by Kate Meader
She let it go.
He won’t stay, a voice whispered, sounding remarkably like seven-year-old Harper.
But the response was older, wiser, and remarkably resolute.
He already has.
Nothing beat the atmosphere in a home team’s locker room after an important win, but as gratifying as it was, it was missing one essential piece. Callaghan was getting most of the attention from the local news media, given the hat trick that capped the 5–0 shutout of Quebec, so Remy was happy to sit back and chill while he waited for his woman to show up.
St. James pulled off his jersey. “What’s so funny, DuPre?”
“Just thinkin’ about how mad at me Harper must be.”
The Rebels’ captain shook his head. “You’ve got it bad, Jinx.”
He did, and he prayed to the ghost of legendary player Gordie Howe, Mr. Hockey himself, that she had it just as bad for him. Nothing would stand in the way of how much he wanted her, and he was not above a little skullduggery to achieve his goals. If anyone could understand that, after their sexy back-and-forth for the last three months, it would be Harper Chase.
He had just slipped into his Luccheses when Kayla Jones, the sports reporter for the local CBS affiliate, shoved a mic in his face.
“Remy, welcome back from your suspension. Now, tell the truth. We’ve been hearing rumors you’re about to be traded, and you’ve made no secret of the fact you want onto a Cup-winning team this year.”
He stood and faced the vultures. “Well, I guess, Kayla, that’s the kind of thing you media folk latch on to ’cause you ain’t got nothin’ better to talk about. When the Rebels brought me on, I’ll admit it threw me for a loop. I wasn’t sure they had what it takes to come together and go all the way. But I think you’ll agree that we’ve played as well as any top-notch team these last couple of months.”
Kayla hadn’t earned her recent promotion to the field beat for nothing. “What about the Rebels’ management? How are you getting along with them?”
“Just fine. They’re total pros. They know what it takes to win, and while the ownership circumstances might seem a little unorthodox, it’s business as usual on the ice. We have a great coaching staff, a team that’s ready to fight for the win, and management that’s behind us a hundred percent.”
“There’s talk that you don’t gel with Harper Chase. Care to comment?”
“Think I can answer that.”
He whipped around at the sound of his sex kitten’s voice. Harper stood behind him, her body thrumming with energy, her eyes bright and fixed on him. His heart stalled, then completely locked up.
She strode over, a queen in his favorite heels and a sexy suit, and stood beside him.
“Like in any new relationship, we’ve had our teething problems,” she picked up, and then the rest was drowned out in the roar of blood in his ears because something so monumental had happened that he was having a hard time keeping a lid on his brain.
Harper Chase had placed her small hand in his, squeezed tightly, and held on.
That dumb ol’ heart of his went from locked up to flipped out.
His girl was holding his hand . . . and still talking like this was no biggie. “. . . Of course, we’ll be assessing where we stand in the next six weeks as we near the trade deadline . . .”
Five seconds passed. Ten. Twenty. All while Harper Chase claimed him for her own, and no one seemed to realize just how mind-blowing this was. So much for the sharp-eyed media.
“Callaghan and Remy have a good rapport on the top line, and with St. James working his way back to full strength following his shoulder injury, we have multiple options for the forward combinations.”
He could barely stand it. He wanted to shout to the rooftops that she was his. He wanted to skate hearts on the ice and sing crowd-pleasing anthems to her. Loving the pressure of her fingers in his, he turned his head and watched in awe as she laid out her vision in that all-business way of hers. How could she be so calm?
Time to rock her serenity. He raised their joined hands and placed them over his heart so everyone watching could share in Remy’s joy.
Harper’s breath caught and she paused in whatever she was saying. She peered up at him, and they stared at each other like idiots while the world distilled to this perfect, crazy, cock-a-doodle-doo moment.
“Wait a second . . .” Kayla did a double take. “Are you saying—”
Harper’s beautiful mouth stretched into a grin. “Ready for a scoop, Kayla?”
Kayla slid a look to her cameraman, checking they were still rolling, before her gaze refocused on where Harper’s hand was joined with his. The hand that was not slipping away as it had when they were confronted with St. James and his girls at the market. Instead, Remy’s femme clasped it tighter and gave him a sly grin.
Kayla coughed significantly. “Are you seeing one of your players, Harper? In a, uh, romantic sense?” No flies on you, Kayla.
“I’m seeing Remy DuPre in an, uh, incredibly romantic sense.” The expression on her face was questioning. Is this all right?
A little late to be checking for permission, but Remy didn’t care. She was his, and he was indisputably hers.
“How long has this been going on?” Kayla gushed, all agog.
“Depends on your definition of ‘this,’ ” Harper said around her sunshine chuckle. Harper was giggling, and he’d never heard a more beautiful sound. “It’s been only a few weeks, but we’d rather be adults about it and not hide what’s happening.”
“Aren’t you worried about being accused of a conflict of interest?”
Harper went wide-eyed in a WTF kind of way, and Remy knew Kayla had better watch out if she kept up that line of questioning. He squeezed Harper’s hand to tell her she had this and also to remind her not to lose her cool.
“I leave the game-to-game coaching decisions to Coach Calhoun and his staff. Remy’s earned his place in the starting lineup, but if his performance starts to slip—”
“Which won’t be happenin’,” he interjected.
“—then he’ll be assessed like any other player. There’s no room for sentiment in pro hockey.”
Damn straight. He drank in the sight of all Harper’s many complex facets coming together and finding peace: strong woman, team owner, passionate lover, keeper of his heart. Guess he’d better make sure he stayed in fighting shape for his place on the team and the privilege of being Harper’s man.
Kayla nodded, clearly impressed. “And, Remy, do you have any concerns about your relationship with the team’s owner affecting your game? A lot of players might feel a certain pressure to perform or worry about accusations of favoritism.”
“With a taskmaster like Harper, there’s always a certain pressure to perform.” Laughter erupted behind him, and he didn’t even bother to turn to his crew, who was no doubt listening in avidly. Shit, he was never going to live this down. “As for accusations of favoritism, I can handle those because, let’s face it, I am her favorite. Just like she’s mine.”
Kayla’s face melted in appreciation.
“But seriously, Kayla, we recognize this puts us under some scrutiny. As soon as I fu—screw up on the ice, fans and media like yourself will be calling for my head. I trust that everyone will be respectful and let Coach make the calls.”
He turned to find Harper smiling, looking lighter and freer than he’d ever seen her. When your happiness was someone else’s happiness, then that was love. Unable to resist expressing his joy in as physical a way as he could without getting prosecuted for public indecency, he decided to give the media something to really talk about. He drew Harper into the embrace of his body, slapped a hand on her sexy little ass, and joined his lips with hers.
Not even the rowdy shouts of his team could separate him from her, but he recognized that this PDA might be a bit much for Harper, so he st
opped after a few blistering seconds.
“Not so fast, DuPre.” And then she was kissing him harder, sealing their love in fire and ice, and telling him everything along with a few things he hadn’t realized he needed. This woman loved him.
Finally. Speaking the same language, right here.
The room was still spinning when he opened his eyes and faced a shocked battery of reporters who had moved in like sharks scenting chum in the water. Harper was touching her lips, a look of wonder on her face, because even she had the capacity to surprise herself.
Remy needed to finish this interview so he could whisk his femme away for a spot of off-ice passion. “Kayla, you asked if my relationship with the team owner affects my game. Here’s the only answer I can give you. Every day, I skate for my teammates, I skate for my family, and I skate for myself.”
Staring into Harper’s dancing green eyes, he spoke from the depths of the heart that belonged to this incredible woman.
“But mostly, I skate for her.”
EPILOGUE
One month later . . .
Harper ended the call, jumped to her feet, and fist-pumped the air. “Yes!”
God, that was almost as good as an orgasm with the Chicago Rebels’ star center. Almost.
“You get ’im, minou?”
She spun around, rubbing her hands together in glee, knowing her joy was writ large all over her face. “Quebec just signed off. The Russian is mine.”
Remy DuPre leaned against the doorjamb of her office, a brown paper bag in his hand, the devil’s charm in his grin. “Watch I don’t get jealous, now.”
As if any other man stood a chance. Still, she couldn’t help teasing him. “Well, I have been known to take a liking to my new acquisitions. You’d better start showing me why I should keep you topmost in my affections.”
Remy glided over, every smooth stride making his case. Next exhibit: he dropped the bag containing a muffuletta sandwich—extra peppers—on her desk. She gave the food a cursory glance, and though her stomach was already begging for it, other parts of her anatomy were pleading for different sustenance.
“I’m not even going to use my awesome culinary skills to win this battle, Harper. Though we both know I’m responsible for how tight this skirt’s gettin’.” His palm curved over her ass, which admittedly had filled out some since her man had taken over full-time feeding and fussing. He walked her back until that Cajun-loved rear met the desk’s mahogany. Clever, sure hands hiked up her skirt so he could slot his muscular body where he belonged.
“Still need convincing?” He lowered his lips to hers, but at the last moment fiendishly switched direction and nuzzled her neck.
“Most definitely.”
“Don’t I keep you warm in this cold, cold town?”
“Said while currently removing my panties.”
“Now that’s so’s I can get you hotter, baby. Try to keep up.” Her panties had a hard time doing just that as they were dispatched with all the skill of those multimillion-dollar hands. Demonstrating a few skills of her own, she smoothed down the zipper of his jeans, freeing all that hard glory.
“I’m also good at helping you buy shoes.” He hitched her thigh up so those red heels he loved could dig into the back of his calf. He groaned, and then she stroked him hard, so he groaned some more. “But mostly, I’m the reason you leave this office at a decent hour.”
He had her there. At Remy’s urging (read: demand), the team’s ownership had made a concerted effort to hire a general manager and had it narrowed down to two candidates. Harper knew who she wanted—Dante Moretti, currently AGM with the Boston Cougars—and she was confident they could bring him on board. Ticket and merchandising revenues were up, and the Rebels’ organization was ready to invest in its future.
Harper would always have a say in every aspect of the business, but knowing that Remy was behind her—and over her and under her—when she needed him freed her from the deep-seated compulsion to do everything. He filled all her gaps, put up with her crazy, and loved her for who she was.
“You brought food.” She wrapped her hands around his cock and guided him to where she ached. “You brought this. Sounds like I’m all set. Sure you’re the reason I leave at a decent hour?”
“Just remindin’ you that I’m here for you. Loving every facet of you. The tough girl, the bombshell, the ball buster, my minou.”
Tears pressed. She’d never been this emotional before she met him, but love had turned her into a basket case. He was the only one who saw it, and she suspected he enjoyed this vulnerability he produced in her.
Eager to regain the upper hand, she said, “We’re almost there, Remy. Only a couple of weeks left.”
He groaned, just like he did every time she mentioned how many days remained to the trade deadline—and how there was still time to make his escape.
“Only place I’m goin’ is here.” He drove in hard, every inch claiming her heart and body and soul.
Her fingers dug into his shoulders as the arguments to test him found voice. “Even if we make top four—and that’s a moon shot—we can’t go all the way, Remy.”
“Can’t we? That doesn’t sound like the Harper Chase I know, the woman who marched into my house in Massachusetts four months ago and told me we were heading to the playoffs. It’s with the Rebels or not at all, Harper.” He sucked on her lip as his hips moved in sexy plunder against hers.
“I—I just don’t want you to resent me if it doesn’t happen. If we don’t make the playoffs in two months. If we don’t make the finals in June. If we don’t—”
He cut her off with a kiss. “Seeing this through with you is more important to me than the Cup. Loving you is more important to me than a piece of metal.”
“Wash your mouth out, Remy DuPre!”
His grin was all wolf. “I appreciate that you’re a woman of your word, and even now, you’re worried about this call I’m making. This call we’re making together. But haven’t you figured it out yet? You’re my ride or die, Harper.”
Tears of joy sprang into her eyes at the realization of what he was prepared to give up to be her true partner in this. It was one thing to give her his heart, but Remy DuPre was giving her everything.
“I love you so much, Remy,” she whispered. “I don’t think I could do this without you, and I’m not just talking about the team. I’m talking about my life that’s fuller and richer and brighter because you’re in it. Loving me for who I am.”
She was crazy for the weight of him on her, needing to feel his solidity holding her in place, anchoring her. He wrapped her in the embrace of his big body. He smelled like home and love and the promise of a bright future.
“If we don’t win, the press will rake us over the coals,” she muttered, not quite ready to give in even as his thrusts exhorted her to let everything go. To surrender to her overwhelming joy and take it as her due.
He paused midthrust, his blue eyes wild and wise. “Only one way to stop that from happening, Harper.”
“What’s that?”
“We keep winning.”
They came together, embracing the miracle of finding each other, knowing that the best was yet to come.
Their season was just beginning.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
To the team at Pocket/Gallery, thanks for taking another chance on me, especially my editors Elana Cohen (good luck, lady!) and Kate Dresser (welcome aboard!).
So many awesome people gave plotting advice, answered dumb questions about hockey trades, and read this story when it was in its infancy—particular gratitude goes out to Lauren Layne, Jessica Lemmon, Kelly Jamieson, and Marion Archer.
And thanks to everyone, readers new and old, for taking this journey with me. I hope you enjoy my ice warriors as much as my heroes—and heroines—in the firehouse.
Are you or is someone you know in a
n unhealthy or abusive relationship? The National Domestic Violence Hotline is available 24/7, 365 days a year, at www.thehotline.org and 1-800-799-7233 or 1-800-787-3224 (TTY). No fees, no names, no judgment.
Want even more sizzling hot, competitive sports romances?
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Changing the Play
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Can’t get enough of the Chicago Rebels?
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So Over You
By Kate Meader
Available in December 2017 from Pocket Books!
PROLOGUE
Hockey is not for pussies. Technically, it’s defined as a sport with words like “play” and “game” thrown around liberally to shield its true nature: hockey is warfare with water breaks. In the rink you have over two thousand pounds of brute force clashing with whittled clubs, a rubber disc that could crush a larynx, and knives attached to feet. Let’s not pretend there’s anything civilized going on here.
—Clifford Chase, three-time Stanley Cup winner,
NHL Hall of Famer, and all-around asshole
Sold out. The arena was freakin’ sold out.
On jellied legs, Isobel Chase skated to the face-off circle at the center of the rink in the Bayside Arena, home of the Buffalo Betties. The puck hadn’t even dropped yet, but the raucous crowd of twenty thousand was already on its feet in anticipation of history about to be made.
The inaugural game of the National Women’s Hockey League, playing to a sold-out stadium. And she was here! On this night of firsts, Isobel planned to continue her storied career. Winner of the Patty Kazmaier Award for best NCAA player, last captain standing after the Frozen Four, Olympic silver medalist for Team USA . . . she could go on, but she had a professional fucking hockey game to win.
