Page 67 of In Too Deep

I let out a sigh of relief as he starts eating again, the others following suit. The knot of anxiety has loosened enough for me to pull my plate back toward me, though it doesn’t go away entirely. Not as my brain goes to work organizing the steps I have to take to pull this off. But at least we have a plan, which is good enough for now.

Two days after theteam returns to town, Mardi Gras season officially kicks off. Parades and parties and more tourists than you can shake a stick at, including fans of the teams traveling to play in Southern FCU Arena. The atmosphere in the entire city is electric, and it translates to our performance on the ice. Maybe it’s unfair to the rest of the league to have three straight weeks of home games—twelve in total—but you won’t catch anyone complaining. Not when there’s a multi-point increase in revenue for the city and the NHL year over year.

Dee is keeping me busy while he can, but there comes a point when we have to give in to the holiday spirit and take a day off with the rest of the team for once. That day just so happens to be fourteen days out from Mardi Gras Day, and the first day when there’s going to be a parade on the Uptown route, a route that passes directly in front of the boys’ St. Charles Avenue house. Sonaturally, as many players and staff as possible are going to join us to watch the parade.

It’s still a few hours from the parade’s official start time, and I’m running around like a headless chicken trying to get everything ready. The boys told everyone to bring a dish to pass, but as the hosts, we’re providing basics like non-alcoholic beverages for the kids, paper plates and plastic cutlery, ice, and all that jazz. I’m throwing together a quick tray of cookies and brownies I picked up from the grocery store, while the boys are working on getting the metal barriers set up on the property lines. Normally, if you’re attending a parade, there aren’t assigned spots. Wherever you can plop your folding chair or pop-up tent is yours, and it’s not uncommon for people to stand halfway into the street to get closer. But for us, since the people coming over are arguably celebrities and their families, we were granted several barriers and a pair of officers to help keep things under control.

Eli bursts through the interior entrance to the garage, grinning from ear to ear, and the sight of him still gives me butterflies even after a week of being back.

“We’ve got the fences set up and the folding tables are in the garage,” Eli reports, loping over to me as I’m putting the finishing touches on my tray.

“What about the ice chests?” I ask.

Eli pauses at my side and kisses my cheek. “Full up,” he says brightly.

I turn to look at him, breathing in his ozone and spruce scent, my shoulders dropping. He’s wearing a purple, green, and gold striped muscle shirt, his light wash jeans hugging his muscular thighs deliciously. It’s going to be tough keeping my hands to myself today, especially once the alcohol starts flowing. So I lean in and snag a quick, hot kiss, even though it’s torture having to pull away.

Eli looks like he’s going to go in for another one, but right before he does, a loud clatter from outside makes us both jump. When I look toward the front door, I see several people out in our front yard, recognizing Dallas’s beanpole figure right away. And coming up the front stairs is his wife and mate, Ashley, with their baby girl on her hip.

“Knock knock!” she chirps, letting herself in with a wide grin.

“Hey there! Glad you could make it!” Eli crows, crossing the distance to her to give her a quick hug and ruffle Hailey’s hair.

Grabbing my dessert tray, I join them, exchanging greetings. She follows us down the interior stairs to the garage, chatting the whole way. I set my contribution to the buffet toward the end of the six-table arrangement, smiling internally as I see the huge, bright yellow Tupperware bowl and the three Popeyes chicken bags.

“How many pieces is this?” Eli asks with a bemused laugh.

“Fifty! Isn’t that nuts?” a voice laughs, and we turn to see Paul Francisco striding toward us.

He bends down and gives me an air kiss before continuing to the ice chests to deposit his beer. My gaze falls upon the lawn, where I see three kids resembling him running around with bubble wands, the occasional crack of a snapper hitting the ground and interrupting the laughter. Hailey starts squirming in Ashley’s arms, and as soon as she’s set down, she toddles off to join the fun. Dallas watches them out of the corner of his eye while talking to Danielle, Paul’s wife. Alexei and Henri are setting up the ladders near the curb along with a few other helpers to get the kids off the ground and into the line of fire. Music plays from one of the houses next door, and I can smell someone’s grill warming up.

The media portrays Mardi Gras as this festival of debauchery and excess, but the reality is so much different. Sure, if you want to see people flashing their tits for beads, then you can find themdown on Bourbon Street. But on the parade routes, there are kids and families enjoying themselves and the fun that comes with the season. Everyone is out to have a good time, drink a little, eat a lot, and go home with a bunch of loot. Are there people who take that too far? Absolutely. But being an asshole ruins everyone’s time, and people are good at looking out for each other even if they’ve never met.

I linger in the shade of the garage door as I watch over things, and I can’t stop smiling. More and more members of the Mystic join the party as the afternoon goes on, and everyone is relaxed and easygoing. Caleb Parker and Owen LeBlanc are on the porch steps, holding court with some of the younger guys on the support staff. About a dozen or so kids are playing lawn games Jari Hakala brought. Spencer, Oliver, Max Pettersson, and Markus Dahlberg are taking turns inflating a kiddie pool to serve as a communal throw collector. Even Rachel Vasquez and Monroe Bataillier, two of my co-workers from the Public Engagement department, are here, hanging out with a Mike Martin—our color commentator—and his wife, Jenny. Once or twice, someone will walk by on the street and recognize one of the guys, but beyond asking for quick selfies, no one lingers. It’s sort of incredible that it doesn’t happen more, but I guess it’s hard to recognize hockey players when they aren’t wearing pads or skates.

“Why’re you standing all by yourself, baby girl?”

The purred question in my ear makes me jump a mile high, and I turn around to find Logan laughing his ass off. I don’t know how he snuck up on me, but I have to resist the urge to punch him for scaring me and then kiss him better. He’s holding a simple cardboard box in one hand and a six-pack of Abita in the other, but my breath catches as I realize he’s not hiding his tattoos. He looks positively... normal, actually. With his backwards trucker hat, sunglasses, and a tank top, if itweren’t for the touches of gray at his temples, he could almost pass as one of the frat dudes camped out on the median across the street. I open and close my mouth a few times, trying to find the words. But before I can, Caleb saunters into the garage, depositing his empty bottle in the recycling bin before looking around and letting out a cry of delight.

“Coach! You came!” he exclaims, coming up and bumping shoulders with the older alpha.

Logan laughs and plays along, his smile boyish and utterly charming. “Yeah, well, I wouldn’t want to miss my first Mardi Gras back in town. And with this prime spot, too.”

Caleb laughs as he pulls another beer out of the ice chest and heads back out to the party. Logan removes his sunglasses and rests them on the bill of his hat with practiced ease. His green eyes rake up and down my body, making me flush. I’m dressed for comfort rather than to impress, my oversized t-shirt knotted at my waist, with festive glittery leggings hugging my hips and thighs all the way down to my tennis shoes.

“Do you have a fridge down here? I don’t want these to go bad,” Logan says, lifting the box slightly.

I shake my head before leading the way to the interior stairs. This is not the first time he’s been here, but we can’t let anyone else know that. The noise from outside fades as we enter the air-conditioned house, though I still keep an eye on the front porch. Several of the Russian players are lounging in rocking chairs while sipping what I imagine are Hockey Player Specials—a potent combo of water and vodka and nothing else.

Logan puts the box on an empty shelf in the fridge, giving me a wink. “For later. If you’re a good girl,” he mutters.

I roll my eyes, smiling all the same, which earns me a warning growl. But I feel bold today, even though I haven’t even started drinking. There are too many people here for Logan to punish me right away, and he’s going to have too many distractions towatch me all the time. I start to walk back toward the stairs, flicking my hair over my shoulder with a smirk. But I jump as Logan lands a hard spank to my sequin-covered ass. I give him a half-hearted glare over my shoulder, but turn around again at the sight of his shit-eating grin, flouncing away indignantly.

The crowds grow to critical mass the closer to the scheduled start time, everyone buzzing with excitement. I’m a few drinks in, bouncing on the balls of my feet on the sidewalk. Parents are gathering the kids into position, though it’s sort of like herding cats. The littlest ones have been hoisted up to sit in the wooden boxes atop the eight-foot ladders, an adult on the back to keep them from tilting forward when the occupant inevitably starts leaning too far out. The adults fill in the spaces between the ladders and step stools, most of them with some sort of drink in their hands.

“Tracker says the first floats are heading out,” Dallas says over the din, glancing at his phone before tucking it into his pocket.

The kids let out squeals of excitement, which makes me smile. I’m not sure if I’d ever want any of my own, but hanging out with other peoples’ kids is sort of fun.

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