THREE
One week earlier . . .
Harper leaned against the doorjamb of one of several guest rooms in what she half jokingly called the West Wing at her house in Lake Forest. The stone and cedar mansion, designed in the Hamptons style, boasted six bedrooms, four bathrooms, and stunning views of Lake Michigan. Left to Harper outright fourteen years ago when her mother died from ovarian cancer, it had always been far too big for one person. Now it looked like its population was about to double.
Her sister Isobel sat on the bed, as if testing out its firmness. “You really think this is going to work?”
What? Running the team together? Getting their little sister on board? Or the fact that Harper had just invited Isobel to stay at her place whenever the Rebels played at home?
“I don’t see why not. This place is huge—”
“And we never have to see each other,” Isobel finished. Named after Lady Isobel Gathorne-Hardy, the daughter of Frederick Stanley, Sixteenth Earl of Derby and donor of the Cup, Isobel was tall and dark compared to Harper’s fair and petite. At twenty-five years old and topping six feet, Isobel had a strong frame that echoed their father’s sporting prowess.
Today she looked tired, dark circles under her green eyes, her chestnut hair lank and lifeless. Of all of them, she was the one taking Dad’s death the hardest, and Harper resolved to be gentler with her. Harper, on the other hand, knew the old man too well to be sucked into a grief she did not feel.
“I know you don’t want to give up your coaching position in Montreal,” Harper said. Keeping Isobel invested in her other life as an assistant coach in the minors had an additional benefit: little sis wouldn’t mind if Harper handled the day-to-day operations at Rebels HQ.
The terms of the will had shocked everyone. Harper could have tolerated the joint rule requirement with her usual bullheadedness but for the real sticking point: the team had to make the playoffs by the end of this season or would be sold to a consortium waiting in the wings. The revenue from the sale would pay each of his three daughters a sizeable inheritance with the rest funding a scholarship at the University of Wisconsin, her father’s alma mater, though he’d never shown them any particular loyalty before.
In other words, playoffs or bust.
It was outrageous, but then so was Clifford, a man who lived life mowing down everything in his path. Her father obviously didn’t think Harper could run the team. He didn’t think they could run the team. And now he was watching from below, because he sure as hell wasn’t viewing from on high, laughing his head off at the havoc he had wreaked.
Faced with an almost impossible situation, Harper was offering an olive branch to Isobel. Unsurprisingly, Isobel viewed it as a thorn-studded twig. Harper couldn’t really blame her. At one time, Harper had legitimate reason to dislike Isobel, but those reasons were the reedy complaints of a little girl. Isobel couldn’t help being Clifford’s favorite. The blame for Clifford abandoning Harper’s mother when Harper was six years old could—and should—be laid squarely at the feet of the man himself.
One of the will’s stipulations was that Isobel attend all home games. “This way, you could fly in when needed and not have to worry about keeping a place in Chicago for the next year.”
“Until Montreal fires me when a Rebels game clashes with what’s happening in my real life. I worked really hard for that job.” A furious hurt tightened Isobel’s face. The only female coach in the AHL, her hockey pedigree was impeccable. NCAA champion, Olympic silver, a promising career in the new women’s league before it was cut short by injury.
“Of course, I could coach anywhere.” Isobel must have seen Harper’s look of horror. “Yeah, Dad would have loved that. A woman coach for his precious team.”
As he was on board for a female triumvirate of power, it seemed anything was possible, though this cluster had all the hallmarks of a cruel Clifford Chase joke. Besides, Harper had too many targets on her back right now; rocking the coaching staff with a new appointment that smacked of nepotism would not go over well.
“One fire at a time. Did you read his letter?”
At the will reading earlier that afternoon, they were each given a personalized letter from Clifford. Harper had hoped it would explain her father’s thought process.
“It didn’t shed much light,” Isobel said cagily. “You?”
“The same.”
Harper had already read it enough times to recall it word for word.
Harper,
I know this isn’t what you expected, but it’s what you deserve. I’ve always had my doubts about your fitness to run the team—you know that already and you know why. But 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.
Clifford
As last letters to the fruit of your loins went, this wouldn’t win any warm-fuzzies awards.
“So what do you think?” she asked Isobel, wondering what was in her sister’s letter. Should Harper invest in Kevlar to defend herself against the coup Isobel might have in mind?
“Sure, let’s play happy families, Harper. But as soon as it threatens my job in Montreal, we’ll have to figure out my place in the Rebels’ organization. And I don’t mean rolling me in for contract-signing parties purely so we can meet the will’s requirements.”
“We’ll cross that bridge when it’s shoved in our faces. For now, we need to work on our bigger problem.”
Meaning Violet Vasquez, their “new” sister. Unsurprisingly a no-show for the funeral, she had made an appearance at the office of Kenneth Bailey, lawyer for both the Rebels’ organization and their father personally. After the reading of the will, Violet said she needed some “space away from you crazy bitches,” but agreed to stop by the house in Lake Forest later that evening.
Isobel stroked a finger along the Laura Ashley coverlet, her expression musing. “There was a time I would have done anything to have my big sister invite me to this house for a sleepover.”
Heart punch. Oh, God, what a bitch Harper had been. Isobel had done nothing wrong except be on the receiving end of the love Harper had always assumed was hers and hers alone.
“Isobel, I—” The doorbell rang, cutting off whatever stilted apology was on her tongue.
“Forget it, Harper. Water under the bridge. How about we present a united front?”
Okay. Save hockey franchise dream now, repair fractured sister relationship later.
Isobel trailing her, Harper headed downstairs and answered the door. Violet stood on the threshold, five feet five of ink and attitude.
With raven-black hair, flawless olive skin, full red lips, and their father’s green eyes, twenty-three-year-old Violet rocked a Jessica Jones meets JLo vibe. Tonight, the most recent addition to the Chase Mental Asylum wore a skin-tight tee bearing the slogan “Men are like beer: Some go down better than others” above a short leather skirt and ripped tights with tattooed roses playing peekaboo. Every time Harper saw her—and this would be the fourth time since learning of her existence two years ago—Violet had a new round of ink adorning her skin.
“Hey, thanks for coming over.”
“Didn’t think I had a choice. You made it clear it was life or death.” Probably a defense mechanism, but she sounded amused, which put Harper’s back up. This might be a joke to her, but it was everything to Harper.
Seeming to realize she’d spoken cavalierly, she added, “Look, I’m sorry, but this is pretty fucking awkward all around.”
“It doesn’t have to be,” Harper said, glancing at Isobel for support. “It’s only for a season, nine months at most. We can do this.”
“Rah-rah, go team,” Violet muttered.
That’s the spirit! “Would you like a glass of wine?” Harper asked. Wine made everything better.
Flourishing a hand that said pour away, Violet followed them into Harper’s salon and accepted a glass of Malbec. The air was thick with tension. Harper had done her best to dissipate it in the last few years, but her father had appeared to relish the fact his daughters did not get along.
Exhibit A: Violet Vasquez.
Two years ago, almost to the day, Harper had found out that Clifford fathered another child from a one-night stand with a hockey groupie and had elected not to share this with either of his ex-wives or his daughters. Covering up his marital indiscretion with money and lies made much more sense.
“What proof is there?” Isobel had asked before Harper could. “How do we know this isn’t just some scam? Women are always accusing Daddy of knocking them up. He was a famous hockey player.”
But Clifford had already done the legwork and confirmed it with a DNA test—then proceeded to shove the problem into the Chase family closet. As soon as Harper found out, she did the decent thing: she immediately contacted her new sister.
Violet had ignored her.
Harper tried again. Sent her gifts on her birthday and at the holidays. Visited Violet at the Reno tattoo parlor where she worked as a receptionist. Violet tolerated her for an awkward lunch where Harper played unsuccessfully at older sister and Violet played successfully at bored. That she had shown up for the reading of the will was a surprise in itself, but then there was a lot of money in play.
No buyouts or transference of assets were allowed. If they refused outright to run the team jointly, it would be sold. If they didn’t make the playoffs this season . . . shit, Harper couldn’t think about that now.
One foot in front of the other. They had to convince Violet to wait a year before she took her cut.
“The way I see it,” Harper said after Violet had taken a sip, “is that you guys need to trust me to make this work. Sure, that’s asking a lot, but I know what I’m doing here. I’ve been preparing for this moment all my life.”
Violet frowned. “If it was just a matter of showing up at a couple of meetings every few months, I’d say, screw it, let’s do it. But I know zilch about hockey. As for these terms, the ones that say we have to make the decisions together and I have to live in Chicago or commute here for the home games—I mean, what the hell was he trying to prove?”
Harper heard more pain than annoyance in her voice. Clifford had learned of her existence about ten years ago and had handled the news terribly. Blaming Violet’s mother took precedence over making any effort to connect with his newfound daughter. Better to send hush money. Better to ignore this girl who must have been so hurt and confused.
“I think this is his way of saying sorry,” Isobel said. “For being somewhat lacking in the daddy department.”
Harper whipped her gaze to Isobel, who had never once criticized their father in her presence. He was a hero to her, a powerful counterpoint to Harper’s failed relationship with him. Was it possible he’d been less than perfect in Isobel’s eyes?
Violet slumped in her chair and folded her arms, all sullenness. “By forcing us into this make-or-break arrangement? It’s bad enough I don’t know either of you, but now we’re supposed to play at sister-besties while trying to turn this crappy hockey team around. In what universe does that qualify as an apology?”
Harper sipped her wine. Gulped, rather. Hell, she knew it was nuts, but didn’t crazy beget crazy?
“It’s unorthodox, but then he was an unorthodox man. He wasn’t in this business to be loved. He wanted to leave a legacy.”
Isobel shook her head. “By playing cheapskate and undermining every coaching decision? Ask any player if he’s happy with his contract, and I’ll bet the answer is hell, no. Ask any ex-coach if they’ll work for the Rebels again, and you’ll be laughed out of the room. In the last five years, we’ve lost at least twelve high-caliber players—Martin, Rios, Tenkinov.” She counted off on her fingers. “And don’t get me started on Brian Rennie, our glorious GM. Did he do anything to argue for a new way forward with Dad? Three years in a row, voted the worst franchise in the league, and that’s down to our managing executive who couldn’t stand up to the great Clifford Chase.” Isobel frowned at Harper. “What’s so funny?”
“I’ve never heard you say a single word against Dad.”
Her sister colored. “I’m just frustrated to see all that talent go to waste. This team had some great players and now it has a bunch of lazy fatties.”
Violet looked skeptical. “I’ve seen some of those guys, and ‘lazy fatties’ wouldn’t be the first thing that springs to mind.”
Isobel returned the skeptical expression with interest. “Cade Burnett is holding the defense together by a thread,” she went on, “but Dixon is a total sieve in goal. We need to offload him—”
“And start with Erik Jorgenson. I know.” Harper’s body lit up with that familiar tingle in her blood when something good was building. Like a plan. Or an orgasm. Although it had been a while on that last one, or at least one that benefited from a man-made assist.
Isobel waved a hand in frustration. “But Brian doesn’t want to spend—just like Dad—and he spends more time micromanaging Coach Calhoun than working on player development.” Most owners and GMs trusted their coaching staff to make the roster and game calls, but not Cliff or Brian. “Then there’s the elephant in the rehab facility.”
Violet perked up. “Rehab facility?”
“Bren St. James, our captain,” Harper said. “He’s coming off a three-month stint of drying out.” The broody Scotsman had relapsed last season, and management had ordered him to get his act together or risk being let go.
Truth be told, Harper had ordered it. Both her father and Brian wanted to send him packing, but Harper had fought for him. He was a damn good center and deserved another chance.
“I remember him. Looks like Jason Mamoa, talks like Ewan McGregor?”
“Thought you knew zilch about hockey,” Isobel said with a barely stifled grin.
“True, but I know plenty about men.” Violet looked thoughtful. “Worried you can’t trust him to be a team player?”
Harper touched a finger to her lips, considering. “Right now, the players are the least of my concern. As for being a team player . . .” She let the insinuation hang in the air between them.
Violet sat up straight. “Look, I have a life that does not revolve around hockey. I have a life in Reno.”
Harper was unconvinced. She’d paid someone to run a background check on her sister. Not cool, but she had to know what she was dealing with. Violet lived in a shady part of town, was barely making rent while she worked two part-time jobs in a tattoo parlor and a biker bar. Her mother had moved back to Puerto Rico a year ago.
“Are you telling me you couldn’t do with a little extra cash?” An understatement. If Violet agreed to the will’s terms, she’d get a generous stipend now and a cool half mil in a year just for signing a few contracts and watching a few games. If the team succeeded, Harper would buy her out, assuring her of a huge windfall.
So she had to up sticks and move to a new city. Hang with the sisters she’d never met. Surely, no big deal.
“Do you have a boyfriend?”
“No one special.”
Isobel cocked her head. “Plenty of manwhores in Rebel Land.”
Nah-uh. Discomfort tightened Harper’s heart in a fist. “That’s not happening,” she snapped. “The players are off-limits. No fraternization whatsoever.”
“You’re no fun.” Violet pouted while Isobel delivered a curious look at Harper getting her knickers in a twist about hockey romances. Harper was only too aware of the perils of traveling down that road.
“I’m not supposed to be fun,” Harper chirped, trying to blow off her overreaction with a blithe comment. “I’m the oldest and I will give my right tit to make this team work.”
She turned to Violet. “We have a chance to do something extraordinary here. There’ve been women team owners before, but none of them have taken a failing franchise and turned it around into something phenomenal.”
Professional sports was a boys’ club from the top down. The rough-and-tumble world of major league ownership was a trying business, requiring deep pockets and hard work, and it was extremely difficult for a woman to ingrain herself. But three women working toward a common goal? Just think what they could achieve.
“So you’re saying the fact that it’s so damn hard should be its own reward?” Violet grinned and, damn, it was like seeing her father smiling back at her.
“It’s either this or we give up. I’m not giving up, so this is what we’re doing.”
Isobel raised an eyebrow. “Just like that.”
“Just like that.” Harper leaned toward Violet. “We could help you find an apartment or . . . there’s a coach house on the property. It’s small”—but bigger than your hovel in Reno—“and we’ll figure out your place in the organization’s structure. Isobel and I know hockey, so we can handle the bulk of it. You’re here to rubber stamp the paperwork and collect the checks.”
“They could all do with someone to listen to their whining,” Isobel said. “There’s your salary right there.”
“Okay,” Violet said, suddenly the picture of cheer. “I could do with a change of scenery and some new material for my novel.”
Presumably that was a joke, but the moment Violet spoke, Harper knew. She’d made up her mind before they’d even had this conversation.
Now, wasn’t that curious. She wondered what Violet was running from.
Aren’t we all running from something? Still, Harper would take the win and worry about the why later.
“What’s first?” Isobel asked.
More like, who. “I want to bring someone in who can lead on the ice. I know that’s St. James’s job, but I can’t rely on him to pull everyone together if he’s Lord Jonesing-For-A-Drink. We need someone who’s been around the block, who can knit this team together.” She had an idea. A glittering hell yeah idea. “But before we do that, we need to make a few changes in the front office.”
Izzy’s mouth dropped open. “You’re not wasting any time, are you?”
Relieved that her sister understood without her needing to say it aloud, she asked, “Do I have your backing, ladies? This is our first big decision, and we have to be united on it.”
“You’ll get no argument from me,” Isobel said.
Violet frowned. “You’re going to have to explain it to the knucklehead in the room. What’s the big decision?”
Harper smiled, and anyone who didn’t know her might have thought that smile was downright evil. “Time to lop off the rot.”