Irresistible You

by Kate Meader

  “Poppa,” he said with a heavy sigh. “There ain’t a dictionary invented that would help me understand Harper Chase.”

  His dad folded his arms over his chest. “When I met your mother, I felt so dumb around her. She was a brainy college girl, and I was a guy who’d rather hang out in speakeasies playing guitar than read a book. We had nothing in common except our love of music. That was our lingua franca. That is how we found our way to each other.” He met Remy’s gaze. “Does this woman love you?”

  Remy nodded. He knew it like he knew when the puck left his stick it was a surefire goal.

  “Then find your lingua franca.”

  A knock on the door pulled Remy out of his misery and off the ass-dented sofa where he’d parked himself for the last two days since coming home from NOLA. There was no reason why he should be miserable at all. The NHL wasn’t going to press for longer than a three-game suspension, though they would be within their rights to. One more game and he’d be back, though whether with Chicago or Philly was still up in the air. He was getting everything he wanted—the trade to his dream team was all over but the signatures. Philly was top of the conference almost halfway through the season and had looked near unstoppable in tonight’s game.

  The Rebels, on the other hand, had not played so well against Detroit. Remy would be the last person to claim he was holding the fucking team together, but . . . he was holding the fucking team together.

  Tonight, St. James was nursing a shoulder injury, so he’d been scratched and placed on the bench. Meanwhile, the rest of the players seemed to have forgotten how to play hockey. Rumors were no doubt swirling about Remy getting traded out—maybe even the fact that he’d been aiming for that all along—and the team was playing cagey. Sloppy moves on the ice, missed passes, Hail Mary shots on goal.

  He already knew who was knocking on his door, but the only person he wanted to see was Harper. Sexy, infuriating, scared-little-girl Harper.

  Opening up, he sighed at being right. Bren lifted an eyebrow, and Remy stepped back to let him in.

  “You watch the game?” Bren asked.

  “Uh-huh.”

  The Scot took a seat on the sofa, switched the PS4 on, and remained silent as the game loaded.

  “Please. Make yourself at home.”

  “Not going to be yours for much longer.”

  So not in the mood for this.

  “Only three games on your suspension. Won’t affect your trade. Probably will make you more attractive, seeing as how you did what most of the league and the fans have wanted to do to that piece of shit for years.”

  Remy sat at the other end of the sofa. “Now might be a good time to explain why you did it.”

  Silently, Bren picked up a controller and held it out for Remy. Remy ignored it.

  The captain grunted his annoyance. “You’ve had it pretty easy in your career, DuPre.”

  Not what he expected. Not even remotely accurate. “How’d you make that out?”

  “Sure you’ve worked some, but overall you’ve coasted by on your talent. Maybe it’s a Louisiana thing. You Bayou boys sure are a relaxed bunch.”

  “No one’s ever accused me of coasting before.” That wasn’t exactly true, but no way would he admit it to this haggis-eating sheep shagger. Instead he put his energy into not picking up the controller and not throwing it at St. James’s massive head.

  “Those championships you lost? You never seemed all that upset in interviews later. You seemed sort of . . . accepting. Like it was fate. Out of your control.” He paused. “Like you believe that shite about being jinxed.”

  “A lot of the time it is out of your control. Sometimes it’s just not your year. But that doesn’t mean I haven’t been upset about it. I’ve been mighty fucking upset about it.”

  He was mighty fucking upset now. He stood, because fuck this shit.

  “Where the hell do you get off, St. James? Want to talk about coasting? Want to talk about not working hard? I could—” Lower himself to dirt level and kick the crap out of a man trying to rehab his life, which he would never do, no matter how much of a jerk the man was.

  The jerk in question lifted his chin and held Remy’s stormy gaze. “We do better when you’re on the ice. No doubt about that. We’d do even better if you cared about winning the Cup, not with another team, but with the Rebels.” He held up a hand to stay Remy’s protest. “Fuck, brother, I know it’s a long shot. But if you can pull off that long shot, just think of the rewards.”

  Why did Remy get the impression they weren’t—or weren’t only—talking about the Cup here? He did not enjoy being manipulated. “You didn’t have to tell me about Stroger in the middle of a game, Bren. In the middle of a game we were winning.”

  Bren’s lips twitched. “No, I didn’t.”

  Remy would’ve dragged him upright so he could swiftly make him not-upright if the guy wasn’t supposedly hurting from that shoulder injury.

  “You wanted me to beat the shit out of him in the middle of the second period.”

  “I wanted you to get pissed. To think about why you’re doing this. What the true goal is here. Harper needs you, and not just on the ice. She’ll never admit it. She’s got too much pride, too much of her old man’s stubbornness, too much hurt inside her. I worked for that fucker for eight years, saw the hoops he made her jump through just to keep her place in the org. You know what he said when I told him Stroger had hit her? ‘Maybe this’ll make her pack it in.’ Didn’t ask if she was okay, how badly she was hurt. And he only traded that shithead out when I threatened to go public. I would’ve gone to the cops, but Harper begged me not to.”

  Bren shook his head in disgust, whether at Clifford or himself, Remy didn’t know.

  “Compare this with what happened when I told you. The minute you heard what Stroger did to her, were you thinking about the game or the championship or public relations, or were you thinking that you’d do anything to protect her and make it right?”

  The moment he’d heard, the only thought in his head wasn’t even a thought. It was an instinct, white-hot, pure sensation with a one-word label.

  Harper.

  This changed nothing. “She won’t give us a chance. You said yourself the press would crucify her if it got out, and that’s all she can think about.”

  “So maybe she needs to be presented with a different set of facts. Force her hand. Heard you’re pretty good at that.” The man smirked. “Now let’s play.”

  Remy picked up a controller and settled on the sofa, thinking on what Bren had said. Problem was, he had no leverage.

  What was the ideal result here? Win the Cup. Get the girl.

  Scratch that, reverse it.

  His poppa had said he needed to figure out this woman’s language. What made her tick. For his parents, it was music. For Harper and Remy, it was . . . sex, ambition. Hockey. Championship hockey.

  He’d told her that taking a chance on them wasn’t a case of Would You Rather, that it wasn’t an either-or choice. Remy could be on a Cup-winning team and they could still be together. What if the two outcomes were halves of the same coin, as inextricable as two hearts that refused to beat without each other?

  What if it was Harper or nothing at all?

  God hates a coward, Remy. He needed to get off the fence and make a call.

  He looked over at St. James, who held a square foil packet and was now eyeing Remy suspiciously. “Do I want to know why there are condoms in your sofa, Jinx?”

  THIRTY-ONE

  Rumor has it that Remy DuPre is about to be traded for the second time this season, this go-round to Philly. The Rebels’ center has been on fire these last three months, largely responsible for Chicago’s more-than-respectable 21–19 win-loss record. So that begs the obvious question: Why the hell—pardon my Cajun French—are the Rebels giving up their go-to guy at this stage? Somet
hing’s rotten in the state of Chase.

  —Curtis Deacon, Chicago Sun-Times

  Something was rotten all right. Harper sat in the Rebels’ owners’ box, her heart in pulp as she tried to tune out the voices in her head. Pundits, media, her father, even that German-accented inner therapist. Everyone telling her she’d screwed up.

  Beside her, Violet sighed heavily. Saturday night at a January home game was the last place her youngest sister wanted to be, and although she was obliged by the will to be present, no one would tell if she slipped away. Of course, Violet was not in the Rebels’ box because of the will or even because she liked ogling the players—which she did. She was here because Harper was a hot mess.

  The players were going through their warm-up against the visiting team from Quebec, while the DJ played “Wonderwall,” as he had played it every game for the last week. Just hearing it made her heart ache. What she felt was raw and hurting, but Harper needed to forget that and put her GM hat on. The player she needed—apart from the one she was about to trade—would be on the ice tonight. Vadim Petrov, the natural left-winger she wanted for the first line.

  Lost in her misery, Harper took a moment to notice Violet standing at the window overlooking the rink. She glanced over her shoulder. “So, if it looks like a Rebel and it skates like a Rebel, does that make it a Rebel?”

  “What?”

  “Take a look.”

  Tentatively, Harper approached the window. Her heart threatened to bust from her chest, through the glass, and onto the rink to make a bloody mess, because Remy DuPre was cutting figure eights on the ice, passing the puck in his usual warm-up routine.

  “What’s he doing here? He’s still on suspension. He shouldn’t even be on the ice.” And then he’d be on a plane to Philly before the end of the week. “I need to find out what’s going on.”

  She exited the box to Violet calling her name, and ran into Isobel outside.

  “Going somewhere?”

  “DuPre’s not supposed to be playing. I need to talk to Coach.”

  “About that . . .” Isobel aimed a glance over Harper’s shoulder at Violet, who was looking strangely pleased with herself.

  “Can I tell her? Please, pretty, please?”

  “Tell me what?”

  “The commish cut it to a two-game suspension,” Isobel said, smiling in the face of Violet’s pout. “They had some new evidence that made them see it another way.”

  “What new evidence?”

  Violet shut the box door behind her and rounded Harper, her expression fierce. “Did you really think we were going to let Stroger get away with what he did, Harper? Isobel had a little chat with that dickweasel. Told him he needed to shine up his story so the NHL knew he’d provoked Remy.”

  Isobel shrugged as if this was all beyond her control. “I let him know that it was in his best interests to take the blame, or there was a chance his propensity for hitting women might get out.”

  Harper covered her face with her hands. “You’d make what he did to me public?”

  Isobel grasped Harper’s arm. “The threat is enough for bullies like that. His career would be over, and he knows it. It was a gamble, but it paid off. Remy’s here, playing like he should be.”

  But not for much longer. His official last game, and she had to watch it like her heart was headed to the gallows.

  “If she doesn’t like that, she’s gonna hate the next part,” Violet said.

  Harper froze. Her body seemed to be in a fluctuating state of hot and cold, unable to settle on a temperature. “The next part?”

  “He really should have called by now,” Isobel muttered.

  “Who?” Remy? But he was down there on the ice.

  Harper’s phone rang, and they all jumped. “Spooky!” Violet said in a deep voice.

  It was Tommy Gordon, Remy’s agent.

  Violet grinned. “She’s definitely not gonna like this part.”

  Two minutes later, Harper ended the call, dazed by what she’d just heard.

  “Well?” Isobel prompted.

  Harper was having a hard time catching her breath, the impact of the practically one-sided conversation she’d just had still rattling every cell in her body. She might have grunted a few replies to Tommy, but she really couldn’t be sure.

  “He wants to stay. He wants to stay with the Rebels.” She rubbed her breastbone. “I don’t know why he’s doing this. Why is he doing this?”

  Isobel’s expression softened and she patted Harper’s arm—a little patronizingly, Harper thought. “Don’t you?”

  He loved her. That beautiful Cajun loved her. Sure he’d said it, and she had doubted because she’d lived her entire life trying to turn hope into belief. Men always disappointed, but Remy DuPre was unlike any man she’d ever known.

  “But—but the trade. It’s practically a done deal. The paperwork has been signed.”

  “And since torn to shreds,” Isobel said. “I signed it under duress. Or at the very least while I was trashed on Pinot.”

  So not the point. Half of their decisions were made under the influence anyway. “We have a verbal agreement with Philly!”

  Violet grinned. “Isobel and I had a conference call this afternoon with the Philly GM—what’s his name again?”

  “Max Beaudine.”

  “Yeah, Max Beaudine. Don’t you just love that name?” At Harper’s scowl, Vi rushed on. “We told him we needed a few more days to think about it. Listen, Harper, you might be the executive branch in this fucked-up system of government, but as long as you’re making decisions with your hormones, you really can’t be trusted.”

  Isobel arched an eyebrow and nodded in Violet’s direction. “Meet Checks.”

  Violet thumbed at Isobel. “And my good pal, Balances.” She capped that with an evil grin, leaving no doubt that Violet Vasquez was her deceased father’s earthly representative.

  Hope you’re enjoying this from your penthouse suite in hell, Daddy.

  Frustration fought against the unfurling emotion in Harper’s chest. She’d had this in hand. Why the hell wouldn’t anyone cooperate?

  Then because that bee-yatch of a universe couldn’t leave well enough alone, it started, a low swell of sound building to a twenty-thousand-voice chorus.

  “Today is gonna be the day . . .”

  Chest-filling emotion overtook her, and she turned on her heel and stumbled away. She couldn’t watch the game in company. Every fear and hope churning up her body would play on her face like a movie.

  He’s still a Rebel. He’s still a Rebel.

  “You’d better not interfere, Harper,” Violet called after her. “Just let this play out.”

  Just let this play out? Oh, those bitches knew exactly what they were asking.

  Isobel caught up with her and placed a hand on her shoulder. Completely overwhelmed, Harper couldn’t even turn, but Isobel merely leaned into her and whispered, “Let it go, Harper.”

  Blinking back tears, she headed down the back stairs to the coaching staff offices, one destination in mind. The moment she stepped inside, memories tidal-waved through her.

  This was her father’s office, not the one in the front with the fancy mahogany desk and the glass showcase with his three championship rings. This one he used in the early days so he could be close to the players and the coaches. It was filled with old tapes and Isobel’s childhood hockey trophies, and its south wall held a framed lithograph that Harper had made in the eighth grade and given to her dad for his forty-third birthday. A quote from the Great One himself, Wayne Gretzky.

  You miss 100 percent of the shots you never take.

  She sat in her father’s dusty chair, thinking about how it had come to this. Queen of all she surveyed, and it wasn’t nearly as satisfying as it should be.

  A distant roar went up. The Rebels must have sco
red, and she had no doubt that Remy was there at the center of it, playing his huge heart out. Frustration locked up her lungs. Tears welled and fell. How dare her sisters implicate Harper’s hormones in this decision? It was precisely to teach her hormones a lesson that she’d kept her bargain with Remy.

  That pulled her up short. She’d graduated from the School of Clifford Chase magna cum laude in Sentiment Is for Losers. In following her father’s lesson plan, she’d put her heart in permanent detention and let it become scabbed over for its protection. So used to her loneliness, she had labeled it independence. Turned it into a badge of honor.

  Forget what hurt you but never forget what it taught you. All this time, she’d been framing that mantra in Cliff’s language of bitterness and disappointment. What Stroger did had hurt, how her father handled it hurt more. But it made her strong, and strength wasn’t something that came from having it easy. Neither did strength require she do it all alone. It meant accepting love when it comes into your life like a wrecking ball.

  Little did the bastard know it, but her father’s will bestowed on her more than the second-worst hockey team in the NHL. He’d also given her three immeasurable gifts.

  A sister she had underestimated.

  Another sister she couldn’t wait to know better.

  And a path to the man she refused to live without. And just like that gorgeous man, Harper had a whole lot of love inside her busting to get out.

  She opened her purse and withdrew a dog-eared piece of paper, which she unfolded. It started with Harper and ended with Clifford, and was probably the dumbest piece of shit she’d ever read.

  . . . you’ve hung in there for so long that I’m going to give you one more shot. Maybe this test of your mettle will reveal some real balls on you.

  What dipshit had decided balls were the ultimate signifier of toughness? A pop to those puppies could incapacitate the biggest, baddest jock and have him crying all the way home to Mom. Give her a vagina any day—it could take a pounding and still rule the world in the morning.

  She tore up the letter and dropped it into the wastebasket.