"Maybe not. But you have to admit the coincidence is a little curious."
"Not really, no." I curled my fingers around the brim of the hat and tilted my head to the side, studying Jacqui for a few seconds. "What are you really worried about? And don't say you're not because I can tell you are."
Jacqui sighed, the sound so dramatic and theatrical that I had to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling. She put the hat she'd been shaping on the small counter then walked around it. The heels of her shoes clicked against the hard floor, the sound reminding me of hail pattering against glass. I eyed her shoes with the faintest hint of jealousy, wondering how she managed to walk in them without tottering and falling over. The five-inch stilettos were made of shiny black patent leather with long laces that crisscrossed her muscular calves before stopping an inch or two below her knee. They were the kind of shoes designed to draw attention—and break an ankle if you weren't careful, especially on the uneven sidewalks and streets of the Quarter.
Jacqui must have noticed my envious look because she offered me a knowing smile. "Practice, cher. Lots of practice." She settled on the stool behind the counter, crossed her long legs, then placed her clasped hands in her lap. "Now back to this man of yours and what I'm worried about."
"I was right, then. You really are worried about something."
"Maybe not worried so much as cautious."
"About what?"
"I don't like coincidences, Addy. I never have. And I find it awfully coincidental that you two ended up together. And I don't like the fact that he stood you up only to chase you down after seeing you at your father's party."
"But he'd been looking for me—"
"So he says."
"And I believe him."
"You don't even know him, cher."
"But I do. Enough, anyway."
"Addy, I've known you for more than three years, ever since you walked through that door with your little book filled with clothing designs. And in all that time, I've never seen you like this over any man. I just don't want you to get hurt."
"I'm not going to get hurt. It's not like that." I pulled my gaze from Jacqui's and focused on unpacking the rest of the hats. "We're just having fun."
"Are you sure he's not just using you? I mean, your father does own the team."
"He's not using me, Jacqui. Seeing me wouldn't help him at all."
"Then maybe it's a question of going after something you're not supposed to have. That taste of the forbidden fruit. Some men are like that."
I didn't miss the bitter sadness in her voice and wondered if she was talking from experience. There was still so much I didn't know about her, about her past, despite the fact that she was one of my closest friends.
I also didn't miss the subtle warning in her voice, or the suspicion. And as much as I wanted to, I couldn't quite stifle the annoyance her words caused. "Nathan isn't like that."
"I really hope you're right, cher, but what if you're not?"
"He's not like that," I repeated. "In fact, being with me could cause him problems if Daddy found out."
"You don't think your daddy knows?"
"No, he doesn't know." I was certain of that. Daddy suspected something was going on, that much was clear after our little discussion yesterday morning over breakfast.
He hadn't interrogated me about my whereabouts Sunday night the way I'd expected, especially after missing dinner with the Hardings. But he had watched me a little too closely and I could see all the unasked questions in his eyes. He wanted to know where I'd been and, more importantly, who I'd been with. He didn't approve of the time I spent in the Quarter or my job here in the boutique. He didn't approve of what he called my 'hobby' designing outfits. And he most certainly didn't approve of the few friends of mine he'd met, including Jacqui.
Especially Jacqui.
And if he found out about Nathan? If he knew I was spending time with one of his players—that I was sleeping with one of his players? No, that wouldn't be good a thing. At all. And as much as I hated lying to my father—was hiding the truth the same as lying?—I didn't want to think about what he might do if he did find out.
"What if he finds out?" Jacqui's question was so close to what I'd been thinking that I wondered if she had the ability to read minds. I cast her a questioning glance and she shrugged in reply. "I can see everything you're thinking on your face."
"Oh." I brushed the lint from the brim of one hat with a little too much force. "Daddy won't find out. Besides, I already told you that Nathan and I are just having fun. It's nothing more than that."
"And you're absolutely certain of that, cher?"
"Yes. Of course."
"I just worry about you."
"I know you do. And that means more than you know. But I don't think you'd worry so much if you met Nathan."
"I did meet him. Or don't you remember what happened last week?"
"I mean really meet him. Sit down and talk to him—without hitting him. Take the time to get to know him."
"We tried that already, if you remember. I believe he stood you up."
I put the hat down, deliberately ignoring her reference to last week as I faced her. "We're meeting tomorrow night for dinner. A few of his teammates will be there, too. You should join us."
"I don't think—"
"I want you to meet him, Jacqui. Get to know him. Then you'll see he doesn't have any ulterior motives and that you're worried over nothing."
Jacqui watched me for several long minutes before reluctantly nodding her agreement. And as happy as I was that she was going to join me, I couldn't shake the feeling that she'd already made her mind up about Nathan and that nothing would change it.
Which simply meant that I'd have to prove her wrong—and I would.
Chapter Fourteen
Nathan
Muscles stretched and burned, a fire in my thighs and calves as I dug in and pushed. The fire wasn't a pain to be shied away from, it was a sensation to revel in. To embrace. To feel. The same way I felt the breeze wash over my sweaty face. The same way the cold air filled my heaving lungs.
This was physical exertion. The kind my body craved, the kind it demanded. It meant I was working, doing what I loved the most, accomplishing something. I might bitch about sore muscles later, or complain about the smell of stale ice and sweat that lingered in my nose for hours after practice, but they weren't things I'd trade for the world. The sweat, the pain, the long hours and pushing my body to its limits and beyond—those were the payments for doing what I loved most and I'd gladly pay them ten times over if it meant I wouldn't have to stop.
And I wouldn't—as long as I didn't fuck up again.
I tapped my blade against the ice, reached with my stick to catch the puck that Nicholas Shore had passed a little too wide. Stretching, reaching, feeling the reverberation with my entire body as the puck made contact with my stick. It was a sensation I couldn't explain, almost like the stick was a part of me, living and breathing and feeling. The only other people who would understand were the men skating around the ice with me, pushing and swearing and sweating as much as I was.
I spun to my right and came to a sharp stop a split second before sending the puck sailing through the air. It flew end-over-end, its wobbly trail a far cry from the smooth and straight shot I'd hoped for. My gaze followed the puck as it sailed toward the net and I waited, my breath held, as Luke slid to his right to catch it before it hit the back of the net.
His sliding leg jerked to an abrupt stop as his skate blade caught on something. Instead of the smooth catch I'd been expecting him to make, he pitched to the side and landed on his shoulder with a loud oath that echoed in the cold damp air a second before my shot hit home.
"Fucking shit! Dammit!" Luke pushed to his knees, sat back on his heels, then started beating his stick against the ice like some crazy man on a rampage of retribution. A few seconds later, the stick went sailing toward the boards, hitting the corner before sliding harmlessly awa
y.
"This fucking ice is fucking shit!" Luke pushed to his feet, his right leg wobbling under him. He caught the top pipe with one hand, steadying himself as he rolled his right foot in small circles.
A few of us had skated up to him by now. Dylan. Nicholas. Tristan. Sean Worthington. Me. We hadn't been together very long, this team of misfits and castoffs, but it had been long enough to know that Luke didn't go off very often. I wasn't sure why but most goalies I knew were just a few degrees shy of being batshit crazy—something about all that focus and concentration that made them live inside their heads, I guess. They all had their own sense of weirdness that I didn't really get and Luke was no exception when it came to the woo-woo department. But his weirdness usually manifested itself in quiet detachment, not in this outburst bordering on meltdown that we were witnessing.
"What the hell, Matthews? You finally lose it or something?"
Luke glared at Tristan then pushed the helmet back on his head and kicked the post with his left foot. His mouth pursed like he'd just gotten a taste of something sour and he did it again, following the kick with a downward chop of his right hand.
"This fucking ice. It's shit. Total shit." He pointed to the edge of the crease. "I mean, seriously. What the fuck?"
I looked down and suddenly understood the reason for his outburst. A deep gouge marred the surface, creating a hazard that could quickly turn into a nightmare. Getting a blade stuck in that hole could mean a sprained ankle—or worse.
"What the hell?" Dylan shook off one glove then leaned down and ran his finger along the deep crack. "How the hell did this happen?"
"It happened because the ice is shit. It's always been shit. And they need to fucking fix it."
Luke had a point. Looking around at the faces of my teammates, it was obvious we were all in agreement. The ice had been shit, from day one. It was too damn soft. Too rough and uneven. I didn't know if it was because of the damn heat and humidity of New Orleans or something else. Faulty refrigeration? A bad job of initial surfacing? Maybe a combination of all that and more. I knew they'd played games outside in Vegas before so it couldn't be entirely blamed on the weather. At least, I didn't think so.
Coach Somers joined us, along with damn near everyone else on the team. I saw impatience flash in Coach's eyes then he shook his head and lifted his gaze to the rusty rafters overhead, like he was searching for patience. He shook his head once more then released a loud sigh.
"I'll talk to the powers that be, see about having them resurface it. For right now, I want everyone at center ice."
I exchanged a quick glance with Dylan, saw my own doubts reflected in his gaze. We'd been dealing with shitty ice, musty locker rooms, leaky showers, and stained bathrooms since we first got to this practice arena for training. Each time we'd grumbled and complained, Coach would take it up with the 'powers that be'. And each time, we got the same result: nothing. Why would now be any different?
We skated to center ice, clustered in groups of three and four around the coaching staff. I pulled my helmet off and shoved it under my left arm then ran my other hand through my sweaty hair, pushing it off my forehead so I could actually see. Coach slid his gaze around the motley circle of players then offered us a curt nod.
"Our first pre-season game is less than two weeks away. We'll be going up against the Bombers."
I felt a dozen pairs of eyes land on me and I dropped my own gaze, not wanting to see the unasked questions and curiosity in those looks. Playing the Bombers wasn't a surprise—we'd had the schedule for a while now and it wasn't like I didn't know I'd be facing my former team this season. Everyone gathered around me would be in the same position at some point in the next eight months, more than once. It could have been Tristan with Utica, or Dylan with Hartford, or any one of the other players. I just happened to be the unlucky one to be first.
If Coach was aware of the glances being sent my way, he didn't show it. He kept talking, throwing out words and phrases like teamwork and come a long way and we've got this. The sentiment might be nice but it was all bullshit as far as I was concerned. Yeah, maybe we'd gelled a bit more since the beginning but we still had a hell of a long way to go. We might officially be a team but we still sucked and right now, the only thing that really bound us together was our mutual dislike of those damn uniforms the owner had foisted on us.
Coach dismissed us and we skated off the ice, heading back to the locker room to change out of our gear and hit the showers. Dylan grabbed me as I was heading back, pulling me off to the side so we weren't in the way.
"We still going out when we're done here?"
"Yeah."
"And you're sure this is a smart move on your part?"
I swallowed back a sigh of impatience and pulled my arm free. "Why the hell do you keep making a big deal out of it?"
"Because I can't figure out if you got cojones the size of bowling balls, or if maybe you just got hit in the head more times than we know."
"What the hell is that supposed to be mean?"
"It means you're either really brave or really stupid." Tristan nudged me from the side, surprising me because I hadn't even heard him approach. "My money is on stupid. I mean, come on. You're fucking the owner's daughter. Not exactly the smartest thing to be doing right now."
Unexpected anger exploded in my chest and I turned to the side, ready to slam my fist into Tristan's face. I caught myself at the last second, telling myself the asinine words shouldn't matter even though my gut clenched with distaste at the casual way he tossed them out. But saying anything would be hypocritical as hell because he was right. Maybe I wouldn't have phrased it that way but that's exactly what Addy and I were doing.
Fun.
Sex.
No commitments.
More sex.
That was it, nothing more.
So why did I still have the urge to slam my fist into Tristan's face and tell him not to talk about Addy like she was nothing more than a good time?
Dylan must have picked up on what I wanted to do because he took half a step forward, putting himself between Tristan and me. "I just wanted to know if we were still on, that's all."
"Yeah, we're still on."
"Works for me. And maybe something else good will come out of this."
"Yeah? Like what?"
Dylan shrugged. "I was thinking we could say something about the ice and have her talk to her father about it. Might be nice to have some inside pull, you know?"
"Yeah, sure. Maybe." But even as I said the words, I knew it wouldn't happen. We could complain about the ice all we wanted but there was no way in hell Addy could say anything to her daddy about it, not without telling him how she'd heard. No way in hell could she do that, not when we shouldn't even be seeing each other.
So why the hell did I feel the first twinge of regret at having to hide the fact that we were together? It didn't make sense because we weren't together. We were just having fun, nothing more.
Weren't we?
Chapter Fifteen
Addy
The palms of my hands were sweaty and I wanted to blame it on the heat and humidity that blanketed everything as we walked up Chartres Street toward the small restaurant and bar where we were supposed to meet Nathan and his friends. Maybe the weather had a little something to do with it but I couldn't entirely blame it on that, not when a whole nest of butterflies had taken up residence in my stomach and were now fluttering around along with every nerve I possessed. I pulled a tissue from the small purse I wore crossbody style and quickly dried my palms on it, telling myself it was foolish to be nervous.
But telling didn't make it so.
Nathan would be there, I just knew it—no matter how much my stomach tilted and whirled with uncertainty. After all, I'd been just as sure over a week ago and that had gotten me nothing but disappointment, heartache, and a bit of a hangover. Of course, things had changed since then. At least, I thought they had. And I thought that whatever had changed was a good thing.
Something had shifted in our relationship, something I couldn't quite put my finger on. I'd felt it the other day with Nathan, long into the late night and early morning hours before he reluctantly drove me home. It was there, in his lingering touches. In his tender kisses. In the play of light and shadows that filled his piercing blue eyes when he looked at me. I had no name for it but not being able to name it didn't mean it wasn't there.
Unless I was simply being foolish and letting my hopeless imagination run away with me. The brutal sharpness of that thought caused me to stumble on the uneven sidewalk. Jacqui's hand wrapped around my arm, stopping me before I face-planted. Her eyes were covered by a pair of dark, oversized sunglasses but they didn't hide her amusement, especially when the corners of her mouth curled up.
"If I didn't know better, I'd say you were nervous."
"Nervous? Not me. Why would I be nervous?"
"No reason. Unless you're worried he won't be there."
"He'll be there."
"Hmm."
Her small hum irritated me enough that I stopped in the middle of the sidewalk and jammed both hands on my hips. "He will be. You saw the text."
"Did I say otherwise?"
"Not in so many words, no. But that little hum says it all."
"Hmm."
I narrowed my gaze in warning. "Jacqui—"
"Don't go getting all bent out of shape, cher. I'm not the who's so nervous I'm tripping over my own two feet."
I started to point out again that I wasn't nervous then let the words die in my throat before saying them. The truth was, I was a little nervous and I didn't understand why. It had nothing to do with the possibility that Nathan wouldn't be there. Well, okay, maybe that had a little something to do with it, considering I'd been so sure he'd be there last week, too. But he'd sent me a text forty minutes ago—we had each other's numbers now—saying he was on his way. That didn't mean he wouldn't change his mind but I was fairly certain my odd nervousness was about something else.
Rule Breaker (New Orleans Bourdons Book 1) Page 9
