I pulled back, started to swing my stick forward then stopped at the last second and darted to the right before slamming the puck into the net. It sailed past Luke Matthews' left shoulder, hitting the back with a satisfying swoosh like that's where I'd been aiming. It hadn't been but I wasn't going to complain. It was a beautiful shot and, in a real game, would have counted as a point.
Except this wasn't a real game, it was practice.
And no matter how great it might have looked, I'd still been off—and so had Luke. He should have easily read my hesitation, should have never committed to following through. If we'd really been playing, that would have cost us a point.
I skated past him, giving him a sympathy tap with my stick. Not because he'd flubbed the save but because the goalie coach looked like he was ready to have a coronary. That meant Luke was next up for an ass-chewing and we all knew it.
I skated over to the bench, pushing my helmet back before reaching for one of the water bottles lining the boards. Dylan slid to a stop next to me, spraying my legs with well-aimed snow before grabbing his own bottle. Christian Tracey and Sean Worthington joined us and we stood there, pretending we weren't paying any attention at all to the shouts coming from the net.
"So. Who's the girl?"
I shot a long stream of water into my mouth, ignoring Dylan's question the way I'd been ignoring it since last night. My silence didn't faze him because he nudged me in the side then turned toward Christian and Sean with a big grin on his face.
"You should have seen her. She was fucking hot. Big, dark eyes. Stacked curves. And that mouth—shit, I was having fantasies about that mouth on my—"
I slammed my shoulder into Dylan's chest, stopping him before he could say anything else. He was damn lucky I didn't haul off and flatten his ass for even thinking of Addy like that. The only reason I didn't was because I knew he was talking shit just to force a reaction from me. And he'd succeeded, too, because even though I knew why he was running his mouth, I still wanted to ram my fist into it to get him to shut the fuck up.
Dylan didn't seem to mind, though. He just pushed me away with a chuckle and took another swig of water. "You've been holding out on us, Shaw."
"I haven't been doing shit."
"Yeah. Uh-huh. C'mon, fess up. Who is she? You need to tell us at least that much, considering we all damn near got arrested last night because of you."
"We weren't even close to getting arrested."
"Bullshit. The only reason we weren't is because I made sure we were hauling ass before the cops got there."
I shook my head and tossed the empty bottle toward the bench. "No, the only reason we weren't busted was because that other fight broke out just as the cops were getting there."
"True. And how fucking stupid do you have to be to pull a stunt like that right in front of the police?"
"Not stupid: drunk." I tossed up another silent thanks for the only piece of luck in what had turned out to be an otherwise shitty night.
"Either way, we were still damn lucky. And for that, you owe us an explanation."
"Us?" I slid my gaze toward the other two men, ready to tell Dylan that there was no us since neither one of them had been there. Whatever argument I was going to use died a swift death when Tristan slid to a stop next to us. He'd been the third in our party of three last night.
"Yeah. I'm all ears. Spill it. Who was she?"
"Nobody. Just a girl I met." Guilt nibbled at the edges of my conscience and I ruthlessly pushed it away. At least, I tried to. I don't think I was very successful.
"Why do I think there's a hell of a lot more you're not saying?"
"There's not. We met a few weeks ago. We were having fun. That was it, end of story."
"Was?" Dylan leaned closer, not bothering to hide his obvious interest. "You're legit not seeing her anymore?"
After my colossal fuck up last night? Probably not. No way in hell was I telling these assholes that, though. But something probably showed on my face because Dylan tilted his head back and laughed.
"Yeah. Thought so. I just can't believe you were fucking stupid enough to stand her up, though."
"You're the one who insisted I join you guys last night."
"Then that makes you a damn fool. I'd've told myself to get fucking lost. Shame on you for being a dumb ass."
"Yeah, well..." I let my voice trail off. No way was I going to agree with him—but I also couldn't argue with him. "Not like I can do anything about it now."
"The hell you can't. You call that sweet little thing then get down on your knees and beg for forgiveness."
"Not happening."
"Then stand out of my way because I sure as hell will."
Anger flared in my chest and I slid closer, coming nose-to-nose with Dylan. "The hell you will."
"Hey, you just said it wasn't happening—"
"Because I don't know how to get in touch with her." The admission came out of nowhere, followed by immediate regret. I didn't want these guys to know anything about me—we weren't close, not like a real team. Not yet. Maybe not ever. But it was too late because I'd opened my damn mouth and said too much and stunned all four of them.
Tristan shifted on his skates, opened his mouth to say something—part of me was afraid to hear it—but he was cut off by the piercing shrill of Coach's whistle. I looked over my shoulder and swallowed a groan when Coach motioned everyone to center ice. He looked pissed. And while that seemed to be a normal condition for him, something about his clenched jaw and pursed lips made my stomach twist in dread and I had a feeling we were about to be introduced to a fresh new hell.
We gathered around, wariness evident in the set of every single man's shoulders as we waited for whatever punishment Coach was ready to mete out. I exchanged a quick glance with Dylan and Tristan, tightened the grip around my stick, and braced myself.
I thought I was ready. Thought I was set. But nothing I could have done would have prepared me for the coach's next words.
"I hope all you assholes have your formal wear unpacked. Apparently we're all going to a fucking ball Saturday night, courtesy of Mr. Landry."
Chapter Six
Addy
The heavy air laden with humidity and the faint scent of a sweet floral perfume drifted around me, aided by the lazy spin of the fans overhead. This portion of the veranda had been widened and partially enclosed with a low wall years ago, long before I was born, in a well-meaning but inadequate attempt to combine the beauty of the outdoors with the cool welcoming of indoors. The result now was nothing more than a stifling atmosphere that suffocated everyone who had the misfortune of sitting out here among luscious palms and an abundance of wicker and white wrought iron.
And right now, I happened to be the unfortunate one, forced to sit at a wrought iron table that wobbled ever-so-slightly when I shifted my arms on the rough surface. The table was probably older than I was, a leftover from my grandparents or maybe even my great-grandparents. It had been painted and stripped and sanded and repainted more times than I could count but didn't look any different than it had when I was a young girl. The same could be said for the matching chair I was sitting in, a heavy monstrosity designed to silently torture its occupant despite the colorful cushion beneath my bottom.
If I didn't know any better, I'd think my father chose this space for our conversation just to add to my current misery. But I did know better and knew he'd asked to meet out here because he loved this veranda. The openness, the airiness—at least when it wasn't quite so stifling outside—the illusion of welcoming shade, and the gentle sound of trickling water coming from the fountain a few yards away. I'd much prefer being inside where it was cooler, even if that meant being stuck in the tomb of his dark office that still held the faint scent of cigars and pipes smoked by men dead-and-buried decades ago.
But Daddy preferred being out here so this is where we sat, drinking sweet tea from tall glasses wrapped in condensation and pretending we weren't melting as quickly as the ice i
n our drinks.
I reached for my tea, brushed the sweat from the side with a napkin, and took a small sip. Waiting. Wondering. Dreading. I had no idea what Daddy wanted and he didn't seem to be in any hurry to tell me. For reasons I didn't understand, that made me even more anxious than I already was.
I didn't want to be here. Wished I could be back in the Quarter, reciting my long list of woes to a sympathetic Jacqui. I'd been in a funk for the last two days, ever since Nathan-the-ass had stood me up. That was two days too long as far as I was concerned, even if that first day had been nothing more than a blur thanks to my pounding head and queasy stomach. Nathan had been an uncharacteristic one-night stand that had simply gone on for too long. It was time to get over it and move on. I had an entire life filled with possibilities stretched out before me, I just needed to reach for them.
And I would—as soon as I figured out which possibilities I wanted to pursue. As soon as I figured out what it was I really wanted to do.
As soon as I stopped nursing the broken heart in my chest.
A wave of anger washed over me, surprising me with its intensity. It wasn't the first time I'd experienced it in the last couple of days but this time was a little different because it wasn't anger at Nathan, it was anger at myself. I had no business moping around, feeling sorry for myself because Nathan had stood me up. So what if he had? We didn't have a relationship. We had zero expectations and absolutely no commitment to each other. I had no business being angry or hurt over the fact that he'd made other plans. And I certainly had no business wallowing in this funk that had been with me for the last forty-eight hours.
I took another sip of the tea then lowered the glass, tightening my hand around it for a brief second before letting go and sitting back. I curled my fingers into the gauzy fabric of the sundress I wore, readjusted the hem so it fell in a graceful wave around my legs, then turned a bright smile on my father.
He blinked and leaned away from the table and I wondered if maybe my smile was too bright. Too forced. I cleared my throat and aimed for another smile, one that was a bit more subdued.
"How is your new investment coming along, Daddy?"
My question disarmed him, just as I had planned. His broad face, only now starting to show the first lines of age, changed from quiet speculation to excited animation. A sparkle appeared in dark eyes so much like mine as he sat back and clasped his large hands in his lap.
"It's going well. Very nice, indeed."
"I'm glad." I didn't really care that much about his new investment. In fact, if I was pushed to give my opinion, I'd say it was nothing more than a silly indulgence to thwart off boredom with a hint of mid-life crisis. Some men in my father's circle would—and did—stave off that crisis with a trophy wife or a mistress or a fancy sports car, or maybe all three. But not Daddy.
He bought a hockey team instead.
A hockey team. Here, in New Orleans. I still thought the idea was completely ludicrous but nobody had asked my opinion and I was smart enough to keep it to myself. At least, this time.
"That's what I wanted to talk to you about."
"Hm?" I glanced up, wondering what I had missed. A knot of anxiety twisted in my stomach when I noticed the expression on my father's face. It was too determined. Too speculative. Too calculating. I knew that look, had seen it too many times before when he was about to tell me something I didn't want to hear or ask for my help in something I wanted no parts of.
"I need you to act as my hostess Saturday night."
I blinked and curled my fingers into my palm. "Hostess?"
"Yes. I'm having the boys over for a small dinner party. A way to get to know them better, as it were."
"The boys?"
"Yes. The team. The Bourdons."
I did some quick mental math and swallowed a groan. "You want to have a dinner party for close to thirty men?"
"Just something small. I was thinking a simple buffet. Treat them to some local dishes. Joanna will be able to help you."
"You want me to arrange everything?"
"Of course."
"For Saturday? This Saturday?"
"You don't have plans, do you?"
I opened my mouth, ready to tell him that yes, I did have plans, but the words stuck in my throat. The fact was, I didn't. And even if I did, I'd be expected to change them. Arguments flitted through my mind, examined and dismissed in the space of several stunned heartbeats. I wanted to tell him I couldn't help, that it wasn't fair of him to even expect me to take on that responsibility, but the words died before they really had a chance to form. Daddy didn't ask a lot of me, didn't rule my life with an iron fist. Some would say he even went to extremes to indulge me—except when it came to ideas of my future. Or more specifically, my ideas for my future. Maybe that's why he indulged me more than he should: because he fully expected me to settle down with a respectable husband and become a respectable mother to respectable children who would follow the respectable path my parents and their parents and their parents' parents had been following for generations.
"Adelaide, is something wrong?"
I closed my mouth with an audible snap, only now realizing I'd been sitting there with it open. I shook my head and reached for my glass of tea, my fingers sliding against the wet surface and nearly dropping it.
"No. I'm fine, Daddy."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes. Positive." I sipped the tea then carefully wrapped both hands around the glass and held it in front of me. "What time do you want the party to start?"
"I was thinking of seven."
"And how many guests?"
"Plan on no more than forty or so."
I swallowed back a small groan and absently nodded as visions of loud and rowdy jocks tearing apart our home whirled through my mind. The assumption was harsh and unfair—I didn't know these men, had never met them, had no business judging them so prematurely. That didn't stop the mental comparison I was making to some of the wilder parties I'd attended during college and I tried not to wince when I remembered some of the damage that had been done during those parties. Surely the men on my father's silly hockey team wouldn't be so careless in the home of their team's owner.
On the other hand, maybe this would be the perfect opportunity to put Nathan from my mind. Having thirty or so men circulating around me was the best distraction I could ask for—unless they were brutish hulks missing all their teeth. Even so, it would give me a chance for some flirtatious fun. Nothing serious—I'd be a fool to even think of dating one of Daddy's players—but a definite distraction.
"I've asked Quinn to attend as well. He can act as host with you."
All thoughts of flirtatious distractions fled from my mind, replaced by a sudden vision of doom. "Daddy, I don't think that's necessary."
"Nonsense. This will be the perfect opportunity for Quinn to see what a capable hostess you'd make. It will also give the two of you some time together."
"But Quinn is—" I clamped my mouth shut before the words an insufferable ass could fall from my lips. Quinn Harding was the son of one of Daddy's oldest friends and they'd been trying to push us together since we were both in the cradle, despite the fact that we were as compatible as oil and water. Quinn and I tolerated each other—barely—simply because of our families' long-standing connection. And I knew for a fact that Quinn's interests lay elsewhere, in the arms of one of the interns at his father's law office.
At least, they did a few weeks ago. Knowing Quinn, he'd already paid her off in exchange for her silence and moved on to another conquest.
"No arguments, Adelaide. Quinn will be your date for the evening." He pushed away from the table then leaned down and pressed a quick kiss against the top of my head. "I have a meeting I need to get to and you, my dear, have a party to start planning. I know you won't let me down."
I watched him walk away, taking with him all thoughts of flirtatious fun and delightful distractions. In their place was a quiet certainty that disaster loomed ahead—
<
br /> And a sobering conviction that I was destined to somehow disappoint my father...again.
Chapter Seven
Nathan
I opened the door, knowing even before I did that I'd regret it. The three faces staring back at me, their expressions ranging from irritation to amusement, told me I'd been right in not wanting to open the door. I started to shut it again but Dylan jammed his foot over the threshold, stopping me.
"What the fuck are you doing?"
I ignored the smirk on his face along with his question and shoved him back, just enough to get the door closed. Tristan stepped forward, taking Dylan's place in the doorway. If it had been just the two of them, I could have fought them off but Luke Matthews, the sneaky fucker, slipped past them and entered the apartment like he owned the damn place.
Swearing under my breath, I stepped back and let the other two men in. If they wanted to hang out here, fine, they could hang out here—without me. I had more important things to do and was in the process of grabbing my keys and wallet from the island counter to do just that when Dylan grabbed my arm.
"What the fuck are you doing?"
I waved my keys and wallet in front of him, like that should have been answer enough. For anyone else, it would have been. "I'm going out."
"I can see that. What I want to know is why."
"Because I've got shit to do."
Luke rolled his eyes then started walking around the apartment, touching everything and peeking into the boxes I'd yet to unpack even though I'd been here for two months already. I bit back a growl of frustration then turned to the other two men in time to see them exchange a knowing look. My frustration morphed into impatient anger and I held up one finger in warning.
"Don't even fucking start—"
Rule Breaker (New Orleans Bourdons Book 1) Page 4