FIVE
The Rebels’ miserable season continues with a loss last night in Remy DuPre’s first home game. The veteran power forward has made no secret of his displeasure with his trade, a surprise acquisition in a year when the beleaguered organization should be bringing in fresh legs while it rebuilds instead of relying on old-timers in the last flush of their careers. Also not a secret? How Clifford Chase had little faith in his eldest daughter, and it seems adding more estrogen is not improving the decision making at Rebels HQ. Put the city out of its misery, Ms. Chase, and hire a GM!
—Curtis Deacon, Chicago Sun-Times
Boxes, boxes everywhere, and not a single coffee mug to drink from.
Remy surveyed the cell—okay, very nice apartment—the Rebels had leased for him in Riverbrook, a three-minute walk from the team’s arena, and about thirty minutes north of Chicago. Two bedrooms, two baths, decent kitchen, nice balcony where he could grill. Furnished, per his request, as he had no intention of relocating entirely. Not for three months.
He’d had a few things sent over, though. His gym equipment, because he liked to put in extra time away from prying eyes at the team facility. That was frowned upon by trainers, but he knew his limits, and no way did he need the judgment of his younger teammates who didn’t have to train as hard as he did to stay at level.
He’d also packed up a coffee machine, a stockpot, flatware, plates, and mugs. Plural, because he was ever hopeful he might get laid one of these days, and he’d like to be able to offer a cup of coffee to any lovely chérie who stayed the night. Damn, he’d like to be able to offer a cup to himself.
Should’ve marked the damn boxes before they were loaded in the U-Haul. Lesson learned: never pack angry.
Morning skate would start in about ninety minutes, so he should probably get rolling. Typical practice was to visit the trainers for a check-in to get taped, rubbed, and assessed for play. Hockey was hard on the body, and it only got harder the older a man got. He pulled up Yelp on his phone and checked the location of the nearest Starbucks. Five minutes in the opposite direction from the stadium, but not a problem.
A knock on the front door cut into his coffee daydream.
Some well-meaning neighbor probably, because it sure as hell wasn’t Bren St. James, the Rebels’ captain, who happened to live in the same building. Yesterday, Remy had spotted him in the elevator, sporting bags of groceries, a grim expression, and a stay-the-fuck-away attitude. The guy had to have seen Remy heading toward him, but he didn’t even make eye contact, just let the damn doors close in Remy’s face. Rehab must have stripped the man of all his charm.
Remy hadn’t met anyone else yet, but he imagined news of his arrival might have spread through the halls of the building. Steeling himself for a blue-haired little old grandma carrying cookies (if only), he opened the door.
It was St. James, and he wasn’t alone. Beside him sat a giant black-haired mutt as tall as his hip.
“Hey,” Remy said after a good five seconds passed with St. James keeping his own counsel.
“I need a favor.”
Not one for small talk, then. Remy didn’t know the guy well, but he recognized that he seemed agitated, and his Scottish burr only emphasized it.
“Does the favor involve your friend there?”
St. James looked down at the dog, then back up at Remy. “I have a family emergency and don’t have time to get him to the kennel.”
“Yeah, of course. How long you need?”
The grim Scot ushered the dog in and handed off a leash and key. “A couple of days. My eight-year-old broke her arm and she lives with her ma in Atlanta, so—”
“Hey, not a problem.” Next time, lead with that headline, why don’t you? Remy looked at the key. “Food and stuff at your place?”
St. James was already backing away. “Yeah, 3B, one floor down. Closet right inside the door.” He looked mighty uncomfortable, as if the notion of asking anyone for a favor didn’t sit well with him. Guess when a man’s been apologizing to people about his drunken behavior for months, it begins to wear on him. He moved off and turned at the last second. “Thanks, DuPre. I owe you.”
“If your dog shits all over my hardwood floors, I’ll piss in your next postgame beer.”
Shit. Don’t make beer jokes to the alcoholic.
A slight nod was his reward. Tough crowd. St. James was already at the elevator when Remy remembered something. “What’s his name?”
“Gretzky.”
The Great One. Why not? Remy shut the door and stood with hands on his hips, assessing his guest. His guest returned the favor by assessing Remy’s crotch with his slobbery tongue.
“Buy me dinner first, big guy.”
The dog replied with a tail wag and a loud fart. Real charmer, this one.
Another knock, and Remy pounced on the doorknob, ready to demand the name of a local kennel, but it wasn’t St. James (or anyone with cookies, dammit). Filling Remy’s vision was a big blond Viking, bearing a gift that, on reflection, was better than baked goods: two large cups in a carrier tray. Liquid gold steam whorls rose from the lids’ holes as the coffee’s aroma hit him like a semi to his senses.
Above the offering, the face of Ford Callaghan, the Rebels’ right-winger, lit up with a doofus grin. “Thought I’d walk you to class, newbie.”
Remy opened the door wider. “I would ask how you got into the building, but I’m guessing you smiled at someone.”
“One of your neighbors held the door. I’m extremely nonthreatening.” He grinned again. “Off the ice.”
Never a truer word. Guy was a beast on skates. “Come in. Just need to grab a jacket and boots.”
Ford nodded at Gretzky like he was an old friend, put the tray down on the counter, and removed both cups. “Figured you for a cream-and-sugar guy.” Said in the tone of don’t really care, just be thankful.
Remy took a sip and the day suddenly started to look a whole lot better.
Ford turned his attention to the dog once more. “What’s Big G doing here?”
“Our captain had to skip town suddenly.” The dog let another one rip, which Callaghan found to be hilarious.
Despite sharing an agent, Remy had met Callaghan only three or four times off the ice. He’d always impressed Remy as driven, professional, and way more mature than the average twenty-six-year-old. Or, that was Remy’s opinion before news erupted a month ago that Ford was dating the ex-wife of his boss at the New Orleans Rage, last season’s Stanley Cup champions.
Awkward.
For his pains, he was traded to the worst—second-worst—team in the league, all because he couldn’t keep his dick in his pants.
“Our fearless leader appoint you head of the welcoming committee?”
“My girlfriend thought you might need someone to hold your hand. I said guys don’t really need that kind of support system, but she insisted, so here I am.”
Totally pussy-whipped, then, except Remy suspected Callaghan had his own agenda, and for some reason, he’d rather let his woman take the fall. Remy remembered reading somewhere that Harper Chase was BFF with Callaghan’s girlfriend, lingerie model and designer Addison Williams.
While Remy’s brain cycled through what that might mean for this visit, Callaghan took in the sterile surroundings and the not-yet-unpacked boxes. His eyes lit up on seeing the PlayStation Remy had set up first thing. Priorities, he had ’em.
Callaghan picked up the disc case for Hockey All Stars sitting on top of the console.
“How the fuck do you have this? It’s not out until December.”
The kid turned over the advance copy of the game and read the back cover. One, two . . . Remy let him get there all by his lonesome.
“You’re in the game?”
“Sure am.”
Ford shook his head, disgusted. “Perks of your veteran status, I s’pose.”
“Perks of my awesomeness.”
Remy sat and pulled on his hand-crafted Luccheses. Gretzky ambled over, climbed onto the sofa at the other end, and curled up. Not his furniture, so hell if Remy cared, but the farting might be a legit problem in such a small space.
“Callaghan, if you could change anything about the Rebels, what would it be?”
“Better leadership.” At Remy’s look, he clarified. “Not Harper. On the ice. That’s what she’s trying to do. She thinks you’re the linchpin.”
“That what you think?” Is that what they all thought? An NHL pro for seventeen years, Remy was known as a hard worker, a team player, a guy who went to any lengths necessary to get the job done. He’d never worn a captain’s band. Had never had that kind of expectation thrust on him.
He should have wanted the responsibility. Thrived on it.
Instead he was . . . worried. This wasn’t how he imagined his final year playing out. His body was in a state of collapse, the speed of which had increased these past twelve months. There was only a finite amount in reserve that he could draw on during the playoffs. Not that he’d expected to coast to the finals, but he had expected to be part of a well-oiled machine, an organization where he was a cog, not the engine.
Striking that bargain with Harper in the Philly locker room had energized him, though. Not just the bargain, but the negotiation of it. Ms. Chase sucked ass at hiding her feelings, and boy was she pissed to the Almighty at him. That night, they’d clawed two goals back, one scored by Remy, another he’d laid up sweetly for Callaghan. Not a win, but better than a shutout. Remy definitely preferred giving it his all to half-assing it like he’d been during the first two periods.
Good thing Harper hadn’t called his bluff, because he respected the game and his teammates too much to keep up that shitty level of play. But in this sport—hell, in any professional sport—the owners and management held all the power, and they knew it. They’d use him, chew him up, and then spit him out when they no longer needed him, without a care for his hopes or dreams. He had to use what little leverage he had.
Ford was making his case. “I think we have a captain, but he’s not there mentally. We have guys who’ve been beaten down and would give their shooting arms to be playing for any other team in the league. We have an owner-slash-GM who needs every person in the org to be contributing one hundred percent.”
“Sure she didn’t send you?”
There was that blinding grin again. There’d be a whole lot of feminine wailing and teeth-gnashing the day Callaghan put a ring on his woman’s finger.
“I won’t pretend I’m not a fan of Harper’s. I am. New Orleans wanted to punish me big time. They’d rather have held on and benched me for the two years left on my contract than let me play or trade me out to a decent team. Now I’m here with the woman of my dreams and my family nearby. That’s down to Harper.”
The sainted Harper. “You made a decision with your dick and paid the price. And Harper got a pretty good bargain. A great right-winger from a Cup-winning team.”
“She gave up her top draft picks for the next three years.”
“Shit, you’re not that good, Callaghan.”
He chuckled. “If I had a center who played as hard as you did in the last period against Philly, then I could be that good, DuPre. We could be that good.”
“I’ll pay you for the coffee if you cut the pep talk.”
More laughter. For a guy whose career had taken a precipitous dive by his going from a champion team to the dregs of the league, he was remarkably sanguine.
“What’s on your dance card tonight, DuPre?”
Digging out his coffee mugs. Playing himself on Hockey All Stars. Deciding how he was going to make his time in Chicago count.
“You tell me.”
“Celebrating my birthday.” He picked up his coffee and headed toward the door. “But now, we skate.”
Later that evening, Remy walked into Jimmy’s Tap, an Irish dive bar in Chicago’s Bridgeport neighborhood on the South Side, and succumbed to an acute pang of longing for New Orleans. Maybe that was why he’d been so antsy. He rarely went this long—an entire month—without seeing his family, but in two weeks they’d have an away game in NOLA and he’d get to check in with them all.
The hardest thing about hockey was not being able to put down roots, and that was especially hard for a Cajun boy like him. Family was important, and as soon as he was done with the pros, he’d get busy making one of his own. Sure, he could be working on that during his player days, but damned if he was going to miss a minute of his kids growing up. Neither did he want to inflict his moods on the people he loved the most, and hockey players were moody fuckers at the best of times. No woman should have to put up with his shit every time he came home after skating within kissing distance of the Cup and failing yet again.
Nodding his way through the crowd, he headed for the birthday boy and his knockout girlfriend. Addison Williams was an amazon of a woman who’d made her fortune showing a lot of skin. Remy had no problem with that, though he had to wonder how he’d feel if it were his femme walking the runway in sexy lingerie. He guessed as long as his hands, and his hands alone, got to touch her skin it’d be all right.
“DuPre,” Ford said, his goofy grin stretching wide. “Have you met my girl, Addy?”
“Not had the pleasure, chérie.” He raised Addison’s hand and kissed her knuckles, adding a cheeky wink.
Addison laughed. “Oh, it’s all true, then.”
“What is?”
“That southern charm that gets the ladies warm.” She drew her hand back and fanned her face. “My, my, Mr. DuPre, have pity on my sensibilities.”
“No quarter given, not where a pretty lady is concerned.”
“Told ya he was trouble,” Ford said good-naturedly. Remy appreciated that he wasn’t some asshole who felt threatened whenever a guy flirted with his woman. Sign of confidence right there.
“Oh, babe, there’s Harper. I’ll be back in a second.” Leaving him with the kind of kiss no woman should lay on her guy in public, Addison sashayed off toward the door of the bar. Remy would have watched, but he didn’t want to look like he was ogling the very fine ass of his teammate’s girlfriend.
“How’d a goon like you end up with a quality woman like that?”
Ford blew out a breath, his eyes still on Addison over Remy’s shoulder. “I ask myself that question every fuckin’ day. She’s something, isn’t she?”
Remy took that as permission to look so he could verify that Addison was indeed something. Of course, his gaze leapfrogged over the future Mrs. Ford Callaghan and landed right where it meant to go.
On Harper Chase herself.
Mon dieu.
She’d let her hair down. Literally. Until now, he’d only seen it tied back in a Wicked Witch of the West bun that looked like it caused a perpetual headache. Tonight it fell past her shoulders in a cascade of corn silk waves. A red top slashed across her collarbone, one shoulder covered, one exposed. It gave her fair skin a luminous, almost translucent quality. He imagined that if he touched her, his hand might pass right through. She had on dark jeans and black shiny heels that gave her a few inches, but he’d still need to lift her up to align his favorite parts with her favorite parts.
This was not where his head should be going—either of them. But sometimes it was okay to give the little head some leeway as long as it remained in the depths of fantasy. Nothing wrong with thinking about a beautiful woman and the dirty things he’d like to do to her. He could just as easily transfer that mental action to Addison Williams. Hell, he’d seen a lot more of her skin.
Something dark clawed in his chest. Harper was not alone.
A vaguely familiar guy was hovering at the bare shoulder that needed Remy’s lips on it now. Right. The Rebels’ lawyer, Kenneth Bailey, who had his hand on the small of Harper’s back. Remy couldn’t actually see that for sure, and neither should he care, but the proprietary nature of that arm’s positioning sparked something greedy inside him. He needed to stop looking before these forbidden thoughts became easier to read on his face than the pout on one of his nieces’ faces when she didn’t get the ice-cream cone she’d begged for.
Turning back to Ford, he asked, “You still underage, or are we actually celebratin’ something here?”
Ford’s mouth curved into that pretty-boy grin.
“Sure. I’ll let you buy me a drink, DuPre.”