THIRTY
Harper placed Remy’s trade paperwork in the center of the kitchen island. She really shouldn’t have brought it home, but she’d been sitting on it for two days, waiting for a sign.
Some might say that the Rebels’ loss tonight was a sign that she should keep the player who knitted the team together. His two-game suspension had already adversely affected the dynamic, and while his trade wasn’t public yet, the other players knew something was up.
Isobel leafed through the list of possible pickups, her fingers pausing when she came to Vadim Petrov’s name. There had been something curious about her attitude when they discussed him with Coach Calhoun in the trade meeting—as if she was waging some internal battle over whether they should trade him in. Please let it not be a problem. Harper was taking a chance on Petrov, who hadn’t played well this year, but she knew he had skills that could be cultivated with the right team.
“We’re still agreed on Petrov?” Harper asked again, because she was trying to involve her sisters more instead of steamrolling them through every decision.
“He’s fast, nimble, a killer in the face-off,” Isobel said. “The knee injury is worrisome, but we have his medical records. He has authority issues, though.”
“You know him?”
Isobel hesitated before she spoke. “A little. He’s got an ego as big as all outdoors.”
Violet walked in. “What’d I miss?”
“Just discussing Petrov,” Harper said.
“Did you see that naked spread he did in the ESPN Magazine Body Issue? Wonder if I can get him in the dicktabase.” She fanned herself. “Scots, Russians, Swedes, oh my. We’ve got ourselves a veritable United Nations of Badass here.”
“Except we’re losing the Cajun.” Isobel held up the contract. “I don’t care about the promise you made. We need him.”
Harper grabbed the papers and signed on the dotted line. There.
So much for letting her sisters in on the decision making. But she needed to do something—anything—to assert control. Helplessness was not a good look on her. Her sisters stared at her like she was mad, and maybe she was a little, slowly spiraling into insanity.
“This is a business decision. He’s done his duty and now I’m giving him what he wants. We’re in a better position now than we were three months ago, within shouting distance of a playoff spot. I owe him this.”
Violet poured a generous glass of wine. “What I want to know is why Remy went ballistic on Stroger. I’d put it down to jealousy, but Remy seems too secure in his manhood to be going off on some guy because you used to fuck him.”
“They were nowhere near each other,” Isobel mused. “Remy beelined right for Stroger the minute Coach called for the line change. He never gets into fights. He’d rather do a stand-up routine than punch another player.”
Violet picked up the contract. “What’s going on, Harper? The only reason Remy would go nuts like that is if Stroger insulted you or Remy’s momma . . .” She paused, considering, and drew a shallow breath. “Or something.”
Isobel said, “Why are you shaking your head?”
Harper hadn’t realized she was doing that. She stopped the incriminating behavior immediately, but her lungs had shut down and every breath took immense effort. “I told you before that sex and hockey don’t mix. Something always screws it up. Something always goes wrong.”
She and Remy were finished.
He said he loved her, and she threw it in his face. We’re not worth it. She raised a hand to her breastbone and rubbed at the ache. Maybe if she rubbed hard enough she’d get a wish, a do-over, a chance to tell Remy she was sorry she’d hurt him. He wanted to take a chance on them, to be her person, and Harper Chase had her all-important rules.
“I think she’s having a panic attack,” someone said.
“I’m not.” She was. Heart in chaos, she stood, needing to get away. No one could see her like this. She doubled over against the sink, the pain making her dizzy.
“I’m—oh, God.” Act normal until the panic gets bored. Normal sink. Normal counter. Normal—okay, not-so-normal mug tree.
She looked down at her curled-up fists, the knuckles popping chalk-white against her pale skin. Her armor had taken a hit these last few weeks, and in its absence, her skin was shedding. But this wasn’t some beautiful rebirth. It was her viscera, exposed and bleeding.
“He hit me.”
Gasps all around. “Remy?”
“No. Stroger. Years ago. That’s why Remy went off on him. He found out.” She met the concerned gazes of her sisters. “It was once, and I learned my lesson.”
“Harper.” Isobel jumped from her chair and put an arm around her. Something broke apart inside her. A rusty sound emerged, and she slapped a hand across her mouth to keep it in. To keep it all in.
It was useless. A sob escaped the prison of tears she’d kept locked up forever.
Violet clasped her hand. “What lesson did you learn?”
“That love and business are gasoline and fire,” she choked out around what she suspected was some spectacularly ugly crying. “That a woman has to work ten times as hard for a tenth of the respect.”
Violet looked disappointed with that conclusion. “I know the team means everything to you. To you both. So much more than to me. And I know you’re afraid of looking weak in the eyes of the world. You say we have to represent women. But what about representing yourself, chica?”
“It’s the same thing,” Harper sputtered. “I want to get it right. I refuse to let my feelings for Remy DuPre detract from what we’re trying to build here.”
Isobel squeezed Harper’s shoulders harder. “So you love him?”
“Of course I love him! He makes me fucking sandwiches. He gives me dumb, perfect gifts. Behind closed doors, he makes me feel strong, but in the open, I feel weak. I look weak, and perception is reality here. You don’t know what it was like when Dad found out what Stroger did. He blamed me for forcing him to give up a key player. And he was right. It was my fault—not getting hit, I know that, but my foolish decision to get involved with Stoger forced his hand.”
Isobel was shaking her head in disgust. “I thought I was the one who was completely brainwashed by Clifford Chase. Jesus, being his daughter was like having Stockholm syndrome! We both wanted to please that bastard so much that we were willing to accept this shit? He should have called the police and prosecuted that weapons-grade asshole, Harper, not traded him out. You think he protected you when he did that? He protected himself and the team. And then he made you feel like shit because you fell for a guy!”
Caught off guard by Isobel’s fury, Harper could only stare at the sister she had underestimated for so long.
“It doesn’t change anything. I can’t have a public relationship with a player on my team. Or even a player who used to be on my team. There’s too much on the line.”
Isobel sighed heavily. “This control thing is all well and good, Harper, but one day you’re going to have to recognize that you can’t make every call yourself. People want to help you. People want to love you.”
Harper’s heart shriveled at her sister’s words. She knew she’d played fast and loose with some of the decisions about the team, keeping her sisters out of the loop. She’d cultivated a rock-solid independent streak for her own protection, and letting her guard fall was tougher than she’d ever thought possible. Even with these girls. Damn Clifford Chase and his fun-house travesty of a will.
Isobel picked up Remy’s paperwork and scribbled her signature across the dotted line. “This wasn’t my promise. However, I’ll honor the bargain made by a representative of the organization. But no more stunts, Harper, ’kay?”
Harper nodded, but seeing those signatures didn’t lift the weight as she’d expected. She would just need some time, that’s all. The sooner he left, the sooner she could move on with her life and get back to the business of ensuring that this team made it to the playoffs.
Without Remy DuPre.
“Poppa, you in here?”
Remy stuck his head around the door and let the memory scents of sawdust, wood, and tung oil overtake him. His father’s studio might look like a disorganized clutter of parts with bodies, necks, and strings strewn haphazardly, but Remy knew Alexandre had a distinctly organized mind that he only let wander on the stage.
“Ah, mon fils.”
His father looked up from his worktable, where he was applying a stain to a Meridian semihollow guitar. Gently, he laid the piece down upright to dry, stepped away, and only then removed the protective mask and gloves he’d been wearing. The potassium dichromate solution was nasty stuff and could burn or blind if not handled correctly.
Remy hugged his father, the man who introduced a Cajun kid to hockey though he knew zilch about it. Of course he had no idea his son would go so far, but he was proud.
Remy wanted him to be even prouder.
They talked about guitars and music and his suspension. His father didn’t delve too deeply into Remy’s uncharacteristic loss of temper.
“I’m to be traded to another team soon. One that has a real shot of going for the Cup.”
Slow nod from Alexandre. “This bargain you made with Harper?”
“Oui. I give them a few wins, light a fire under them, and then I’m out of there.”
“Sounds like a good deal.”
It did. It was. But now it felt off. Like he was bailing when his boys needed him.
When Harper needed him.
Except she didn’t, did she? He was crazy about her, and she had decided he wasn’t worth it.
“What about you and Harper?” His father gave him that look, the one that said he’d known before Remy knew himself.
“There is no me and Harper. All she needs is the team.”
“Have you told her how you feel? Other than in song?”
Remy felt a smile tugging at his lips for the first time in days. “She knows. Told her I loved her, but she’s so afraid. She’s carrying the weight of the world, of all women, of fucking feminism on her shoulders.” He shook his head in mute apology for swearing. They made a conscious effort not to do that because of the kids always buzzing around. “She’s decided that the best way to manage her loneliness is to pretend she doesn’t need anyone. I can’t break through.”
“That doesn’t sound like a DuPre.”
Remy studied his father, the wisest man he knew. He owed his career to this man who took him to every practice, who cheered him at every game. He wanted his father there when he raised the Cup above his head.
“I thought I knew what women wanted, but Harper’s not like other women. She’s not looking for the picket fence and two point four kids. She needs to prove herself first, and she’ll travel that road alone while she does it. I can’t make her see another path.”
“You need to speak her language, Remy.”
“Poppa,” he said with a heavy sigh. “There ain’t a dictionary invented that would help me understand Harper Chase.”
His dad folded his arms over his chest. “When I met your mother, I felt so dumb around her. She was a brainy college girl, and I was a guy who’d rather hang out in speakeasies playing guitar than read a book. We had nothing in common except our love of music. That was our lingua franca. That is how we found our way to each other.” He met Remy’s gaze. “Does this woman love you?”
Remy nodded. He knew it like he knew when the puck left his stick it was a surefire goal.
“Then find your lingua franca.”
A knock on the door pulled Remy out of his misery and off the ass-dented sofa where he’d parked himself for the last two days since coming home from NOLA. There was no reason why he should be miserable at all. The NHL wasn’t going to press for longer than a three-game suspension, though they would be within their rights to. One more game and he’d be back, though whether with Chicago or Philly was still up in the air. He was getting everything he wanted—the trade to his dream team was all over but the signatures. Philly was top of the conference almost halfway through the season and had looked near unstoppable in tonight’s game.
The Rebels, on the other hand, had not played so well against Detroit. Remy would be the last person to claim he was holding the fucking team together, but . . . he was holding the fucking team together.
Tonight, St. James was nursing a shoulder injury, so he’d been scratched and placed on the bench. Meanwhile, the rest of the players seemed to have forgotten how to play hockey. Rumors were no doubt swirling about Remy getting traded out—maybe even the fact that he’d been aiming for that all along—and the team was playing cagey. Sloppy moves on the ice, missed passes, Hail Mary shots on goal.
He already knew who was knocking on his door, but the only person he wanted to see was Harper. Sexy, infuriating, scared-little-girl Harper.
Opening up, he sighed at being right. Bren lifted an eyebrow, and Remy stepped back to let him in.
“You watch the game?” Bren asked.
“Uh-huh.”
The Scot took a seat on the sofa, switched the PS4 on, and remained silent as the game loaded.
“Please. Make yourself at home.”
“Not going to be yours for much longer.”
So not in the mood for this.
“Only three games on your suspension. Won’t affect your trade. Probably will make you more attractive, seeing as how you did what most of the league and the fans have wanted to do to that piece of shit for years.”
Remy sat at the other end of the sofa. “Now might be a good time to explain why you did it.”
Silently, Bren picked up a controller and held it out for Remy. Remy ignored it.
The captain grunted his annoyance. “You’ve had it pretty easy in your career, DuPre.”
Not what he expected. Not even remotely accurate. “How’d you make that out?”
“Sure you’ve worked some, but overall you’ve coasted by on your talent. Maybe it’s a Louisiana thing. You Bayou boys sure are a relaxed bunch.”
“No one’s ever accused me of coasting before.” That wasn’t exactly true, but no way would he admit it to this haggis-eating sheep shagger. Instead he put his energy into not picking up the controller and not throwing it at St. James’s massive head.
“Those championships you lost? You never seemed all that upset in interviews later. You seemed sort of . . . accepting. Like it was fate. Out of your control.” He paused. “Like you believe that shite about being jinxed.”
“A lot of the time it is out of your control. Sometimes it’s just not your year. But that doesn’t mean I haven’t been upset about it. I’ve been mighty fucking upset about it.”
He was mighty fucking upset now. He stood, because fuck this shit.
“Where the hell do you get off, St. James? Want to talk about coasting? Want to talk about not working hard? I could—” Lower himself to dirt level and kick the crap out of a man trying to rehab his life, which he would never do, no matter how much of a jerk the man was.
The jerk in question lifted his chin and held Remy’s stormy gaze. “We do better when you’re on the ice. No doubt about that. We’d do even better if you cared about winning the Cup, not with another team, but with the Rebels.” He held up a hand to stay Remy’s protest. “Fuck, brother, I know it’s a long shot. But if you can pull off that long shot, just think of the rewards.”
Why did Remy get the impression they weren’t—or weren’t only—talking about the Cup here? He did not enjoy being manipulated. “You didn’t have to tell me about Stroger in the middle of a game, Bren. In the middle of a game we were winning.”
Bren’s lips twitched. “No, I didn’t.”
Remy would’ve dragged him upright so he could swiftly make him not-upright if the guy wasn’t supposedly hurting from that shoulder injury.
“You wanted me to beat the shit out of him in the middle of the second period.”
“I wanted you to get pissed. To think about why you’re doing this. What the true goal is here. Harper needs you, and not just on the ice. She’ll never admit it. She’s got too much pride, too much of her old man’s stubbornness, too much hurt inside her. I worked for that fucker for eight years, saw the hoops he made her jump through just to keep her place in the org. You know what he said when I told him Stroger had hit her? ‘Maybe this’ll make her pack it in.’ Didn’t ask if she was okay, how badly she was hurt. And he only traded that shithead out when I threatened to go public. I would’ve gone to the cops, but Harper begged me not to.”
Bren shook his head in disgust, whether at Clifford or himself, Remy didn’t know.
“Compare this with what happened when I told you. The minute you heard what Stroger did to her, were you thinking about the game or the championship or public relations, or were you thinking that you’d do anything to protect her and make it right?”
The moment he’d heard, the only thought in his head wasn’t even a thought. It was an instinct, white-hot, pure sensation with a one-word label.
Harper.
This changed nothing. “She won’t give us a chance. You said yourself the press would crucify her if it got out, and that’s all she can think about.”
“So maybe she needs to be presented with a different set of facts. Force her hand. Heard you’re pretty good at that.” The man smirked. “Now let’s play.”
Remy picked up a controller and settled on the sofa, thinking on what Bren had said. Problem was, he had no leverage.
What was the ideal result here? Win the Cup. Get the girl.
Scratch that, reverse it.
His poppa had said he needed to figure out this woman’s language. What made her tick. For his parents, it was music. For Harper and Remy, it was . . . sex, ambition. Hockey. Championship hockey.
He’d told her that taking a chance on them wasn’t a case of Would You Rather, that it wasn’t an either-or choice. Remy could be on a Cup-winning team and they could still be together. What if the two outcomes were halves of the same coin, as inextricable as two hearts that refused to beat without each other?
What if it was Harper or nothing at all?
God hates a coward, Remy. He needed to get off the fence and make a call.
He looked over at St. James, who held a square foil packet and was now eyeing Remy suspiciously. “Do I want to know why there are condoms in your sofa, Jinx?”