She pulled her bra on with a sexy little twist that had me staring again, then shrugged into a deep red blouse and quickly buttoned it. "Are you going to be in much trouble?"
"Nah. Don't worry about it." Yeah, I probably was, but I wasn't going to tell her that. Besides, it wouldn't be the first time I'd been in trouble for breaking the rules—that was what had landed me down here in the first place. And knowing myself as well as I did, it sure as hell wouldn't be the last time.
I shoved my wallet into my back pocket and grabbed the keys off my dresser before hurrying to the front door. Addy was right behind me, putting her last earring in place before running her fingers through her thick mane. I held the door open for her, caught her mouth in another quick kiss then pulled the door closed with a loud click.
We took the elevator down to the lobby then stepped outside into the oppressive September heat. One last kiss then Addy turned left, heading along Iberville Street in the direction of Bourbon Street and whatever it was she did when I wasn't around. Work, maybe. Or maybe she was meeting friends to get an early start on the nightly festivities that never seemed to end. Wasn't my business, not really.
I watched her walk away, thought about calling her back to remind her of our plans for later then caught myself before doing something so terminally stupid. If we hooked up, we hooked up. No need to remind her. Addy was a one-night stand. An extended one, maybe, but still a one-night stand.
Sex.
Fun.
No commitments.
More sex.
It worked for us. Trying for anything beyond that would be a death sentence.
I turned right, toward the ramshackle garage I paid extra for each month to get my car. If luck was with me, traffic wouldn't be an issue and I could make it to the joke the owner of the New Orleans Bourdons called a practice arena without too much headache. I wasn't expecting luck to be with me, though. It hadn't been for the last eighteen months.
Why should now be any different?
Chapter Two
Nathan
The last thing I needed to do right now was call attention to myself, not after already having my ass handed to me for showing up late. In addition to getting me chewed out by the coaching staff, my little stunt had earned me a few extra laps around the ice after practice. Not that practice was over, not officially. We still had videos to watch then a meeting for the special teams. All that had been put on hold though because the owner of the Bourdons wanted to hold an impromptu meet-and-greet with the players. That would have been lame under any circumstance; given the fact that we'd already met the owner, it moved beyond lame and was rapidly heading into the territory of just plain pathetic.
What made it even worse—and what was causing me to damn near choke to death on the laughter I was struggling to hold in—was the fact the owner was showing off our new uniforms. Not just showing them off, but doing it proudly. Like what he was holding up wasn't a fucking embarrassment to every single man crowded into the overheated confines of the musty locker room.
Like it wasn't bad enough that the name of the team translated into some kind of bumblebee. Like it wasn't insult enough that the logo was some stupid ass bee designed to look ferocious but who ended up looking more like he was constipated instead. At least, that's what I saw when I looked at the damn thing.
And there was no way I couldn't look, not when the logo was emblazoned in shimmery lame on the front of the bright purple sweater the owner held up in front of him. The only thing more hideous than the sweater was the kelly green shorts that we were expected to wear.
We were going to be the laughingstock of the league, no doubt about it. Forget the fact that we hadn't gelled yet as a team. Forget the fact that the Bourdons were brand new to the league thanks to last year's expansion. Forget the fact that our play pretty much sucked—something the coach didn't hesitate to let us know every damn second of practice. As far as I was concerned, none of that mattered. We could hold the number-one seed and there wasn't a damn team around that would take us seriously, not when we were being outfitted to look like some caricature of a Mardi Gras nightmare.
How in the hell did he even get the new uniform approved by the league? It wasn't even close to what we'd been shown a few months ago. I'd heard that Gerard Landry, the owner of the Bourdons, had money and connections but I hadn't realized how much. It had to be a shit ton though, if he was being allowed to get away with the atrocity he was proudly displaying.
I ran my knuckles over my pursed mouth and tried to disguise my laughter with a choked cough. I may have gotten away with it, too, if I hadn't made the mistake of looking over at Tristan Holland. Our eyes made contact and I saw the same outraged disbelief on his face that was churning inside me. The dam broke on my self-control and my choked laughter spilled out, the sound harsh and entirely too loud. Some of the other players started laughing as well, the noise cresting around us like a giant wave. The wave came to an abrupt crash courtesy of a single word bellowed from our head coach.
"Enough!"
The choked laughter and strangled snickering disguised as coughs quickly faded as the coach's gaze swept around the room. That gaze landed on mine, held it for a few seconds too long—long enough to let me know I'd fucked up again—then moved back to Landry with a nod. The older man straightened his wide shoulders and smiled. An actual smile, like he was damn proud of the hideous monstrosity he held up for display.
"After practice, each of you will be issued official team gear." Landry's voice boomed with the force of a television preacher eager to reach the back row of a packed stadium. Too damn bad we were in a small room with concrete walls that bounced noise back ten-fold. "Track pants, jackets, shirts. Even gear bags. Wear it proudly."
He nodded his head, dismissing the unwashed hordes—namely us—then turned and walked out of the stuffy room. Silence remained, still and tense as every single one of us turned toward the coach. A muscle jumped in his jaw and the first hint of color spread across his cheeks. Yeah, Coach Somers was pissed but I couldn't tell if he was pissed at us, or pissed about the new uniforms.
Probably both.
He leaned to the side and muttered something to one of the assistants then turned back to us and scraped one palm over his mouth. "It's out of my hands. Deal with it."
The first rumblings of discontent started somewhere behind me but were quickly quieted by one slice of Coach's hand through the air. "I said deal with it. We've got more important things to worry about—like not making asses out of ourselves our first time out on the ice."
"Our owner pretty much took care of that already."
The muttered words came from Dylan Gleason, standing a few feet behind me and to the left. They were low enough that the coach shouldn't have been able to hear them but his head jerked in our direction anyway. Dark brows pulled low over the flat eyes fixed on me.
"You got a problem, Shaw?"
What the fuck? Did he really think I was the one running his mouth? Yeah, of course he did—because it's something I did on a regular basis. I didn't bother to toss a glare over my shoulder at Dylan, just straightened and shook my head. "No, Coach. No problem at all."
"Yeah, didn't think so." He glanced at his watch then blew out a heavy sigh. "Everyone can grab their new shit when practice is over. For now, get your asses back out on the ice. I want to see some hustle this time. Our first game of the preseason is in two weeks and all of you are looking like you've spent the last six months partying on a beach somewhere. It's pathetic."