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? Something’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 scored, 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.
She let it go.
He won’t stay, a voice whispered, sounding remarkably like seven-year-old Harper.
But the response was older, wiser, and remarkably resolute.
He already has.
Nothing beat the atmosphere in a home team’s locker room after an important win, but as gratifying as it was, it was missing one essential piece. Callaghan was getting most of the attention from the local news media, given the hat trick that capped the 5–0 shutout of Quebec, so Remy was happy to sit back and chill while he waited for his woman to show up.
St. James pulled off his jersey. “What’s so funny, DuPre?”
“Just thinkin’ about how mad at me Harper must be.”
The Rebels’ captain shook his head. “You’ve got it bad, Jinx.”
He did, and he prayed to the ghost of legendary player Gordie Howe, Mr. Hockey himself, that she had it just as bad for him. Nothing would stand in the way of how much he wanted her, and he was not above a little skullduggery to achieve his goals. If anyone could understand that, after their sexy back-and-forth for the last three months, it would be Harper Chase.
He had just slipped into his Luccheses when Kayla Jones, the sports reporter for the local CBS affiliate, shoved a mic in his face.
“Remy, welcome back from your suspension. Now, tell the truth. We’ve been hearing rumors you’re about to be traded, and you’ve made no secret of the fact you want onto a Cup-winning team this year.”
He stood and faced the vultures. “Well, I guess, Kayla, that’s the kind of thing you media folk latch on to ’cause you ain’t got nothin’ better to talk about. When the Rebels brought me on, I’ll admit it threw me for a loop. I wasn’t sure they had what it takes to come together and go all the way. But I think you’ll agree that we’ve played as well as any top-notch team these last couple of months.”
Kayla hadn’t earned her recent promotion to the field beat for nothing. “What about the Rebels’ management? How are you getting along with them?”
“Just fine. They’re total pros. They know what it takes to win, and while the ownership circumstances might seem a little unorthodox, it’s business as usual on the ice. We have a great coaching staff, a team that’s ready to fight for the win, and management that’s behind us a hundred percent.”
“There’s talk that you don’t gel with Harper Chase. Care to comment?”
“Think I can answer that.”
He whipped around at the sound of his sex kitten’s voice. Harper stood behind him, her body thrumming with energy, her eyes bright and fixed on him. His heart stalled, then completely locked up.
She strode over, a queen in his favorite heels and a sexy suit, and stood beside him.
“Like in any new relationship, we’ve had our teething problems,” she picked up, and then the rest was drowned out in the roar of blood in his ears because something so monumental had happened that he was having a hard time keeping a lid on his brain.
Harper Chase had placed her small hand in his, squeezed tightly, and held on.
That dumb ol’ heart of his went from locked up to flipped out.
His girl was holding his hand . . . and still talking like this was no biggie. “. . . Of course, we’ll be assessing where we stand in the next six weeks as we near the trade deadline . . .”
Five seconds passed. Ten. Twenty. All while Harper Chase claimed him for her own, and no one seemed to realize just how mind-blowing this was. So much for the sharp-eyed media.
“Callaghan and Remy have a good rapport on the top line, and with St. James working his way back to full strength following his shoulder injury, we have multiple options for the forward combinations.”
He could barely stand it. He wanted to shout to the rooftops that she was his. He wanted to skate hearts on the ice and sing crowd-pleasing anthems to her. Loving the pressure of her fingers in his, he turned his head and watched in awe as she laid out her vision in that all-business way of hers. How could she be so calm?
Time to rock her serenity. He raised their joined hands and placed them over his heart so everyone watching could share in Remy’s joy.
Harper’s breath caught and she paused in whatever she was saying. She peered up at him, and they stared at each other like idiots while the world distilled to this perfect, crazy, cock-a-doodle-doo moment.
“Wait a second . . .” Kayla did a double take. “Are you saying—”
Harper’s beautiful mouth stretched into a grin. “Ready for a scoop, Kayla?”
Kayla slid a look to her cameraman, checking they were still rolling, before her gaze refocused on where Harper’s hand was joined with his. The hand that was not slipping away as it had when they were confronted with St. James and his girls at the market. Instead, Remy’s femme clasped it tighter and gave him a sly grin.
Kayla coughed significantly. “Are you seeing one of your players, Harper? In a, uh, romantic sense?” No flies on you, Kayla.
“I’m seeing Remy DuPre in an, uh, incredibly romantic sense.” The expression on her face was questioning. Is this all right?
A little late to be checking for permission, but Remy didn’t care. She was his, and he was indisputably hers.
“How long has this been going on?” Kayla gushed, all agog.
“Depends on your definition of ‘this,’ ” Harper said around her sunshine chuckle. Harper was giggling, and he’d never heard a more beautiful sound. “It’s been only a few weeks, but we’d rather be adults about it and not hide what’s happening.”
“Aren’t you worried about being accused of a conflict of interest?”
Harper went wide-eyed in a WTF kind of way, and Remy knew Kayla had better watch out if she kept up that line of questioning. He squeezed Harper’s hand to tell her she had this and also to remind her not to lose her cool.
“I leave the game-to-game coaching decisions to Coach Calhoun and his staff. Remy’s earned his place in the starting lineup, but if his performance starts to slip—”
“Which won’t be happenin’,” he interjected.
“—then he’ll be assessed like any other player. There’s no room for sentiment in pro hockey.”
Damn straight. He drank in the sight of all Harper’s many complex facets coming together and finding peace: strong woman, team owner, passionate lover, keeper of his heart. Guess he’d better make sure he stayed in fighting shape for his place on the team and the privilege of being Harper’s man.
Kayla nodded, clearly impressed. “And, Remy, do you have any concerns about your relationship with the team’s owner affecting your game? A lot of players might feel a certain pressure to perform or worry about accusations of favoritism.”
“With a taskmaster like Harper, there’s always a certain pressure to perform.” Laughter erupted behind him, and he didn’t even bother to turn to his crew, who was no doubt listening in avidly. Shit, he was never going to live this down. “As for accusations of favoritism, I can handle those because, let’s face it, I am her favorite. Just like she’s mine.”
Kayla’s face melted in appreciation.
“But seriously, Kayla, we recognize this puts us under some scrutiny. As soon as I fu—screw up on the ice, fans and media like yourself will be calling for my head. I trust that everyone will be respectful and let Coach make the calls.”
He turned to find Harper smiling, looking lighter and freer than he’d ever seen her. When your happiness was someone else’s happiness, then that was love. Unable to resist expressing his joy in as physical a way as he could without getting prosecuted for public indecency, he decided to give the media something to really talk about. He drew Harper into the embrace of his body, slapped a hand on her sexy little ass, and joined his lips with hers.
Not even the rowdy shouts of his team could separate him from her, but he recognized that this PDA might be a bit much for Harper, so he stopped after a few blistering seconds.
“Not so fast, DuPre.” And then she was kissing him harder, sealing their love in fire and ice, and telling him everything along with a few things he hadn’t realized he needed. This woman loved him.
Finally. Speaking the same language, right here.
The room was still spinning when he opened his eyes and faced a shocked battery of reporters who had moved in like sharks scenting chum in the water. Harper was touching her lips, a look of wonder on her face, because even she had the capacity to surprise herself.
Remy needed to finish this interview so he could whisk his femme away for a spot of off-ice passion. “Kayla, you asked if my relationship with the team owner affects my game. Here’s the only answer I can give you. Every day, I skate for my teammates, I skate for my family, and I skate for myself.”
Staring into Harper’s dancing green eyes, he spoke from the depths of the heart that belonged to this incredible woman.
“But mostly, I skate for her.”