Hooked on You

by Kate Meader

  “Bren, we’re going to do everything in our power to support you and your family. Now, how are the girls doing? This must be a shock for them.”

  “Aye.” Bren rubbed his beard—a play-off beard because the Rebels were in the postseason for the first time in fifteen years—and thought about how much he wanted to share with his boss. But he and Harper went way back, and now wasn’t the time for reticence, not when his ex-wife had screwed him over again.

  “They’ve wanted to live with me for a while. It’s just that the circumstances are not exactly ideal.”

  “I know you’ve missed them . . .” Harper said, leaving the rest unspoken.

  What she probably wanted to say was, I know you’ve missed them, but your ex-wife chose the worst fucking time to have a meltdown in the granola aisle at Whole Foods and then check herself into a clinic for a “rest.”

  “The worst fucking time” being two days before the start of round one of the play-offs.

  In Dallas.

  Against the top-seeded team in the Western Conference.

  “What about your in-laws?” Harper asked.

  Bren’s stomach churned at the mention of those vultures. Two days ago he’d received a call from Drew Cassidy, his ex-wife’s current boyfriend. Kendra needed “space”—though the online pictures of the place where she was staying definitely put it in on the “spa” end of the spectrum—and had called her parents to care for the kids. Drew might be the guy who banged Bren’s ex-wife while she was not-ex, but he wasn’t a complete asshole.

  “They’re your kids, man, and I figure you should know. Kendra didn’t want me to call you. She just wanted to let her parents handle it, but it doesn’t seem right.”

  No, it did not.

  Three hours later, Bren was in Atlanta and in a face-off with his in-laws, the Gordons, who had chartered a jet from LA to get there.

  To steal his fucking kids.

  “This is what Kendra wants, Brendan, and as the girls’ primary caregiver in the divorce, her wishes should be obeyed. Caitriona and Franky are coming to LA with us.”

  Bren could have gone ballistic. Every cell in his body itched to. But that would’ve scared his girls and given grist to the Gordons’ mill. Instead he’d called his lawyer, explained the situation, and then calmly told his in-laws what was going to happen.

  The girls would live with him until Kendra was better.

  The Gordons could visit, but not for a month, until the girls had settled in.

  If they wanted to make a fuss, they’d better load up their guns, because Bren would never back down.

  “Not an option,” Bren now told Harper. “And you know I don’t have any family nearby.” His parents were long gone, and his stepmother in Winnipeg wouldn’t be interested. Besides, the idea of sending his kids away was like stripping his skin to the bone. They’d lived with their mom for the last year and now he had them again. Shitty circumstances, but he had them.

  This time, he wasn’t letting go.

  “We can arrange something through a service,” Harper continued. “Nannies shouldn’t be hard to find.”

  “I suppose,” Bren said doubtfully. He’d need more than a nanny. How about a housekeeper? On top of that, a tutor would come in extra handy because there were two months left in the school year, and he’d had to pull them as soon as he heard what happened. So three different positions right there, because he doubted Mary Poppins actually existed.

  “We’ll all chip in and help, Bren,” Harper said with a cheer that was starting to piss him off. “Until you find someone, they can stay with me during away games.”

  His head snapped back. “Harper, I can’t let you do that.”

  Harper sat in the other leather armchair beside Bren, hands clasped in her lap, her petite stature making her sink even farther.

  “We go back a long way, you and I,” she said quietly.

  “Aye, we do.” He’d started with the Rebels feeder team in Rockford before his call-up to the majors eleven years ago. He’d had chances to leave, but he stuck around through the bad times and worse. One of them was finding Harper in the Rebels locker room, her lip bloody, another player looming over her and shaking out his fist. That bastard didn’t remain on the Rebels much longer. Left a couple of teeth behind, too.

  Harper might think Bren’s defense of her created an obligation between them, but not as far as Bren was concerned. She had repaid him handsomely last year. Instead of canning his ass when he showed up for a game drunk, she’d persuaded her father to give him another chance as long as he entered rehab.

  He’d spent the past eleven months acting like a monk. No booze, no fighting, no sex.

  Christ, he missed sex.

  “You don’t owe me this, Harper. I’ll figure something out.”

  “What? We need you in Dallas when the team flies out tomorrow.”

  “The girls can travel with me.”

  “They’re nine and eleven, Bren. You can’t be dragging them all over the country. They need stability and we need you playing to the best of your ability and not worrying about who’s looking after them. We’ll work on hiring professional help, but for this first round of the play-offs, you’re going to have to let us help you. The WAGs are on the case. Me, Addison, Isobel, and—”

  “Not Violet.”

  He almost spat out her name, immediately regretting how much it revealed about his state of mind. What he didn’t regret? How his mouth felt when shaping the word: Vi-o-let. It had a musical quality that had always appealed to him. Pity its owner was far too appealing.

  Harper looked understandably taken aback. “Well, she’s not a wife or girlfriend, but I’m sure she’d help out if asked. In fact, given that she doesn’t have an official role in the organization—or an actual job—she could prove useful.”

  He snorted. What was wrong with him? Usually as stoic as they came, he found it near impossible to control himself whenever the youngest daughter of Clifford Chase was mentioned. Or came within earshot. Or was near enough to touch and taste and—

  “She’s sort of . . . flighty,” he said, trying to sound reasonable, when his thoughts on Violet were anything but. “A party girl. This wouldn’t interest her.”

  Caitriona and Franky had endured far too much insecurity, most of which was Bren’s fault. They didn’t need an unreliable slip of a girl like Violet who laughed too hard, flirted too much, and did an admirable job of getting under Bren’s skin.

  He wasn’t fool enough to deny his attraction to her, but then he’d always been drawn to wild women, like his ex. And look how that turned out.

  “My lawyer thinks I have a good chance at full custody, but I have to do this right. Dot the i’s and cross the t’s. Keep my head down and my nose clean.” He let her infer the rest. He refused to give Kendra any extra ammunition, and that started with ensuring that his daughters’ child-care arrangements were handled professionally.

  Harper patted his arm as if his Violet objections were the most natural thing in the world. He felt a little guilty at painting her in a bad light, and even more so now that Harper seemed to readily understand.

  “We’ll figure it out, Bren. Let the girls stay at Chase Manor while you go to Dallas for the first two games. I’ll work with an agency to set up some interviews for a more permanent position. I can even arrange to have someone open up your house and get it ready for the girls.”

  The house. He hadn’t even thought about that. While his daughters usually stayed with him in his rented apartment when they came to visit once a month, they had all once lived together in the house on the lake. Being back on their old stomping ground might help them adjust to the big changes.

  “That’d be great, Harper.”

  She squeezed his arm. “We old-timers have to stick together, Bren. It’s also what family does. And the Rebels are family.”

  Violet had never been a fan of kids.

  Okay, not exactly true. She wasn’t a fan of the small, wrinkled, poopy ones. Ankle
biters fared much better in her eyes when they developed personalities.

  So, faced with the sight of two kids in the Rebels front office suite—girls of an indeterminate age because Violet could never guess these things—she was curious, because personality radiated from them. She’d seen St. James’s daughters once before from a distance. Now, close up, she tried to determine if they looked like him. Both dark haired, one had a snooty air to her, while the other rocked a nerdy look with glasses. They sat in the chairs outside Dante’s office, eyes glued to an iPad and a book respectively, looking a little lost.

  Behind her, a deep voice rumbled, “They don’t bite, y’know.”

  She turned to take in the hotness that was Dante Moretti, general manager of the Rebels. “Can you guarantee that?”

  Dante shrugged one broad shoulder encased in a dove-gray designer suit. “These ones? No. I only have experience with a couple of mouthy Brooklyn chicks who would sell their souls for Taylor Swift tickets.”

  Violet laughed softly. “Your nieces sound adorable.”

  Perhaps sensing she was being studied, the girl who looked older—ten? fourteen?—squinted in suspicion at Violet. Reminded that she sported purple-streaked hair and was dressed in a denim mini that showcased her tattooed thighs, Violet offered a smile to affirm she was one of the good ones. Unimpressed Child returned to her tablet.

  “You here to see Harper?” Dante asked.

  “Yeah, we were going to do lunch.”

  “She’s in my office with St. James.”

  Violet figured as much. She jerked her chin and walked down the corridor a ways so they were out of earshot.

  “What’s going on?”

  Dante looked over his shoulder, his lake-blue eyes troubled. “The girls will be staying with their father for a while. Mom’s checked in to some facility for a rest.”

  Code: rehab. Shit, the mom as well? Those poor kids couldn’t catch a break.

  Dante went on. “Harper’s giving him the spiel about how we’ve got his back, et cetera. Expect the Bat-Signal any minute now to get everyone on a baby-sitting roster.”

  That sounded like her oldest sister. Harper was a fixer, the kind of person who liked to run people’s lives like a pro hockey team, which had worked peachy while she was trying to ignore her own needs.

  Dante was eyeing her speculatively. “What?” she asked.

  “So, what exactly do you do around here, Vasquez?”

  Despite the affection she heard in the question, she bristled. So maybe she knew jack about hockey, unlike Harper and their sister Isobel. As in Isobel Chase, NCAA champion, Olympic silver medalist, and celebrated coach. Violet had only stuck around because dearest Dad’s last will and testament required that all three sisters manage the team jointly, or it would be sold off. The team also had to make the play-offs—and now they had. Achievement unlocked, and her cut of the pie was definitely worth more now than when she’d first arrived.

  To be honest, Violet didn’t have any good reason for remaining in Chicago much longer. Her sisters would buy her out as soon as she asked. With that kind of money, she could travel. Get a college degree. Visit her mom in Puerto Rico. Anything.

  And the way Dante was looking at her, she just might get cracking on that plan sooner rather than later.

  “I mooch off the Chase family name. What do you do, Moretti?”

  He smiled. So pretty. “Any good with kids?”

  Nopeity-nope-nope. “You put those kids under my care and they’ll be pierced and tatted by the end of the week.”

  “As long as it’s a Rebels tat, I don’t have a problem with that.”

  “Like you said, there’ll be plenty of WAGs dying to help out. Hell, you could flash a Nanny Wanted sign on the arena scoreboard and have them lining up around the block for a chance to polish Highlander’s peen.”

  “Hmm” was all Dante had to say about that.

  Before Violet could protest further, the door to his office opened and out came the man himself, wearing a tee with Scotland vs. Everyone emblazoned across his vast chest. Bren St. James, captain of the Rebels, aka Saint aka Highlander aka Nessie. Though only Violet called him that last one, and man-on-fire did it piss him off. His brutally handsome face would transform into a scowl that was probably the hottest thing Violet had ever seen.

  So she’d say it again. Nessie.

  Super scowl. Wet panties.

  Today was no different. His midnight-blue eyes clashed with her green ones and she didn’t even have to open her mouth. Holy lip bite. The scowl was already activated on sight and Violet’s lady parts were already damp. The fact that this guy totally despised her was a bonus that revved her engine from zero to sixty in seconds flat. When they finally got it on, the sex would be spectacular.

  Ha-ha, very funny, Vasquez. That would so not be happening. The Grumpster blew it that first day they met in the Empty Net.

  “Dad!” The shorter girl with the glasses hopped up and hugged St. James as if it had been months since she’d seen him, instead of the hour max he’d spent in that meeting. “We have to get home to Gretzky. He doesn’t do well alone.”

  The Scot’s growly demeanor melted as he wrapped his big arms around his daughter. Meanwhile, more melting was happening in Violet’s immediate vicinity, points south. Oh yeah. This guy would have zero problems finding child care.

  “Franky, the dog is fine. I leave him alone all the time.”

  “Better he’s alone so we don’t have to smell his farts,” said Tall Diva without even looking up from her tablet. Violet would bet her share of the Rebels this one took after her mom.

  As soon as the thought formed, Violet mentally berated herself. She had no idea what St. James’s ex was like. The woman was probably a saint for putting up with this brood monster for years before he finally hit rehab on orders from team management. Yet Violet couldn’t help thinking there was more to Bren St. James beyond the bullet points splashed all over sports websites during his meltdown last year: Washed-up alcoholic. Bad husband. Rotten father.

  Harper appeared behind the Scot, petite, blond, and perfectly put together.

  “Hey, girls, so what do you say to a sleepover at my place?” she asked. “I have so much ice cream that I really need help getting through it.”

  Violet gave Dante a sidelong glance. “Are you kidding?”

  “Probably practicing for when Remy knocks her up,” Dante said under his breath, and Violet laughed.

  The laugh focused St. James’s attention on her. Or rather refocused it, because he’d definitely spotted her when he exited the office.

  Time for her daily fun. “Nessie! How goes it?”

  He inhaled deeply and ran a hand through his overlong dark hair, his irritation obvious. Ignoring her as usual, he addressed his girls. “So, you know the play-offs start the day after tomorrow? I have to go out of town for a few days, and you’re going to stay with Harper.”

  The youngest girl—Franky—frowned but quickly adjusted it to a smile, first at her dad, then at Harper. Either a people pleaser or a master manipulator, she was one to watch.

  “Caitriona?” St. James spoke to the older girl, still riveted to her iPad. “That okay with you?”

  “Do I have a choice?”

  “Nope,” her father said, and his matter-of-fact manner made Violet laugh, then immediately stifle it when she felt Dante’s gaze zero in on her. “I’ll bring them over tomorrow morning before the bus leaves for the airport,” Bren said to Harper. “Thanks again.”

  “Not a problem. Looking forward to it.” And then to the girls, “Bring your appetites, ladies!”

  With protective hands on his daughters’ shoulders, Bren walked them toward the suite’s exit, which meant he had to pass by Violet and Dante.

  “What, no introductions, Nessie?”

  Franky peered up at her. “Why does she call you that, Dad?”

  “Because she’s a bit cracked in the head, love.”

  Violet laughed again—a little too h
ard, if the weird looks Harper and Dante threw her way were any indication.

  So, here was the deal: Violet found it virtually impossible to act like a sane female around St. James. There was something about his grumpy, beastly exterior that made her itch to provoke a reaction, and as the sullen Scot went out of his way not to talk to her, she could tell he was desperate to do it. Or maybe she hoped he was. Her efforts to provoke him couldn’t be all for nothing, could they?

  For the past few months, she’d been in a faux friends-with-bennies situation with Cade “Alamo” Burnett, a gay Rebels player in need of cover, which gave Violet the perfect opportunity to needle the team’s captain. Whenever Bren was in earshot, Violet would laugh heartily at Cade’s jokes, causing the hottie Texan to roll his eyes dramatically and grind out, I’m not that funny. Her response? Flutter her fingers on Cade’s chest, bat her eyelashes vehemently, and giggle-gasp, I know! with an extrabig laugh to punctuate it. But Cade no longer needed her help since announcing to the world that he liked boys in general and Dante in particular. His secret was public and so, in a way, was hers.

  Outed as a fraud who got her kicks from cock teasing an irascible, alcoholic Scotsman. For shame, Vasquez.

  Violet tilted her head at Bren’s youngest daughter. “You ever heard of the Loch Ness Monster?”

  Franky nodded solemnly.

  “That’s why we call him Nessie. Because he’s Scottish. Mysterious. Mythical.”

  “And a monster,” the girl added, still solemn.

  Oh dear, that wasn’t Violet’s intention at all. “Well, I wouldn’t go that far.”

  Before she could assure the girl that her father wasn’t really a monster, Franky broke into a huge grin that knocked the whole room sideways with its power. She peered owl-like at her father.

  “Just kidding, Dad. You’re not a monster, and you’re definitely not mythical.”

  St. James appeared spectacularly resigned. “Sure I am. My skills are legendary.” Seeming to realize that could be taken a number of ways, he reddened and added, “On the ice.” He caught Violet’s eye, his expression lovingly murderous at being drawn into this weird conversation.