TWENTY-TWO
Remy pulled on the collar of his button-down and loosened the tie he’d worn with his game-day suit for the Rebels’ annual holiday party. Apparently Harper threw this shindig for the team every year at her house in Lake Forest.
Since Thanksgiving, they’d been taking their chances where they could. During a couple of away games she’d snuck into his hotel room, and on Bren’s most recent trip to Atlanta, Harper had spent the night at Remy’s. Gretzky adored her and seemed to fart less when she was around. Such a gentleman.
Tonight he had a legitimate excuse to be in here, except she wasn’t talking to him.
Scratch that. She was talking to him as DuPre, her player, with a brittle politeness he wanted to break in half. Hell, every other bozo in the room was getting quality smiles from the boss, but Remy? He might as well have doused his body in shit spray for all the love it was bringing him.
Most of the team looked to be in Imma-get-some-tonight heaven. Callaghan was feeling up his hot fiancée near the fireplace. Jorgenson had turned up with some supermodel who clearly needed a sandwich, but given tonight’s selection of finger foods, would be out of luck. Burnett was flirting his ass off with Violet, and this last development was not going down well with Remy’s date.
Yep, Remy had a date, a broody Scots fucker who was playing at designated driver. Now that they practically shared custody of the dog, they might as well move in together and turn their act into The Odd Couple.
“Should I tell her?” he asked Bren, who had a death grip on a bottle of Coke and was sticking with his usual glare-Violet-Vasquez-into-the-grave brand of seduction.
Bren’s frown deepened. “Tell who what?”
“That you’d like to ask her to prom? Figure I owe you for the ride over.”
“You won’t get a ride back if you don’t shut your pie hole.”
“Such charm. No wonder you’re scoring big.”
The captain heaved a sigh and turned away from the sight of Violet and Cade huddled together like they were sharing high school secrets. Remy had to admit a certain annoyance, not because he had a thing for Violet but because they seemed to be carrying on a relationship out in the open and no one cared that she was a team owner with a player.
Eager to pile on the misery, he sought out Harper. She looked gorgeous, her skin glowing under festive lights, her blond hair down in those waves he loved. A strapless red cocktail dress revealed her beautiful rounded shoulders. Didn’t she know he loved her fucking shoulders? And now she was taunting him as she played hostess, flitting around making sure everyone was having a fabulous time.
“What’s got your jock strap in a twist?” Bren had now moved from eye-fucking Violet to pot-meet-kettle.
“We’re professional athletes, right?”
“According to my paycheck and ESPN.”
“We are much sought after by women. So what the hell are we doing at a holiday party holding each other’s dicks?”
Bren raised an eyebrow. “Not where I thought this night was going.”
“You know what I mean. How long since your divorce?”
“I’m not sleeping with you, DuPre.” The big guy’s mouth went taut with tension. “I can’t date anyone until I’m dry for a year.”
Well, that sucked. “So you’re going to drag me down with you?”
This drew St. James’s grin, a crack of light in a darkening storm.
A musical tinkle of steel against crystal cut the bro banter short. Harper Chase, Rebels president, acting general manager, and five feet one and a half inches of sin, commanded the room’s attention.
She gave a nervous cough. “Well, Rebels, here we are again.”
The team chortled, though it did little to settle her. He hated seeing her look vulnerable in front of anyone. He wanted to defend her from every sling and arrow, keep that soft side of her for him alone.
“The last few years have been lean,” Harper continued. “Tough for all of us, but especially for you, our lifeblood. You’re competitive, you’re warriors, and losing doesn’t sit well with you. Fucking hell, it doesn’t sit well with me.”
Louder laughs greeted that, everyone feeling more at ease joking about the bad old days and hearing sophisticated Harper using language more suited to a locker room. The expletive seemed to open her up, and her voice now rang out clear and resonant.
“I know some of you wanted to bail when my—our—father died.” Her gaze slid to Violet, who was barely paying attention, too busy flirting with Cade. No sign of Isobel. “And when we made changes in the front office, you wondered if we’d lost our minds. How were we going to make this work with no GM, morale at its lowest, and the prospect of failure looming? But we’ve climbed up from the pit since October. Not all the way, not completely out into the light, but we can see glimmers. A few people wanted to bask in the sun sooner and we wish them well. But for those of you who don’t mind a little while longer in the trenches breathing coal dust, I thank you—we thank you—for placing your faith in us. The ship is turning, and with an organization as huge as this, that takes time. We have faith in you all to make this work, to flip our fortunes, and to touch hardware again.” She raised a glass and everyone followed her lead. “I’ll allow you all an extra hour to sleep in tomorrow, but then it’s back to practice. Tonight, we celebrate the Rebels!”
Everyone cheered, and Remy caught Bren’s eye, surprised to find a lack of cynicism there. Hope, the worst four-letter word there is, was doing a number on them all. Who’d have thought Harper Chase could rouse the troops like this?
Something else was rousing. Christ, he needed to touch her so badly. A full hour of sexual frustration ticked over before he saw a chance to make his move.
He found her in the kitchen, instructing the catering staff sergeant-major style to send out more canapés. Isobel stood off to the side, looking sullen. Neither of them noticed him.
“We could announce it tonight, while they’re half drunk,” Isobel said. “By the time the New Year rolls around, they’ll be used to the idea.”
Harper curled her elegant fingers around the stem of a champagne flute. “Did you see Deacon’s column on last night’s game? We’re still viewed as freaks, every win as a fluke. Right now, we have this pitch-perfect balance, so why the hell would I upset that by appointing a new coach midseason?”
“You mean a female coach, Harper?” Isobel hmphed. “What happened to grabbing pro hockey by the balls and showing them how bitches get shit done?”
“Maybe it would be an option if I’d found out you quit your last job from you instead of from the press.”
“They were supposed to keep it under wraps until I was ready to deal with it.” Isobel raised her chin, noticing Remy for the first time. “What about you, Remy? Would you have a problem with a woman running skating drills?”
So not getting in the middle of this. “I’m sort of biased, growing up with so many women. Hell, I’m practically honorary in the sisterhood.”
Isobel grabbed a beer bottle from the kitchen counter. “You’re going to have to realize that this is a joint operation, not just Harper Chase’s personal fiefdom.” She left the kitchen, a gust of indignation in her wake.
Harper met his gaze, acting all surprised. “Remy! Were you looking for the restroom? It’s in the corridor behind you.”
“We need to talk.”
She blinked at him, panic in her eyes that quickly faded to an indifference he wasn’t buying. “I’m pretty busy. Perhaps you could make an appointment with my assistant tomorrow.”
He snagged her wrist as she walked by him. “Perhaps I could kiss you senseless in front of everyone at this party.”
“Remy—”
“Just a minute of the boss’s time.” Something on the back counter distracted him. Something both obscene and poorly crafted.
“Is that a ceramic co—?”
“Mug tree? Yep. I know, it’s awful, but Violet made it and we’re trying to encourage her artistic side. Sculptural version of kids’ drawings on the fridge.” She laughed softly. “Come with me.”
He followed her through a doorway off the side of the kitchen, then farther down a corridor. She opened a door, waited until he stepped inside what looked like a laundry room, then closed it behind them.
Hands on hips, she faced him. “Now what’s so urgent that it couldn’t wait?”
“This.” He gripped her waist and pulled her flush against his full arousal. The heat of her turned his blood to liquid fire. “Have you any idea how hard it’s been for me all night?”
“Getting an idea of the extent of your problem.”
His lips dropped to her shoulders. “You know I love these shoulders.”
“You’ve never told me that.”
Surely he had. “If I haven’t, which I very much doubt, then I should have. These shoulders are a work of art.” He laid a trail of kisses across one, then the other. “These shoulders should be cast in bronze and set outside Rebels HQ so men can worship. They can rub the shoulders and make wishes.”
She giggled. “Wishes for what?”
“That their wives and girlfriends had shoulders so sexy.”
She laughed again. God, he loved her laugh, and he especially loved causing it.
“So what did you think?” she asked after a minute of rubbing and kissing and soft little moans.
“Thinking’s not really an option right now.”
She pushed him back. “My speech.”
He paused in his exploration of the curve of Harper’s exquisite neck. “I think . . . you’re doing a mighty fine job of selling hope to a crew that hasn’t felt it in a while.”
“I’m not trying to sell it. I’m trying to instill it.”
He placed a finger under her chin. “You’ve made some good decisions since you took over. The team sees you working hard. I see you working hard—maybe too hard. We know what you’re putting in and we appreciate it. Hope? I’d say we have it.”
Had he just said “we”? When did he start lumping himself in with the Rebels?
Something hung in the air between them, the knowledge that he’d crossed some invisible line. Hope—that damn four-letter word again—reflected back at him in those beautiful eyes. Shit, he didn’t want this burden. It was one thing to wish her the best, it was quite another to chain his own hopes and dreams to hers.
“Okay there, DuPre?” A slender hand coasted down each button of his shirt, dipped below his waistband, and settled over where he was most definitely okay. Thank Christ one of them had a head in the game here.
“You know I think you can do anything, Harper. Whatever your father thought, whatever the press throws at you, whatever other team owners say . . . you deserve to be here, running this organization.”
A little whoosh of breath left her, and in it he heard her relief. She had her sisters, but he also knew that she felt alone in this. Her father hadn’t trusted her. She was carrying an enormous weight on those beautiful shoulders. Every minute he was with her, she needed to hear that he had her back.
At least on some abstract level, because this didn’t change his plans. Come January, he’d be out. Tommy was already fielding interest. Remy had given the Rebels his pound of beaten-up flesh, now they owed him a one-way ticket off the island.
She sniffed and her eyes took on a suspicious shine.
“Minou,” he murmured. “I’ve got you. I’ll always have you.”
He meant his emotional support, nothing else. But every bite of her lip, every blink of those bewitching eyes, every heave of those perfect breasts drew him deeper into her orbit.
“Thanks, Remy,” she whispered, and then she kissed him. Soft, sweet, with a breathy little moan that destroyed him. They both pulled back at the same time, recognizing that the terms had changed, but neither of them knowing how to navigate this new path.
She spoke first. “I should get back to my guests.”
He nodded, unable to form words that would likely have emerged scratchy anyway.
“Need a second?” she asked.
Only a lifetime.
She rubbed over his significant erection. “I mean this.”
“I’ll manage,” he choked out. Tough as it was, he could turn off his desire for her. His . . . everything for her.
He had to.
Smiling like she knew all his secrets, she opened the door and found her sisters standing outside.
Harper was tempted to shove Remy back, close the door to the laundry room, and pretend that her sisters were not facing her, smirking like finalists in a well well well, what have we here? contest.
Womaning up, she stepped out into the corridor. Remy stood behind her, and the urge to lean back against all that solidity almost overwhelmed her. For a moment there when he told her she could do anything, she’d come close to breaking down in tears. Her, Harper Chase, crying! His support toppled her, mostly because she hadn’t realized how much she craved it.
“Contract negotiations?” Violet asked with Dad’s crooked grin. Isobel stood with fists clenched on hips, looking like she wanted to flay Harper alive.
Strong hands gripped her shoulders and soft lips grazed the top of her head, leaving no doubt that her relationship with Remy was more than boss-employee.
“I’ll leave you to it,” he said.
She turned to him, gaping. “You’re throwing me under the bus?”
“You’d rather I stayed to explain?” His mouth twitched in that wickedly adorable Remy way. “Okay, ladies, here’s how it works. When a man wants a woman, a crucial part of his anatomy gets very, very—”
Harper held up an imperious hand. “Be gone, DuPre. Back to your broody Scottish date.”
He leaned in and kissed her, a gentle brush of her forehead. “Call me later, minou.”
As he walked away, three sets of eyes tracked his long-limbed move back to the party, noting how that charcoal wool clung fondly to his very fine ass.
“Cute flanter, soulful gazing, and min-noo?” Violet batted her eyelashes. “That sounds awfully romantic.”
“Well, it’s not,” Harper snapped back. “It’s filthy. An insult, really.” And just about the sweetest thing anyone had every called her.
Isobel still looked furious. “You’ve got to be kidding.”
Harper’s heart thundered violently against her rib cage. “I’m just working off some steam. These last few months have been so stressful and . . .” She waved a hand to fill in the rest.
Violet scoffed. “If you’re working off steam, what’s he doing? Because the cooking tells a whole other story.”
Isobel’s eyebrows shot so high they became one with her hairline. “Cooking?” Said like it rhymed with “puppy beating” or “seal clubbing.”
Violet laughed. “He’s been using the bartenders at the Empty Net as a delivery service. Remy’s cooking for Harper—actual cooking—and then sneaking it to her like some sort of food ninja in love.”
She could deny. She could insist Violet was imagining things.
“You can’t tell anyone.” Harper eyed her sisters. “I mean it,” she added for emphasis when neither of them spoke.
Isobel frowned. “You mean we can’t tell anyone that the boss is banging a player on her team after she expressly forbade her own sisters from doing the exact same thing.”
Harper flushed and muttered, “Yes, that.”
“And the cooking?”
Another shameful mutter. “Especially that.” It was just so damning.
Violet shook her head. “Far be it from me to tell anyone how to conduct their sex life, but I have to say this does not seem like the behavior of Harper ‘The Team Is My Life’ Chase. I get that the vag can be mightier than the brain, but what about ‘the world is watching’ and ‘our mission is to represent women owners in professional sports’?”
Harper groaned. “I know. Oh, God, no one knows more than me how messed up this is.” She’d been doing this alone for so long, and there was comfort in being held by someone. That’s all it was. Everyone wanted a warm body to hold on to around the holidays.
“It’s just sex and it’s winding down. That first flush, the thrill is gone, et cetera, et cetera.”
“That did not look like it was winding down,” Isobel said. “He was affectionate with you. Like he cares. You have to end it.”
Harper was already nodding before she’d finished. Of course she had to end it. Not only that, she had to come clean about everything. “He’ll be traded out soon.”
Isobel’s eyes widened. “What are you talking about? We just traded him in.”
“About that . . .” Harper filled them in on the bargain she’d struck with Remy at the start of the season.
If she thought Isobel was annoyed before, she hadn’t reckoned on how this would fling her over the edge. “I can’t believe you made this deal without consulting us! We’re supposed to be in this together.”
“Isobel—”
“We don’t have to trade him,” Isobel rushed on, her fury replaced with plaintiveness. “He’s holding the team together. We get rid of him and who knows what’ll happen?”
“I made a promise,” Harper said. “And it’s for the best. He goes, and I don’t have to deal with the mess. It’s surgical.”
“Kind of sneaky on DuPre’s part,” Violet said, her tone filled with admiration. “He gets a hot time-bounded affair and a decent shot at the championship.”
“It’s not like that,” Harper said, unsure why she was defending him. He wasn’t using her. She was using him. They were using each other.
Isobel was back to pissed. “You shouldn’t have made this deal with him in the first place, and now we have to get rid of him? Is that what happened with Billy Stroger, Harper? ‘You broke my heart, here’s your pink slip.’ You can’t use the team as your personal harem, and you especially can’t make trades because it’s awkward for you to be around an ex.”
With a frustrated wave, Isobel walked off, leaving Harper stricken.
Violet mouthed holy shit. “Don’t worry, she’ll calm down. You can bang whoever you like.”
But she couldn’t. Isobel didn’t know the whole sorry shitfest that was Billy Stroger, but she wasn’t so far off the mark. Yet again, Harper had flown too close to the sun. When you were bathed in a light as bright as Remy, it was all too easy to forget the painful burns of the past.