EIGHTEEN
Two weeks later, Remy pushed through the doors of the Empty Net, the local bar that stood halfway between the arena and his apartment. He liked this place. He liked how it had the feel of a regular sports bar, but the team could chill and not be forced to fend off über fans, assholes critiquing every play, and women with an eye to getting laid by a professional athlete. Not that Remy would be wholly opposed to that latter option, but he also knew that shitting on his own doorstep would come back to bite him.
Kind of like with Harper. Gorgeous, off-limits, crazy-sexy Harper was resisting him with a lot more fortitude than he’d expected. Good thing one of them was making sense.
His game—and the team—had started to gel on the ice after New Orleans. He’d taken the sound of her voice, the memory of her skin, and the imprint of her body gripping him deep into every battle since. He was playing like a god, and they’d won four of their last five.
Coincidence? Mais non.
As he approached Callaghan, Jorgenson, and Burnett at the corner table, he heard this from the Swede: “The coconut would win. No contest.”
“Do I want to know?” Remy asked Ford.
“These two”—he thumbed at Tweedledee and Tweedledum—“are arguing over which fruit would win in a fight.”
“Assuming they were sentient,” Burnett clarified before turning back to Jorgenson. “A dragon fruit would win, dude. It’s got ‘dragon’ in the fucking name.”
Jorgenson shook his head. “The coconut is the armored tank of fruits. It can fall out of trees and kill people even when it is not sentient.”
Remy suspected he was going to regret this. “Pineapples, mes enfants. Spiky skin, hard as fuck, total badass. They’ve also got an enzyme that breaks down meat. If they’re not winning one way, they’re attacking through the back door.”
The boys stared at him for at least ten seconds. Finally Jorgenson spoke. “This changes everything.”
His work done, Remy headed to the bar and ordered a Sam Adams just as Violet Vasquez walked in and joined the group. Remy was having a tough time getting a bead on that girl. One minute she was the wild child, life of the party, the next she was looking like she’d had a shitstorm journey just to make it to the present day. He also suspected that Harper would not approve of her sister hanging with the players, because that sounded like a rule the Dragon Lady would make. No fraternizing.
A rule that Harper had broken with joyous abandon in Remy’s bed, but had pledged herself to anew. He should have known one night wouldn’t be enough with her, but he’d taken his shot, sunk the puck, and now was looking at being benched for the rest of the season. He didn’t like the idea of warming the pine where Harper was concerned. He wanted in her, wanted the heat her body would give him. The taboo was a kick, but that wasn’t just it. Harper excited him like no other woman. Period. She was smart and sexy and driven, and that combination turned him on big time.
However, she was also smart enough to know a hot fling with him was bad news for her. He was trying to respect her boundaries, the walls she’d built to keep him out. He wanted to take a sledgehammer to them, which was pretty selfish of him.
Stay away, DuPre. Don’t fuck with her life.
St. James bookended the bar, giving off that morose force field he rocked so well, only his attention wasn’t quite so glued to his phone as usual. Every few seconds, he’d throw sneaky glances toward the corner table group, then return to his phone with a storm-clouded frown.
Violet’s shout of “What about bananas?” pierced the air, and Bren raised his head like he was scenting prey. Nothing furtive about it now. The man gave new meaning to the phrase “dirty look” as he glared at Violet.
Those Chase girls were nothing but trouble.
About to head down to Bren and ask him to join the woe-is-me party, he stopped short when he felt the vibration of his phone. Unreasonable joy flared in his chest at the sight of a kitten pic he’d found online to attach to the contacts entry for “Minou.”
Minou: I could so kick Katniss’s ass.
He smiled at the answer to tonight’s burning Would You Rather? question: Would you rather get chosen for the Hunger Games or for the Triwizard Tournament?
Remy: That president dude must be quaking.
Minou: Speaking of ass whuppin’, you skimped on the peppers again, DuPre.
He smiled, then shut it down because it would look suspicious.
Remy: Spicy costs extra.
Minou: Sorry, I don’t carry cash. I’m far too important.
Remy: We accept all forms of payment.
Kisses, stripteases, hand jobs . . .
He blew out a breath to calm his racing pulse and rising dick. For the last two weeks, on each night there wasn’t a game, Remy had food delivered to Harper’s office, courtesy of a couple of Jacksons dropped on one of the bartenders at the Empty Net. Chez Remy’s take-out menu consisted of gumbo, shrimp creole, and jerk chicken and rice.
He could have delivered it himself but (a) that would raise questions in the Rebels’ front office and (b) he would have likely knocked, waited for her haughty come in, and then turned his porno fantasies into delicious, dirty reality.
Delivery, Ms. Chase.
Oh, hello. You’re new . . . exactly how hot is the jambalaya tonight?
Before she could lick those plump, glossy lips, he’d have jumped clear across the desk and ripped off that sexy little skirt and see-through blouse she liked to taunt him with when she walked in before the game to wish them all luck.
So he had a snowball’s chance in the bayou with her. At least he could make sure she was eating right. He looked down at his phone, worried that maybe he’d scared her off with his innuendo. The little dots appeared, signaling that she was composing a message.
. . . typing . . . typing . . .
“What up, Big Easy?”
Violet leaned on the bar, a smartass grin breaking her face in half. She wore a black minidress, a red cable-knit sweater, thigh-high argyle socks, and Converse. The only thing the Chase daughters seemed to have in common were those big green eyes hiding hurt, secrets, and indomitable will. It took a brave woman to handle being thrown into the lion’s den, forced to navigate the worlds of pro hockey and dysfunctional family dynamics.
“Violet.” Harper’s name wasn’t on his screen, but he still tilted the phone away from prying eyes. “How you doin’ this evening?”
“Just fine, Mon-soor DuPre.” She delivered a mock bow. “Can I give you a word of advice?”
“You’re gonna give it anyway, I suspect.”
She finger-pistoled her agreement. “I see how she acts around you. You make her nervous and, for Harper, that’s a good thing. She needs to have her world shook up, y’know?”
Not much point pretending ignorance, and frankly, the secrecy was killing him. “You don’t think her world’s been shook up plenty these last few months?”
An old-soul wisdom haunted her eyes. “That’s nothing. Right now, she thinks she has it all under control, but the reality is that you need to come close to losing everything to realize what’s important. Capisce?”
He wondered what she’d weathered to reach that conclusion. For Remy, coming so close to losing his dad had refocused his game. No more maybe someday. No more screwing around, because someday was now.
Violet patted his arm, and Remy felt the frost of St. James’s displeasure burning holes in his head. Just add it to the tab, Highlander. His phone buzzed, and Violet smirked again as she swayed off. Remy checked the latest incoming message.
Minou: Get some sleep, DuPre. We need you tomorrow.
The team. Always the team.
He threw down a ten on the bar, gave a wry salute to Bren, and headed over to the guys who needed him to skate his heart out tomorrow night.
Harper smiled at her phone. Thank God no one was in the office to see her acting like a lovesick loon. She wished Remy had made the special delivery himself, but they both knew where that would lead.
As amazing as the food was, it was the thought behind it that blew her away. And she had to admit to feeling a certain swooniness about the Post-its he’d taken to adding to each delivery, along with the backstory he’d created to justify their inclusion. Apparently, his nieces had questions about the “pretty lady with the sunshine hair.”
Questions from the “nieces” so far had ranged from “Would you rather fight a hundred duck-sized horses or one horse-sized duck?” (That one horse-sized duck was going down!) to “Would you rather gain ten pounds or be banned from the Internet for a month?” (She was eating the damn sandwiches, wasn’t she?)
As for tonight’s question on the Hunger Games versus the Triwizard Tournament—he should really have asked how much resistance to Remy DuPre did Harper have remaining in her frail Katniss-whupping body?
Her phone buzzed again and she smiled, ready to play along, but the caller ID wasn’t who she expected. She answered, her heart in her throat.
“Tommy, how are you?”
“Peachy keen,” Remy’s agent said. “Yourself?”
After a moment or two of chitchat, he got to the point. “I hear you have an agreement with Remy to unload him before the all-star game.”
“Which is more than two months off.”
He ignored that. “I already have interest. He’s been playing better than ever and any team worth its salt would be glad to have him to make that final push.”
“Which is why I should be holding on to him. There’s nothing in his contract that says I have to do exactly what Remy wants. We’re running a business here, not the Make-A-Wish Foundation.”
Tommy chuckled. “Damn, this world suits you. Your father should’ve let you get down in the dirt where you belong sooner.”
“Why, that’s the nicest thing you could have said to me, Thomas.”
“Look, Harper,” he said, serious again. “The Rebels’ organization has had a good month, but you were never known for your consistency. I can’t risk Remy being left with his dick in his hand come the trade deadline. I want to be sure he’s topmost in every GM’s mind when they look at acquisition.”
But we need him, she almost whined. I need him.
Realistically, as good as the Rebels were playing, their shot was a long one. At least five other teams in the NHL had a better chance of taking him there. His legacy would never be assured if he rode it out with the Rebels.
With her.
If she didn’t give him this, he’d never forgive her. Heart on a downward spiral to her feet, she managed, “If Remy still wants out, then I’m not going to stop him, Tommy.”
And then she hung up before her hormones—and maybe something else—tried to override her common sense.