TWO
Remy couldn’t help congratulating himself: damn, he made a great jambalaya. Not too spicy, bursting with flavor, each mouthful a perfectly self-contained meal.
He raised his eyes from the bowl in his hand to the woman before him. Not too spicy and far too skinny. Barely an ounce of flesh on her, only a couple of inches above five feet, she stood before him like a pissed-off toothpick. Her blond hair was pulled back in a bun, a move one of his old girlfriends told him women employed to remove wrinkles. It had the effect of drawing attention to her eyes, big sea-green saucers that flashed silver when she got emotional. And boy, was this woman emotional.
Her rage waved from ten feet across the kitchen, so he took another bite and chewed slowly, because he suspected Harper Chase wasn’t used to delays. Everything would be Now, there. No, there! Bet she was bossy as all get-out in bed.
His cock stirred. No idea why—okay, it was probably because it’d been a while since he’d gone sheet diving. However, Harper Chase was not his type in the slightest. He liked his women with meat on them, unafraid a laugh might give them lines around their eyes or reveal a side they’d rather remain hidden.
A crying shame, because she had that husky, sex kitten voice he knew men mistook for a bimbo’s. Harper Chase was no bimbo. She was a savvy businesswoman. But she would need to lower that voice by several octaves before anyone took her seriously in the NHL. Barely weeks since Clifford Chase’s death and the subsequent reveal of how he’d given the middle finger to everyone from the grave, and the jokes were still flying about how the Rebels’ estrogen influx would likely send them from second last to bottom.
Didn’t help that they’d just lost their general manager, Brian Rennie, and already had an open position for an assistant.
If it was just Harper, Remy might’ve given them a shot. It was no secret that she’d been itching to get her hands dirty and turn the org around. The woman had balls of steel, but having to rule by family committee when by all accounts said family couldn’t stand to be in the same room together? Hell, he had four sisters he liked and he wouldn’t have wished that on his worst enemy. Now, with no GM or assistant, the Rebels were up merde creek, paddle in smithereens.
“Did you hear me, Mr. DuPre?”
Mon dieu, the flavor in that tone, like a sweet blues ballad. He bet she could serenade his cock to full mast if he let her. Marveling at where his brain had already gone, he shook his head. Women should not be running hockey teams.
“I was sorry to hear about your father.” Guy was a complete fils de putain, but he was also a helluva center back in the day.
She inhaled a short, sharp breath, and for a moment looked young. Vulnerable. “Thank you.”
Doreen finally must have made an impact, because the next sound was a herd of wildebeest pounding the antique Java hardwood flooring he had installed a year ago.
“Let’s talk outside, Harper.”
He stepped out onto the deck he had built with his own hands last summer, irked by the constant reminders of how much he’d invested in his life in Boston. Once she’d joined him, he closed the door. This conversation was not for the ears of his teammates.
Former teammates.
Fuck, that stung. After five years, these men were his coworkers, his friends, the guys he’d lay down everything for. The Cougars had started to come together last spring, getting as far as the semifinals, and had just missed the big time by a lucky goal in double overtime.
When it came to Remy, fortune always seemed to favor the other side.
He’d been saddled with the label of unluckiest guy in the NHL. Made three finals, each run ending in heartbreak. Traded six times, and in four of those instances, the team he left went on to win the Cup the year after. Matt Stein, Boston’s GM, had laughed his head off when he acquired Remy five years ago.
No one’s that unlucky, DuPre. A guy who works as hard as you eventually has to get the right call.
Not even Remy’s agent knew that he’d planned to retire after this season, and he had high hopes of going out in a blaze of glory. This was supposed to be the Cougars’ year. His year. Finally, he’d get to hold the Cup, not gaze at it in the fucking Hall of Fame like some drooling rookie. But the only certainties were death, taxes, and that you could be traded at the drop of a hat. Sure it was a business, but he didn’t enjoy Harper Chase’s methods.
“Have a seat,” he said, gesturing to the Adirondack chair he liked to kick back in with a cold beer on his days off.
Her eyes widened briefly, a flicker of something unnameable in them, and he could have sworn she took an incremental step toward the door. Did he look like the sort of jerk who’d make an unwanted move on a woman? This femme sure thought she was the shit.
“Don’t worry, Harper, you’re not my type.” If she wouldn’t sit, then neither would he, ’cause that’s how his momma raised him. He leaned against one of the deck’s wooden beams.
“Mr. DuPre—”
“It’s Remy.”
“Remy,” she said, clearly exasperated. “Leaving a voice mail to say you’ll make your own way to Philly for the next game is not how you conduct yourself on my team. If I say you need to be in Chicago, then you need to be in Chicago.”
“I don’t take orders, Harper. I barely take suggestions.” He sighed, realizing that was not terribly respectful. Time to let the facts speak for themselves. “The Rebels’ record this season already sucks. Oh and four. Whether I show for practice today or tomorrow is not gonna make one blind bit of difference to that game. Hell, two months of practice and team building and whatever horseshit you have in mind to make this crew work is not gonna matter.”
Earlier she’d said she needed a leader. Well, baby-sitting was not part of his job description. Move forward on the ice or die—that was his job. He’d put his time into being an inspiration after he won the Cup.
If he won. Because now that was looking less and less likely.
She fisted her hands at her hips. Skinny bones in skinny jeans that looked like they’d been ironed. Everything about her pissed him off.
“You’re already giving up?”
He was too old to fall for that reverse psychology bullshit. “You’ve got injured players, guys with low morale, skaters that don’t give a crap, and last season’s worst record in the league.”
“Second worst.”
“You just lost your GM—”
“I fired him.”
He closed his eyes. This was worse than he’d thought. How could this be worse than he’d thought?
“Damn, when you step up to the plate, you swing for the fences, don’t ya?”
“I need you to take us to top three in the division by the end of the season.”
Remy had met a lot of women in his life, and in his younger days, he’d gravitated toward crazy. Ginny Calderon in the ninth grade, who jumped into the St. Louis Cathedral fountain because the Virgin Mary told her to. Sharon Townsend, whom he hooked up with the night of his first game with the Sharks, barely nineteen years old and three days into the league. She called him every day for a week afterward because she thought he was going to lose if he didn’t wave to her on TV. Total whack job. They dated for five months.
But he didn’t do crazy anymore. He wanted to knuckle down in what would likely be his last year in professional hockey and win a fucking championship. Standing on his deck listening to Harper Chase spouting off about her pie-in-the-sky dream of making top three in the—hold up.
“You’re talking about making the playoffs.”
“I am.” Calm as a clam.
“Now I know you’re nuts.” He was all for can-do and visualizing an endgame, but hockey players were far too superstitious for that kind of corporate goal setting. “There’s nothing about the Rebels that can take them from a bottom two to a top three in one season. Even a wildcard spot is a long shot.”
She smiled, and fuck him sideways, wasn’t that something? That no-shit demeanor was completely transformed. “That’s where you’re wrong, Mr. DuPre. This season, we have you.”
Anger boiled up, swift and sharp. This was his dream she was stepping on with her crazy ambition. She might be within her legal rights, but she knew the minute she made that call to Matt Stein she was screwing him over.
“What’s your game, Harper?”
She looked taken aback. “My game?”
“You know what’s on the line for me. You know what you’ve done in bringing me on.” That this year was his swan song might not be common knowledge, but he was thirty-five and on the downside of his career. Everyone and his aunt Lucille knew the Cup was the last thing Remy needed to scratch off his bucket list to finally retire in peace. He shouldn’t have to explain it.
“This is a business—”
“Yeah, I know. There’s no cryin’ in hockey. Okay, let’s talk business. You want my help whipping your team into shape, then I need something from you.”
She bristled, on the defensive again.
“Already told you you’re not my type, Harper, and frankly, I’m insulted you think I’d sell my body for a shot at the Cup.”
No smile, not even a hint. So, humorless in the extreme. Just perfect.
“Nothing surprises me,” she said. “Most people will do anything to win.”
True that, and Harper was certainly giving off that vibe. A curious energy twanged between them, which could be labeled only one way: affinity.
She felt it, too. They recognized something in each other. Now, wasn’t that interesting.
Seeming to realize that she had revealed too much, she rolled her shoulders back in an obvious attitude adjustment. “What can I do for you, Mr. DuPre?” All business again.
Remy, minou, call me Remy in that sex-bomb voice of yours. “Trade me.”
Her face crumpled in disbelief, then she broke into laughter. Soft and musical, that laugh hit him right in the balls. “Tell me who your dealer is, because that’s some mighty fine product you’re smoking.”
He remained silent, a tough proposition for him because he liked to talk. Ask him the time and he’d build you a watch.
Those big eyes of hers widened. “You’re serious.”
“Completely.” He held up his hand to stall her inevitable protest. “Now, I’m not expecting you to dump me purely because I ask you. Neither am I expecting you to do it tomorrow—”
“How about not at all?”
“If you want my cooperation, I’ll need certain assurances.”
Pure incredulity sizzled off her. “Assurances? How about you do the job I’m paying you to do?”
“I could do that, I s’pose. Play the puck, put in what my body will allow. Not sure how much I have to give at this point.”
“You need incentivizing, DuPre?”
“I need the Cup.”
Four little words, clear as the New England night sky above their heads.
“There are no guarantees,” she said. “We can try—”
“I don’t mean with the Rebels. I know that’s not happenin’. You know it’s not happenin’. But I’ll give you half a season. I’ll light a fire under your team, do everything in my power to get them in a good position for a playoff spot. Can’t promise anything, but it’ll be my mission for the next three months. I’ll play every puck like it’s my last. Then you trade me to a team that’s in with a real shot of going all the way.”
“I can’t do that. You can’t lead, then rip the ice out from under them.”
He snorted. “They’re adults. Most of ’em, anyway. They’ll get over it, especially if they’ve got some wins under their skates. This is your rebuild year, Harper. Don’t even pretend you can get any further than a half-decent showing in the conference. I’ll help, but only if you help me.”
“I won’t be blackmailed so you’ll agree to do your damn job!”
Fair enough, so endeth the fun and games. He moved in, towering above her, but she seemed to draw herself up to twice her height to go toe-to-toe with him. Admiration almost beat out his annoyance.
“Guess I’ll see you in Philly, then,” he said, easy as can be.
She didn’t like that, not one bit, but then neither of them were in this business to be liked. If Harper wanted war, he’d bring the artillery. She’d get his feet on that ice, but the rest of him would be in the locker room.
“I’ll walk you out, Ms. Chase.”
“No need. I wouldn’t want to deprive your chéries of the pleasure of your company for a second longer.”
As she headed back into the kitchen with a switch in her hips that now looked pretty damn fine from this angle, he realized he might have been wrong about Harper Chase.
She wasn’t crazy. She was certi-fucking-fiable.