by Kate Meader
So much to unpack in that statement, and Harper was just a hairbreadth on this side of sober enough to do it.
“Dicktabase?”
“My Tumblr for dicks.” A couple of clicks later and Harper was gazing at a scandal in the making. Violet Vasquez, youngest daughter of Clifford Chase, one-third owner of the Chicago Rebels professional hockey team, cataloged pics—and GIFs—of penises.
“This—this—” Harper shook her head as Stevie begged Tom Petty to stop draggin’ her heart around. “If anyone ties this to you or the organization, have you the slightest idea how much trouble we’re in?”
“Don’t be such a prude, Harper. It’s just a gallery of cock, and my name is nowhere on the site. Besides, the act of sending it is the equivalent of signing a terms-and-conditions statement—that dick is now fair game.”
“Wow, there are a lot of pierced penises here.” Isobel had picked up the phone and was scrolling with the avid curiosity of a woman who had not been laid in a very long time.
“Pierced is the bomb. It really enhances the sensations for all involved.”
Isobel groaned. “I can’t believe my baby sister has so much more experience than me.”
Violet blushed, and Isobel grabbed her hand. “Not that there’s anything wrong with that! I think it’s awesome you’re so open about what you want and make no bones about getting it.”
“Or boners,” an increasingly drunken Harper interjected.
Violet squeezed Izzy’s hand back. “I didn’t think that’s what you meant. I just—never mind.” She caught Harper’s eye, and while Harper might be ten sheets to the wind, she understood Vi’s source of discomfort.
Isobel had called Violet her baby sister, and Violet was trying to decide if she liked that or not.
“So, I could really do with some dating advice,” Isobel said, still glued to Violet’s phone and the Cavalcade of Cock.
“Dating advice?” Violet exclaimed. “You need a dating intervention. Don’t worry, we’ll work something out, won’t we, Harper?”
“Of course we will. There’s no reason why you shouldn’t be cleaning up on the dating circuit, Iz. You’re a wealthy woman with a badass scar and thighs of steel.”
“No hockey players,” Isobel said morosely.
“No hockey players,” Harper agreed, equally morosely.
Violet chuckled. “This should be good.”
TWENTY-FIVE
“Do you think she’s going to be all right?”
Isobel frowned as she watched Violet weave unsteadily down the icy path to the coach house. Stumbling slightly, she held her fist aloft and announced without turning, “I’ve got this, chicas. Go the fuck to sleep!”
Harper giggled, still feeling a bit squishy. “She’ll be fine. She’s a survivor, that one.”
They both waited until Violet was out of sight, then a minute more until they heard a muffled thud—the sound of the coach house door closing.
Isobel shut the kitchen door. “That breast cancer business was pretty wild, wasn’t it?”
“Not as wild as the dicktabase.” Shaking her head, Harper handed off a glass of water and two Tylenol. “Drink up.”
Izzy rolled her eyes but did as she was told. On previous girls’ nights in, when Violet left, Harper and Isobel didn’t linger alone together. This stranger who had entered their lives played the perfect buffer and, without her, the rubber band’s tension stretched between the Chase sisters who had never gelled.
But for once, Harper didn’t want the space. She wanted to embrace the raw emotions swirling through the air.
“Look, I’m sor—”
“I should have—”
Nervous laughter ensued. Exercising her privilege as the eldest, Harper started over. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about the trade agreement with Remy. I wanted to, and maybe part of me thought I wouldn’t have to honor it, but then it got so complicated.”
“When you decided to have sex with him?”
That. Though everything seemed a thousand times more twisted. “It wasn’t so much a decision as an . . . imperative. Maybe I was just lonely.”
The excuse sounded weak and pathetic. Exactly what Clifford had despised. But the truth? Her need for Remy was desperate, just as his absence was like a yawning ache.
She peered up to find Isobel staring at her with something like compassion. Her skin prickled under her sister’s gaze, and an opening appeared that she could step through. Be honest. Lay it out there. But her guarded heart counted to three and let the gap close. Not drunk enough, perhaps.
Seeming to recognize that Harper Confession Time was at an end—for now—Isobel spoke up. “I should have told you about resigning my coaching position in Montreal. It was just getting tough to be here for the games and be there for the guys. I wish I knew what Dad wanted. He hated that I had to give up playing and go into coaching. I don’t want to disappoint him.”
“How is that even possible? Have you any idea how proud he was of you?”
Harper would never forget her father’s joy the night Isobel won silver for Team USA. He’d broken his ankle before the trip to Sochi and couldn’t attend in person, so they watched the games together at his house in Riverbrook. Though it killed her because Harper had never experienced his paternal pride, she still cheered her sister on through every glide, hit, and goal. Harper’s baby sister was a champion, not that her envy would allow her a kind word about it.
“I know he was proud when I was winning,” Isobel continued, “just like I know he took my injury hard. He wasn’t all that tolerant of weakness, was he?”
“No,” Harper whispered, tears tightening her throat. “He wasn’t.”
“I was supposed to be the big success, the one who used those Cup-winning genes. And now . . . I’m not sure what my path is. You’ve always seemed so sure of what you were meant to do, Harper. You were born to lead this team. I envy your certainty.”
Just went to show you could bullshit your way through anything, because Harper had never felt less sure in her life. Neither had she given much thought to how Isobel might have had her own problem living up to the high expectations of her father. Maybe too-high expectations rivaled none at all.
“You gave me a heart attack that night in Buffalo, you know?”
Isobel’s gaze shot up. “I didn’t even know you were coming to the game.”
As if Harper would miss her sister’s pro debut, the night she inaugurated the National Women’s Hockey League as captain of the Buffalo Betties. Not wanting to pile on the pressure, Harper had told no one she was going. Besides, it was so much fun to blend in with the swaying mass of humanity in the Bayside Arena, all there to witness history.
“I’m all about bitches getting shit done. And that night, Iz, you were getting it done. I was so proud of you. That night, every moment before, and every moment since.”
Isobel’s eyes were shiny with emotion. “My thirty-seven minutes of glory. That’s how long my pro career lasted. One minute I’m celebrating an awesome goal, the next . . .” She curled her hand in a fist on the kitchen island counter, a strategy to stop from touching her scar again, perhaps. “It’s hard to get the respect, even in the minors, based on such a short stint.”
Maybe there was more to her resignation from Montreal than road warrior woes. Harper wanted to say that they’d find a place for her on the Rebels’ coaching staff, but there was too much up in the air to make that promise.
“I’m very drunk and very tired,” Isobel said with a sniff and a rusty giggle. “You coming up?”
“In a minute. Just going to load the dishwasher.”
With Isobel gone, Harper cleared away the wineglasses and empty cookie boxes, and let her mind wander to a snowy night in Buffalo almost two years ago. The crowd. The cheers. The swish of the blades. The tap of stick-versus-puck.
T
he pool of crimson seeping from Isobel’s head onto the bone-white ice.
At the hospital, her father had been a mess—and even then Harper had resented his concern for Isobel compared to his lack for Harper in the wake of what happened with Stroger. But she’d put her pettiness aside to be there for him. For her sister. And when the doctor said she was out of surgery and her skull would heal in time, her father had cried in relief.
Thank Christ, he’d sobbed. She’ll come back. I know she will. Stronger than ever.
He’d gone in to see her, leaving Harper to deal with the multitude of visitors. Isobel’s teammates, sports media, hockey league officials—
Holy. Hell. How could she have forgotten about him?
The Russian.
Harper had met Vadim Petrov one summer eight years ago when he trained with the Rebels as a nineteen-year-old. Instead of taking up a lucrative contract in the NHL, he’d returned to Russia to rule the Kontinental Hockey League, winning every trophy, smashing every record. Five years ago he had finally made his North American pro debut in Quebec, and now Harper was considering trading him in to replace Remy.
But that night—the night of Isobel’s first and last game in the National Women’s Hockey League—Petrov was in the hospital’s waiting room. When Harper emerged to tell everyone about Isobel’s condition, he had stalked toward her, his expression so fierce she almost recoiled. Even now she shivered, remembering his words. No small talk, no build up. Just three syllables he appeared to summon from a deep, wounded place.
“She will live?”
Not “Is she okay?” Not “How is she?” Pure Russian intensity and drama distilled into this singular, charged moment.
Even in the midst of researching Petrov for a possible trade, this memory had stayed buried until now. A night of wine, Stevie Nicks, and sister bonding had pushed it to the surface. Memories, emotions, all the rawness—for so long, Harper had stuffed it down deep, and now her body felt like a live wire, a conductor for masses of inconvenient sensation. Too much was happening at once. Her father’s death, her sisters’ invasion, the team’s haul back from the brink. Her brain could barely keep up and, as for her heart . . . well, it was a good thing she’d put the brakes on with Remy.
He was just one more assault on her senses she couldn’t handle right now.
Cade Burnett let loose an orgasmic groan, as well he should. Remy’s bouillabaisse was a masterpiece.
“You need to open a restaurant, DuPre. You’re better at this than hockey.”
“Oh yeah? Then I’d have to charge you to eat, asshole.”
Jorgenson coughed. “Yes, much better we eat for free here.” He nudged Burnett. “Don’t rock the boat, asshole. We have it good.”
“So Highlander isn’t coming?” Remy checked his phone. No text from Harper, which was not a surprise. He was trying to give her space because he knew her well enough to understand that she wouldn’t appreciate being pushed. But he’d texted Bren that the boys would be over tonight and he hadn’t responded.
“Don’t know. He’s been pretty moody the last couple of days.” Callaghan looked up from his stew. “Moodier than usual.”
Remy had an idea why. They hadn’t talked about what Bren witnessed the other night at the market. His girls were in town until today, and Remy hadn’t wanted to interrupt, but now the Scot was alone.
“I’m going to knock to see if he’s okay.”
Burnett shot him a look. “He hasn’t fallen off the wagon, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“Nah. Nothing like that. Eat your bouillabaisse, Alamo.”
He took the stairs one floor down and knocked on St. James’s door. The dog barked his head off, but not quite enough to muffle Bren’s muttered curse, so close to the door that it could only be because he’d seen Remy through the peephole.
“Open up, man. I know you’re there.”
The door flew open and Gretzky pounced, trying to lick Remy to death.
“Heya, buddy.”
Bren pulled the dog back by the collar, and then realizing that he’d only stay if Remy was invited in, he flourished a come the fuck in with his free hand. Once inside, they sized each other up.
“You avoiding me, Highlander?”
“Nope.”
Remy rubbed his jaw, thinking on how best to play this. Might as well go all in.
“Harper and I were together. But now we’re not.”
Bren merely stared.
“I’d like to know if you have a problem with what you saw.”
“Do I have a problem with the fact the guy who’s in line to get my job is fucking the owner-slash-GM, you mean?”
That’s what he thought? Sure St. James was on thin ice as far as the captaincy was concerned, but there was never any question of Remy stepping on his skates.
“I don’t want your job.”
Bren’s skepticism was Remy’s reward.
“Seriously, Bren, I’m out of here in a few weeks. When I was traded in, I forced Harper’s hand. Told her I’d only give a hundred percent if she promised to trade me out to another team by January. One that could go all the way.”
St. James blinked. Once. Twice. This counted for emotion with the guy, Remy supposed.
“Who else knows?”
“No one on the team or in the front office. Maybe her sisters, but I’m not even sure of that. We knew how it might look.”
“That you’re bailing when we need you.”
For fuck’s sake. “Christ, you can’t have it both ways. One minute you think I’m after your job, the next you’re pissed because I’m not after your job.”
“There’s a third option. You could stay the fuck away from my job and stay to help us win.”
There was that, but that wasn’t what he needed to talk about. The plan was still the same.
“About what you saw,” Remy started.
“You know that’s trouble, right?”
Remy sighed. He knew. “Yeah. I’m crazy about her—”
Bren held up a hand. “I don’t mean that, but that’s very interesting and worthy of ball-busting later. I mean it’s trouble for Harper. She’s gonna be crucified in the press if they find out.”
If. Meaning, Bren would never breathe a word because he had Harper’s back like she’d had his during his rehab.
Remy offered his hand. Bren stared, squinted, and gripped it while the slightest smile teased his lips. “So you’ve got a thing for your boss, brother?”
Christ. “Like I said, I’m out of here in a few weeks. And—” He sighed. “I have a thing for my boss.”
And then Gretzky farted.
TWENTY-SIX
Harper eyed the package on the kitchen island and contemplated her next move.
Wine. The next move was always wine.
So what if it was nine in the morning. This wasn’t just any morning. It was Christmas Day, and she was alone in a mansion, playing at poor little rich girl. No one was here to judge except the ghosts of the past and Harper’s chatty conscience, a voice that could easily be drowned out by vino. She poured a liberal glass, toasted no one in particular, and turned her attention to the package sitting before her like it might contain the head from Seven.
That seemed unlikely, because it was from Remy. His Riverbrook address was in the upper left-hand corner, her address in Lake Forest was centered in a big loopy scrawl. It arrived yesterday, but as she was spending the holiday alone, she figured she’d open it today.
With wine.
She sliced open the package with a steak knife and removed the more decorative gift box inside it. Carefully, she untied the ribbon as if she might reuse it later. Old habits.
Pulling apart the layers of tissue wrap, she gasped at what she found. The accompanying note was in the same expressive script.
Merry Christmas, m
inou. I figure this might inspire you to get all that team testosterone under control come the New Year.
Yours, Remy
She burst out laughing. Anyone else would have given her a feminine gift, such as a cashmere scarf (Kenneth) or cashmere gloves (also Kenneth). Only Remy would give her something so perfect it brought a lump of emotion to her throat.
A flash of metal caught her eye. There was something else in the box, wrapped in tissue. She extracted a platinum bracelet cuff, the sort of piece she would wear. But this was no ordinary trinket.
Spelled out in stamped letters was the message she longed to give the press, haters, and the ghost of Clifford Chase: Zero Fucks Given.
Oh, God.
Fortifying herself with a gulp of Bordeaux, she punched in a text message on her phone. Thank you.
Her phone rang within thirty seconds. “Am I forgiven?” came that sexy Cajun drawl.
“For what? You didn’t do anything.”
“That’s how I usually start these conversations. Puts a lady on the back foot immediately.”
She sighed at how charming he was. “I might have overreacted. But Bren was right there.”
“I talked to him, and he’s not going to say a word. Listen, Harper, I don’t want to fight. I just want to be with you for the time I’ve got left in Chicago. I’ve missed you in my bed. Femme, I need you there.”
Her entire body swooned. “Should I bring your gift next time? Might make for interesting foreplay.”
Her eyes fell on what Remy had sent—a nutcracker, but not just any nutcracker. Undoubtedly custom made, it was a slender figure with long blond hair, a Rebels hockey jersey, and red heels. It was Harper Chase herself.
“My balls are too big for that, minou. It’s what you might call symbolic.”
A parting gift. Remy was trying to inspire her to stay strong when he had moved on. Tears pricked the backs of her eyelids at the sweetness of the gesture.
“I didn’t get you anything.”
“Just seein’ my nieces’ smiles when they opened their presents this morning is gift enough. They sure liked the Rebels jerseys you sent ’em, and Sophie’s wrapped herself up in that literary quotes scarf even though it’s makin’ her sweat buckets. Alexandre and Marie were thrilled with the wine, too.” He paused. “That was mighty nice of you to think of them.”
