TWENTY-SEVEN
The blues club on Hubbard in downtown Chicago was hopping, busy with revelers in the city for the New Year, like Remy’s parents, who usually visited whichever city he was in around this time of year. Since his poppa was a musician, he also liked Remy to scope out the best blues joints.
Tonight they’d played against Boston for the first of a double-header and won 3–2. The entire team was out in force to celebrate, though they were taking it relatively easy given that they had another game tomorrow night. No one wanted to risk a loss when the season had taken a turn for the better.
Leaning on the bar, Remy eyed Bren, wondering why he chose to come out with them to bars. Did the camaraderie outweigh the risk of being in such close proximity to the drug that had you in its grip? Guess it was his cross to bear, or maybe he saw it as a test of his will.
Speaking of willpower, Remy was trying his utmost not to look at his parents, not that doing so was a hardship, but because they happened to be sitting with Harper.
“DuPre?” Bren gave him a look.
“Yeah?”
“Cool it.”
Just what he needed, an anti-wingman with a Scot’s brogue.
Today, while he and his poppa checked out guitar stores, Harper had taken his momma, Josie, and his niece Sophie to afternoon tea at the Drake. He hadn’t asked her to do it, but as soon as she’d heard the family would be in town, she’d organized a day out. Shopping, spa treatments, Earl Grey tea. With any other woman, he’d think she was trying to cozy up to his female relatives as a way to him—Lord knew he’d had a few previous girlfriends who tried that and barely lived to tell the tale—but that wasn’t Harper’s game. She wasn’t looking for anything more.
But he sure as hell wished she were.
They hadn’t talked much since Christmas Day, since she’d opened his gift. He knew she’d gotten a kick out of it, maybe more, and that she was starting to pry apart in the face of his onslaught. He was in. Inside her head, inside her body, and inching closer to that heart she kept wrapped in barbed wire and pinned with a No Trespassing sign. He intended to trespass. He would invade those borders and plant his fucking flag.
Hauling his gaze away from Harper, he said to Bren, “So almost halfway through the season. In the black for the first time at this point in how long?”
“Happened about seven years ago. Then four years before that.”
Bren knew the Rebels’ stats inside out, having come up through the ranks starting with the farm team.
“So, 19–16,” Remy said, referring to their win-loss record so far this season. “Not terrible.”
“Could be worse,” Bren conceded. “We’re looking . . . viable.”
They shared a knowing look. It almost felt like a sacrilege to say it aloud. Less than four months to go on the regular season, but there was a hope in the air that bloomed brighter with every game. When Remy had traded in, players seemed resigned to losing. Now if they lost, they were pissed. Pissed players won games and qualified for playoffs.
Was it possible Harper Chase was onto something?
“Miles to go yet,” Remy said, not wanting to jinx it, because if anyone could, the unluckiest guy in the league had that shit down.
“And you won’t be here.”
Remy eyed Bren, trying to decide how much he wanted to get into this with the captain. He didn’t owe the Rebels his shot just because things had graduated from abysmal to decent.
“What would you have me do? This body’s not getting any younger, Saint.”
Bren just continued to stare with that hollow-eyed look he was expert in. “Your call, brother.”
Yes, it was, and no one would guilt him into sticking around because the hard-luck Rebels had the makings of a Cinderella run on their hands. Remy didn’t have time for what-ifs, only for certainties, and the Rebels in the playoffs—or further—was a fairy tale. Just like anything beyond a sweaty tangle of limbs with Harper Chase was a fantasy the likes of which Remy should shut down stat. But he wasn’t giving up there, was he?
A band had started up on the stage, an outfit with a touch of bluegrass and Zydeco, just like his father played. He chanced a look, and there was Jorgenson leaning over his dad and gesturing to the stage. Like his father needed any encouragement. Poppa was playing it cool in that self-deprecating way of his. That wouldn’t last.
When the opening number had finished, the lead singer of the band spoke to the audience. “We just heard that Alexandre DuPre is in the house tonight.” Typically, they pronounced it “Alexander,” with a hard English der instead of a soft French dreh. Cheers went up because even in Yankee blues club circles, Remy’s dad was well known.
“Alexandre, maybe a song for your fans?”
Remy checked in with his dad, who was waving off requests. Even Harper was on his case, though he could have told her it was unnecessary. This was all part of the DuPre “who, me?” shtick. Finally, he stood and the crowd went wild. Nicely done, old man.
Remy caught Harper’s eye—first time since forever, it felt like—and that zing zipped, the one that had worn a rut between them since the moment they’d met. They both turned away before they started in with the goofy smiles.
Forget about falling in love. He was already flat on the ice.
Harper wanted to spend all evening staring at Remy and all night kissing every inch of his beautiful body. The temptation was almost too much to bear, so instead she turned to watch his father on stage because that was the closest she could get to ogling a male DuPre safely.
Alexandre picked up a guitar and strummed a couple of testing chords. After a quick consult with the band, he launched into a bluesy up-tempo number that had the crowd tapping their feet and up on those same feet before the song had finished. Harper didn’t know much about blues music, but she recognized something special when she saw it.
“Merci, mes amis,” Alexandre said when the song finished, and that little smidgen of French set the crowd off cheering again. “You might be wondering why I’m here in Chicago. I came to see my son, Remy, play hockey tomorrow night with the Rebels, who are having a pretty good season so far, n’est-ce pas?”
More loud cheers led to a healthy buzz as people absorbed the information that Alexandre was Remy’s father. “Not a lot of people know this, but as well as being a force on skates, my son also knows his way around a music stage. It’s been a long time since we played together.” Eyes filled with paternal love sought out his son’s. “Remy?”
“I had no idea,” Harper said to Marie.
Remy’s mom smiled, sphinxlike. “He could have gone into his father’s business, but hockey called louder.”
The team was going nuts, egging Remy on while the man played it cool, ever the showman. Eventually—not as long as his father took, but long enough—he jumped onto the stage, where he shook his head at his father for putting him in this position. All part of their charming double act, no doubt. Alexandre handed off a guitar to Remy, who slung it around his neck like it belonged there.
The crowd hooted in appreciation. Harper’s girl parts gave a little hoot of their own because, Remy with that six string over his shoulder? Hot dayum.
“Not expectin’ this,” Remy said, his accent thicker than ever, “but I sure appreciate the band lettin’ us hijack their set for a few.”
As soon as he strummed the first couple of chords, the crowd roared, as did Harper’s heart.
“Wonderwall.”
Maybe it was a coincidence, but Harper knew better. In the early days of the Rebels, when they were the newest sports franchise in Chicago and hope sprang eternal, “Wonderwall” was the team’s anthem, played before every game. As the original recording ended, the crowd would pick it up. But when the Rebels’ fortunes plummeted, the song was no longer sung—or perhaps the fans who knew it no longer came.
Remy’s voice had a rasp to it, the same tone she’d heard when he was inside her body. Deep, melodic, a voice created to draw pleasure from a woman. With each line, his commitment to the song grew, and by the time he hit that first chorus, the crowd had joined in.
Burnett and Jorgenson were on their feet, pointing at the stage in awe of their teammate and this hidden talent. Harper let the music take her somewhere—back to Remy’s bed that snowbound holiday weekend, the stolen moments since, and maybe a future she didn’t dare imagine.
If Harper had thought one verse and a chorus of “Wonderwall” would make her melt, she hadn’t reckoned on Remy’s ability to raise the stakes. Now he sang about the things he wanted to say but didn’t know how. He never looked her way, but with each additional lyric she felt his attention sear into her.
“Because may-beeee, you’re gonna be the one that saves meeee . . .”
He sang the song to her, yet no one in this crowded club suspected a thing.
A rock-sized lump had formed in her throat. Her skin tingled with this strange new knowledge that Remy DuPre was secretly wooing her in front of hundreds of people. The tingle turned into an itch, a panic-laden rash, because she couldn’t have nice things. She grasped the glass of wine before her and caught the eye of Remy’s mom, Marie.
Ah. So she was wrong about no one else picking up on what was happening. A mother always knew. Marie smiled and looked back at the stage toward her son and husband.
“Thank you for today, Harper. It was very kind of you to take care of us.”
Harper nodded, feeling like three layers of skin had been peeled back and someone had taken a blowtorch to her. “Happy to. You were so welcoming to me in New Orleans.”
Marie cast another glance at the stage, and this time she kept her gaze on her husband and son while she spoke. “Remy comes off as very laid back, but as a child he was so intense, the most intense of my children. His goals have often clashed with his joie de vivre. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
Harper stared. “Not really.”
“Outsiders often dismiss the Acadians as swamp dwellers with little ambition, an insular people who don’t have time for material things. All the losses that Remy has endured on the road to the championships have hurt him, but his positive outlook gets him through. For him, there will always be next year. Some people think he is too fatalistic about it, too accepting, too softhearted.” She shrugged, a rather fatalistic motion in itself. “He mentioned this bargain he has with you, how you will release him to another team soon. I’m glad of it, especially after this last year with his father’s illness. Now, Remy is older and there is no more next year. There is only this year.”
A chill crept through Harper. No matter what her heart wanted—her own shot at greatness, her own shot at Remy and the happiness he inspired in her—she would never deny him his true desire.
So what if she needed him to make the playoffs?
So what if his touch was necessary to her very existence?
So what if she had fallen in love with him?
She faced Marie, needing her to know that she meant every word. One strong woman to another. “I’m not going to stop him from going for the Cup, Marie. He and I made a deal, and I intend to honor it.”
Remy’s mother’s shoulders relaxed in visible relief and she reached for Harper’s hand under the table.
“Thank you.”