it squared with the ruthless woman who didn’t allow for sentiment.
He considered himself a pretty good judge of character, so he didn’t enjoy being wrong about anyone. Harper had already demonstrated she wasn’t making the best calls: going for broke toward the playoffs. Firing her GM. Fucking Stroger.
Next.
Harper didn’t act like any manager he’d ever worked with. Though it wasn’t required, she usually came into the locker room before the games to wish them all luck in that stilted way she had. The guys didn’t know what to do with it, not because she was female—though he guessed that could be part of it—but because she seemed so ill at ease with them. Like she was holding her breath every time. For a woman who had grown up around professional sports, she sure didn’t act like it.
Weird, because she knew her stuff and had no problem giving as good as she got from Remy. She could reel off stats, had an eye for talent, and clearly ate three square meals of hockey a day, but when it came to the intangibles of running a team, Harper Chase knew shit.
He wondered why she was so desperate to force the issue this year, and why that desperation made her sound so human. Don’t get all caught up in her schemes, DuPre. You’re out of here in ten weeks max. The Rebels are not your problem.
“So what else you got to prove, DuPre?”
Remy stared at Bren, trying to interpret that question amid the undercurrent of tension that’d existed between them since Remy’s arrival. That he was here to knit the team together had to get Bren’s back up. Ensuring that they acted as a cohesive unit should be the captain’s job.
“I know how to win.”
“Up to a point,” Bren returned with challenge. Evidently he was wondering what sort of deal Remy had with Harper. He’d witnessed that run-in in the Philly locker room. He’d seen Remy’s effort levels increasing since. A man as astute as Bren St. James would be rightly suspicious of Remy’s endgame.
While he could assure the man his captain’s spot was safe, now was not the time to mention that Remy’s stay was short term. He might not agree with Harper on much, but he recognized that ripping the rug out from under them would interfere with the mission.
“You believe I’m jinxed?” Remy asked, turning the challenge around.
Bren rubbed his mouth, a resigned gesture if ever Remy had seen one. “We’re all jinxed in one way or another.”
TEN
Home at last.
Remy breathed in the scent of jasmine, fried food, and horse manure, with top notes of tourist vomit, and thanked the Lord for the glory that is New Orleans. Coming in a day early gave him a chance to catch up with his family, who lived in the Garden District about twenty minutes from the French Quarter. There’d be a big meal tonight with everyone on hand to tell him what needed fixing with the Rebels’ game. His family never let the fact they knew fuck all about hockey get in the way of giving advice.
He loved them anyway.
No doubt he’d have to suffer through the usual chatter about how he needed to settle down, as if the seven nieces his sisters had bestowed on the DuPres weren’t enough. As the only son, he felt a special responsibility to carry on the family name—and he would, in good time.
He cut from Royal onto Pirate Alley, heading for the speakeasy where he was scheduled to meet his cousin Henri for a midafternoon drink. How much would he have to down to exorcise thoughts of Harper Chase? Talk about latching his fantasies on to the wrong woman. Nothing could come out of developing an attraction for his boss, never mind that she was the reason Stroger had a hard-on for doing Remy a serious injury during that game.
Even with all these God’s-honest reasons not to think of Harper in that way, putting that No Trespassing sign on it guaranteed that was the one place his mind would go.
When he was with her, he wasn’t thinking that she was the owner of his team. He wasn’t thinking that she was his employer. He wasn’t thinking at all. His dick was taking over, throbbing to the beat of man-wants-woman.
This man wanted this woman.
He needed to get laid. This shouldn’t have been a problem, because he had any number of opportunities to get laid. Women threw themselves at hockey players, even older past-their-prime jokers like him. Easy should have been his speed, yet all he wanted was hard. The one woman he couldn’t have, because that’s the way the bitch of a universe liked to operate.
New Orleans had always been a quirky town that thrived on difference, and Remy enjoyed his walk through the narrow streets steeped in history, especially as the weather was warmer than usual for early November. New retail establishments had sprung up in the Quarter, fancy boutiques, aimed at affluent locals and well-heeled tourists. His sister Martine probably shopped down here regularly; he could imagine her flitting in and out of these high-priced shops spending all that cash she got from the lawsuits she usually won in her job as a personal injury lawyer. Like most DuPres, that woman could persuade anyone to do anything, and the proof was in her expensive shoes.
Speaking of . . . a large plate glass window showcased a display of colorful heels designed to cut off the circulation of any woman who wore them. He was musing on whether he should risk buying a gift for his sister—and had decided against because he’d have to spend the rest of the day buying something for all of them and his nieces—when he spotted the last person he’d expected to see.
The boss in the honey-toned flesh.
She sat on a sofa in the store, her bare legs stretched out before her, contemplating the shoes on her feet. Red ones that had to be at least four inches tall and sparkled to the point he was dazzled. Or maybe it was just the sight of Harper with that serious look on her face. She looked sad, a little lost, and a whole lot younger than her thirty-one years.
He really shouldn’t, but by the time he’d finished that thought he was already inside the store. The saleswoman caught his eye, and evidently recognizing him as a native, gave him the traditional New Orleans greeting. “Where y’at?”
“All right.”
Harper snapped her head up at the sound of his voice.
“Remy.” A fiery blush crawled up her neck, and to say that pleased him would be the understatement of the millennium. “In town early for some R and R?”
He sat in an uncomfortable-looking armchair across from her. “I have family here, so I thought I’d take the opportunity to spend some time with them.”
That was her cue to tell him why she was here ahead of schedule. A romantic getaway with the lawyer, perhaps?
She didn’t take the bait, just dropped her gaze back to the shoes, which sent his gaze there, too. Damn, those legs were fine. She wasn’t a tall woman, but all her height was in those killer pins. She wore a black-and-white-checkerboard dress in some drapey material that clung lovingly to her breasts and thighs. The hem would have hit above her knee if she were standing, but hitched a few inches higher since she was sitting down.
He approved of the sitting down.
Several boxes lay scattered about. “Need help deciding?”
“One of your many talents?”
“You’d be surprised. Four sisters.”
She shot him a look of understanding. “I didn’t know that. Younger than you?”
“Worse. Older. I’m the baby and they never let me forget it. We’re all about a year apart.”
“Your poor mother.”
He flashed a grin. “Well, with four girls, it very soon became ‘my poor father.’ But yeah, after me, Momma ordered Poppa to get the snip. Five was plenty.” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “So, let me see.”
“See what?”
“The shoes. Stand up and walk over there a ways.”
It was a risk. She could interpret it as the inappropriate come-on that it
was and shut him down, or she could respond to his opening salvo in a way that would please them both.
He watched her wrestle with that dilemma a moment. Finally, she stood.
So did his cock.
Thankfully, her attention was on the shoes, so she didn’t notice that. He leaned forward so no one would notice that.
“Take a spin, minou.”
That baby frown came back, and she was again weighing the pros and cons. She angled her right toe in such a way that it drew focus to the smooth line of her leg. He almost groaned.
“Let’s see how they look from the back,” he encouraged.
Still frowning, she walked a few feet toward the front of the store, and the sway of her hips spiked his pulse. How had he ever thought her too skinny?
Baby, gimme that look. You know the one I mean.
She turned her head and threw a pout over her shoulder. “They’re a little tight.”
So were his jeans. Bada bing!
“You need another size?” the sales associate Remy had forgotten about chimed in.
“Five and a half,” Harper said.
While the saleswoman went back to retrieve another pair, Harper did a catwalk strut to the door and back. Was that for him? He liked to think so. Just as he liked to think of this woman wearing nothing but high heels while he drove into her to the hilt.
Was this really where his mind should be going the day before a game? Anytime whatsoever? This was Harper Chase he was thinking of spreading wide, pumping deep, and—he needed to get a grip.
Nothing like a little reality check to force his mind back on track. “Think you and me should clear the air, Harper.”
“We should?”
“You seem to have made up your mind about me. Like Elizabeth Bennet.”
She stared at him for a good five seconds. He liked how her no-filter gaze made his skin burn.
“From Pride and Prejudice,” he explained unnecessarily. “She makes up her mind pretty damn quick that Darcy is an unsociable moron with a stick up his ass—”