Troublemaker (New Orleans Bourdons Book 2)

by Lisa B. Kamps

  "In time for what?"

  "Lunch before the game, of course."

  "I'm not—"

  "Of course, you are. I already told Nathan to tell Dylan we'd take care of you for the rest of the day."

  "But—"

  "There's this great little restaurant not far from here that has the absolute best étouffée you'll ever have."

  "I don't—"

  "And we'll have plenty of time to get to the game and get settled in. You can see everything from the owner's box. I'm still not talking to Daddy but being the owner's daughter has some advantages."

  "Addy, enough. You're scaring the poor girl. And since when do you talk so much?"

  "I'm not talking that much."

  "Yes, cher, you are. Look at her." Jacqui pointed at me with a well-manicured finger. "She's ready to make a mad dash for freedom."

  I offered both women a small smile and shook my head. "I'm fine. Really. No plans to make a mad dash anywhere." Not without money, which was something I was sorely lacking at the minute—and something I was hoping Jacqui could help me with.

  She murmured something under her breath and bent closer to the dress. "Addy. Hold this up for me so I can get a better look. Yes, like that. And please don't go getting any ridiculous ideas in that head of yours."

  "I won't. Not until I finish school." Addy offered me another smile. "I'm going back to design school. It's something I've always wanted to do and I'm finally just doing it. No weddings for me until I finish."

  "And does hockey boy know that?"

  "Of course. I mean, not that we've discussed marriage or anything, it's much too soon—"

  "Mm-hmm." Jacqui ran her fingers over the satin and lace, studying the gown for a few more minutes before turning back to me. "It's a gorgeous dress. How much did you pay for it?"

  "I don't know. Bran—I mean, the groom's mother paid for it." And picked it out but I wasn't about to tell them that. I figured that would only make me sound even more pathetic. I mean, what sane woman would let someone else pick out her wedding dress? Of course, I hadn't cared at the time, considering everything had been thrown together in less than a month. The fact that I knew the whole thing was a sham—on both our parts—was another check in the I-don't-really-care column.

  A small frown creased Jacqui's face as she quietly studied me. I did my best not to squirm under all that intense scrutiny but finally gave in, making a pretense of looking around the place to hide my sudden discomfort. I don't think Jacqui bought it for a second.

  "So no sentimental attachment to the gown?"

  "None at all."

  "That's probably a good thing, considering you left the groom at the altar."

  "Probably." I cleared my throat and finally met her gaze. "And for what it's worth, I didn't leave him at the altar. I told him before we got to the church."

  "How considerate."

  "It was a mutual agreement, one we had discussed in depth the night before." And why was I even explaining myself to these women? I usually never cared what other people thought, and certainly never enough to defend myself. But that was exactly what I was doing and I didn't understand why.

  And that irritated me.

  I crossed my arms and pinned Jacqui with my best I-don't-care look. "So. Are you interested in buying it? Or do you know someone who might be?"

  "I'm interested. I'm just afraid I can't offer you as much as it's worth."

  I swallowed back my disappointment. "How much?"

  "Four hundred. Like I said—"

  "I'll take it."

  One of Jacqui's sculpted brows shot up. "You don't know the first thing about bargaining, do you?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "Just what I said, cher. I offer you four. You balk and demand eight. Then we haggle back and forth until we arrive at a mutually satisfying number and both walk away winners."

  Damn, I must have let my desperation show. Fine, I could make a recovery. "Okay then, eight."

  "It doesn't work that way, cher. You're supposed to do that before making a deal."

  "What was your top price? And don't say you didn't have one. If you were willing to haggle, you must have had a price in mind."

  "I did."

  "What was it?"

  Jacqui stepped back, her mouth pursed as if she'd gotten a taste of something sour. I fully expected her to lie and give me some lower number, or to even argue some more, but to my surprise, she started to laugh.

  "Six."

  "Fine. I'll take it." I wondered how much the gown cost when Brandon's mother bought it. A thousand? More? Probably, considering the woman was all about appearances. That was why Brandon had cooked up the crazy idea of marrying me: to make his mother happy about appearances.

  I wondered if he had told her the truth yet. Maybe—but probably not. And it wasn't my problem, not anymore.

  Jacqui moved behind the counter and bent down out of view for a few minutes. When she straightened, she had a small stack of bills in one hand. I stared at them, doing my best to hide my excitement as she counted them out. She tapped them into a neat pile against the glass then gallantly held them out for me.

  "Six hundred dollars. As agreed."

  "Thank you." I folded the bills and tucked them into the small crossbody bag I had.

  "What are you going to do with the money?"

  "Addy, don't be so rude."

  "I was just curious." The younger woman looked back at me and shrugged. "Sorry. That really was rude of me."

  "It's okay. And to answer your question: I'm heading to California." Maybe. I hadn't really decided yet. Maybe I'd just head to the bus station and close my eyes and pick a destination without looking. Knowing my luck, I'd end up picking some place like Buffalo or Fargo.

  So what if I did? I could always pick another place. With this much money, I could afford to change my mind. Maybe it wasn't a lot, not in the grand scheme of things, but it was way more than the cost of a one-way bus ticket so I was happy with it.

  "You're leaving? When?"

  "Whenever the next bus leaves."

  "But I thought..." Addy's voice trailed off as she watched me with those dark eyes of hers. I couldn't read anything in their depths and for reasons I didn't quite understand, that made me uneasy.

  Almost as uneasy as the sudden smile that lit her face.

  "You can leave tomorrow. You already have plans for tonight."

  "But—"

  "I said tomorrow." She stepped closer and threaded her arm through mine. "You don't want to leave without seeing Dylan play, do you?"

  Actually, I did. In fact, it would be easier to leave without seeing Dylan at all. I had already planned on leaving him a note thanking him. I didn't owe him any more than that and something told me he wasn't expecting anything more than that. But I recognized that glint of determination in Addy's eyes and realized she wasn't going to let me leave that easily.

  Fine. I'd stay for one night and then leave tomorrow. It was just one night, it wasn't like a whole lot could happen in twenty-four hours.

  I pulled my arm from Addy's and took a step back. "Okay, I'll go to the game. Not a big deal."

  "Perfect! Have you ever been to a hockey game before?"

  "No."

  "Oh, you're going to love it. I'll tell you all about it while we're eating." She looped her arm through mine once more and led me out onto the sidewalk. Jacqui was right behind us, only pausing long enough to the lock the door and pull down a metal grate, which she also locked.

  Then the three of us were heading down the street, both women flanking me like they were afraid I would take off as soon as they turned their heads. I had no interest in taking off, mainly because I didn't have anywhere to go except back to Dylan's place. And since he was probably home by now, that wasn't an option.

  Twenty-four hours. I could last twenty-four hours. And, with any luck at all, I wouldn't have to see Dylan for most of it.

  For reasons I couldn't admit to myself, I hoped whatever luck
I had would run out—which was a stupid thought to have. Maybe it didn't make sense but I had a feeling that seeing Dylan would make leaving harder.

  And that was a complication I didn't want or need in my life. Not now.

  Not ever.

  Chapter Seven

  Dylan

  I was right where I needed to be. Where I wanted to be. I belonged on the ice, had ever since I could remember.

  I'm not sure when exactly I was bitten by the bug but my first clear memory of hockey had been when I was maybe three or four. It was winter and my parents had bundled all of us up—me, my baby sister, and my bigger brother—packed us into the car, and took us to the frozen lake for a "picnic". I'm pretty sure it was more to get us out of the house in the hopes that fresh air might exhaust all three of us so they could enjoy a quiet break but at that age, I probably didn't care why we were going. A picnic meant fun, no matter what time of year.

  I don't remember much of that day—that outing had since blended with hundreds of others we'd had while I was growing up. One thing I do remember, vividly, is wandering down to the edge of the frozen lake and watching some older kids play pond hockey. No idea how long I had been there—long enough to freak out my parents since I had wandered off by myself—but I didn't want to leave. No cajoling could get me to budge, not even when Mom had bribed me with a special treat of apple pie before we even had lunch.

  Dad must have realized what I was watching, though, because he hauled down another blanket and stayed with me to watch the boys play. They were just a bunch of kids, maybe ten or twelve, playing pond hockey, but I was enthralled.

  I got my first pair of skates a week later. By the time I turned five, I was already playing hockey. By the time I was eight, I knew what I wanted to do and nothing was going to stop me.

  It had been a long road with lots of bumps but I was finally drafted a few weeks after I turned eighteen. Visions of instant stardom filled my head. I would have it all: fame, success, fortune. I'd be a legend, sought after and fought over by every team.

  Reality was a bit different.

  My first team had called me up and I managed to play six games with them—only to have my ego bruised when they sent me back down. There had been a few trades since then, fear of not having my contract renewed and relief when it was—even though the terms had changed. Until, finally, I ended up here.

  In New Orleans.

  Playing for the Bourdons.

  I didn't want to say we were the laughing stock of the league but...we were. We'd managed to win a few games but we had more ticks in the loss column than we did in the win column. If it was just our record, I didn't think it would be that bad. I mean, it was the team's first year on the ice, nobody had expectations, great or otherwise, for us. Yeah, sometimes flukes happened—look at Vegas during their first year—but those were the exceptions, not the rule.

  It wasn't our record that made us the laughingstock of the league, it was everything else.

  Our team name, which was supposed to translate to some kind of bee.

  Our team mascot, a freaking bee who looked like he was fucking constipated.

  Our uniforms, purple and green monstrosities that were made even worse by the gold lame numbers on the back of the sweaters.

  Our owner, who had more money and connections than he did common sense and hockey knowledge. Not that I was foolish enough to say that out loud. Hell no. Nathan could deal with that disaster, since he was dating the owner's daughter.

  Hell, even the arena where we played left a lot to be desired. It wasn't as bad as our practice facility...but it wasn't much better, either.

  And it still had more empty seats than filled ones.

  I shifted on the bench and pretended to stretch so I could look around. The light crowd in attendance this afternoon didn't seem to be very interested in the game. Not that I could blame them, considering we were having our asses handed to us and were trailing by three near the end of the second. I'm not sure if that would have bothered me as much as it did if Morgan wasn't here. Her being here shouldn't make a difference but it did. Egotistical on my part? Yeah, probably. I'd never really wanted to show off for a woman before—at least, not since high school—but I did tonight.

  For Morgan.

  And yeah, that was beyond laughable. Hell, I didn't even know her last name! That shouldn't bother me but it did. I shouldn't want anything to do with her at all, considering she had come close to marrying some other guy yesterday morning.

  But waking up and seeing her in my bed this morning, with her hair all tousled around her sleep-kissed face...no, I couldn't explain the sudden possessiveness that gripped me when I saw her. I also couldn't deny it.

  Was it stupid? Yeah, definitely.

  Was I really thinking of making such a catastrophic mistake? Yeah, I was.

  Did I care? Not at all.

  If that wasn't a recipe for guaranteed trouble, I didn't know what was.

  A shadow passed behind me on the bench and I stiffened, already knowing what was coming. I shifted and stared straight ahead as the man behind me leaned down and spoke.

  "You have somewhere to go, Gleason?"

  "No, Coach."

  "Is there something out there more important than this game?"

  "No, Coach."

  "You sure about that? Because you can head back to the locker room with an undisclosed injury if there's somewhere else you'd rather be right now."

  "No, Coach. Sorry. It won't happen again."

  Something that sounded very much like a growl echoed in my ear and I was only half-worried that Coach Somers was ready to take my head off. That worry grew just the smallest bit when one hand clamped down on my shoulder and squeezed with enough pressure that I could feel it through my pads.

  "On your feet, Gleason. Get ready for the line change."

  I did exactly as I was told, my stick clutched in my hand and my eyes focused on the ice. Christian Tracey was right next to me and we both jumped the wall as soon as Logan Byrd and Blake Roody made their way to the bench. My feet hit the ice and I wasted no time taking off, spinning backward to fend off Cleveland's players as Tristan Holland moved the puck toward the net. If we could give him enough space so he could get in there without any interference, there was a chance he might score.

  If.

  Might.

  No, fuck that. I was tired of playing games. Tired of losing. Tired of having our asses handed to us. It was time to get my fucking head in the game and do what I'd been meant to do: play hockey.

  I moved a little faster, sweeping my stick back and forth in front of me to keep my man from Cleveland back. I saw his mouth curl in a sneer a split-second before he darted to his right, intending to pass me to go after Tristan.

  Not this time.

  I dug my blades into the ice and pivoted left, catching the other guy's shoulder with my own. We both went down in a tangle of arms and legs, fighting each other to be the first one to reach his feet. There may have been a persuasive punch or two thrown but neither one of us got called for it so I didn't care—especially since I was the first one to get back up. I watched Tristan's progress from the corner of my eyes while trying to pay attention to the guy from Cleveland who was still floundering like a fish out of water.

  Tristan was moving closer. Closer still—with nobody else around him to stop him. I was so focused on Tristan, so convinced that he was going to score, that I forgot about my own job. For one-tenth of a second, I completely forgot about the guy I was supposed to be watching.

  He was on his feet and moving to push past me, using his shoulder to plow over me. I darted to the right, using my entire body to block him. The hit, when it came, was hard, damn near knocking the breath from my lungs. But it wasn't the hit that hurt. As bad as that was, it paled in comparison to the sharp sting just below my right eye from the guy's high stick. His blade had come up under my visor and caught me high on the cheek, slicing flesh. I could already feel the heat of the blood against my skin
, taste the metallic bite of it against my tongue.

  Noise erupted around me. Cheers and jeers from the sparse crowd in the stands. Shouts from both benches. Yells from the players on the ice.

  The one sound I didn't hear was the shrill whistle of the officials—or the blare of a horn signaling a goal.

  Dammit! No way in hell did they miss it, not when one official was less than five feet away watching us. I shot him a disbelieving look and damn near lost my shit when he shrugged, like he didn't have a care in the world.

  Fuck that shit.

  I whirled around and grabbed the other guy's sweater to keep him from skating away. It would have been tempting to just jam my stick between his legs and send him flying across the ice but I had a feeling I'd get my ass called out for it. I'd probably get called out for this, too, but the fucker had it coming.

  He spun around, that sneer still in place, like he was actually daring me to do something about it. I smiled—a nice big one that would have shown my teeth if not for the protective mouthguard—then dug in with my skates and took off. He wasn't far from me, maybe two or three feet, so I didn't have time to build up a lot of speed. I didn't need to—I was going more for subtle payback than blatant retaliation. I jammed my shoulder into his chest hard enough to send him flying then kept on going, acting like it had been nothing more than an accident.

  He should have left it at that. He struck first, I got him back. That made us even as far as I was concerned, even though he had drawn blood with that high stick. The guy must not have been very bright, though, because he came after me again, hitting me low in the back until I stumbled to my knees.

  That was all the invitation I needed. I got back to my feet, threw my gloves to the ice, and whirled to meet him in one fluid move. Bare fists connected with skin, more than once. Cheers and shouts echoed around the ice, nothing more than background noise as I curled one hand into his sweater and pulled back with my other. It would have been a hell of a hit, too, enough to end the fight, if the officials had jumped in to separate us.