GAME MISCONDUCT (The Dartmouth Cobras)

by Sommerland, Bianca

  Oriana grabbed the book, then her bag, and crammed it inside. “No, I’ve never tried any of it. I planned a special night with Paul, and I thought—anyway, it doesn’t matter. If I try blackmailing either Paul or my father, they’ll laugh in my face. I’m not Silver. Pissing her off means bad press.”

  “I’m sure you could stir up some bad press too.”

  He really didn’t know her. The very idea of bringing that kind of attention to herself made her nauseous. But damn, having someone give a shit was nice.

  You have someone—he’s a phone call away.

  True, yet, she didn’t deserve help from him. Or Rowe for that matter, but she hadn’t done anything to hurt Rowe. And she wasn’t too proud to accept a bit of pity.

  “Maybe I could, but they know I won’t.” Hugging her bag to her chest, she glanced up at him—man, why did everyone in this sport have to be so freakin’ tall?—and ducked her head when he frowned at her. “Besides, if I do, my father will lose the team, and you’ll be out of a job.”

  Rowe rubbed his shoulder and leaned forward, speaking low. “Your father will lose this team within the next couple of years whether Paul backs him or not, Oriana. I’ve been approached by several other teams for a head coach position. I’ll be fine.” He flicked a strand of hair off her shoulder and shook his head. “The question is, will you?”

  Would she? No, not if she had to stay with Paul. And not if she had to give up the future she’d worked so hard for. She chewed on the inside of her cheek and shook her head.

  “All right, then we need to focus on making sure your father doesn’t cut you off before you can pay for school yourself.”

  Makes sense. She followed him toward the elevator, hands stuffed in her jacket pockets, and she weighed her few options. “I guess . . . I won’t break up with Paul, at least until—”

  He glanced over his shoulder and shook his head. “Forget Paul. He’s not important.”

  “But—”

  “Quiet.” He grinned at Oriana’s huff. “Let me think for a minute.”

  They passed her father’s office. He hadn’t closed the door, so she took a moment to watch him, standing in the middle of the room, staring at a portrait on the wall. Antoine’s portrait, taken days after he’d been drafted for the minors. Weeks before he died. She did math in her head. Fifteen years, in two days. No wonder he seemed so cold. He always got that way while he mourned his only son.

  Oriana gave up reminding him she was still alive when her father acquired the team and the forum. An abstract way to keep the dreams of his firstborn alive meant more to him than his living flesh and blood. Besides, Silver acted out enough for both of them.

  But she couldn’t let her father ruin her life in her dead brother’s name. So how did she fix this?

  Rowe waved her over, and she approached him, stepping carefully so her heels wouldn’t click on the tiles.

  “You know, with the right . . . evidence, you might not need to do anything public,” he said. “The threat might be enough.”

  Oriana glanced at the open office door and kept her tone low. “What do you suggest?”

  “Get creative, do something neither Paul nor your father would expect from you. Stop trying to be the perfect daughter.” He pressed the call button for the elevator. “Your father was right about one thing. Paul clearly wasn’t enough for you—‘course, that’s not your fault.”

  What’s that supposed to mean? “I . . .”

  “Have you seen Max lately?”

  Little creases formed around his eyes when she bit her bottom lip and shook her head.

  “You should. He talks about you a lot. To T.J. and Vanek.” His brow lifted when her lips curved. “Dominik.”

  She swallowed.

  He cocked his head slightly. “Sloan.”

  Ugh. She scraped her lip with her teeth and wrinkled her nose. She did not like the idea of Sloan and Max discussing her. What could they possibly have to say?

  “Remember the time she caught us . . .”

  Feeling Rowe’s gaze on her face, she ripped her attention from the imagined conversation and focused on the present one.

  “Have you ever experimented . . . sexually? With anyone?”

  “Rowe!” She covered her mouth with her hand and glanced down the hall. Talking sex with Silver was weird enough, but with Rowe? She didn’t want to go there. This all reminded her of Sex Ed in high school. No, I’m not . . . doing it. Yes, I know about being safe.

  “Call me Tim.” Suddenly he was very close, looming over her, and she couldn’t look away. “Answer me, Oriana.”

  “No. Sex has always been . . .” She frowned. Why was she telling him? Why didn’t she want to stop? “Boring.”

  “I’ve always liked your honesty.” His broad smile of approval reminded her of her uncle Wayne. Her chest tightened as his face, weather-worn and full of laugh lines, filled her mind’s eye. He’d become her surrogate father after her brother died, attended all her school functions, never missed a performance of her high school orchestra. He’d go on and on about her talent, told anyone who’d listen how well she played violin.

  After he died, she stopped playing. She just didn’t see the point anymore; she didn’t impress anyone else. Not that anyone noticed anything she did.

  “Hey, don’t let them get to you, kid.” Rowe—no, Tim— held out his hand. “Come on.”

  Oriana reached out but pulled back when her fingertips brushed his palm. “Where are we going?”

  The elevator chimed and the door slid open.

  “Down to the rink. I thought you wanted my help.” Tim placed his hands behind his back, and his lips curved into a Cheshire cat smile.

  That couldn’t mean anything good. Oriana watched Tim turn away from her and step onto the elevator like he couldn’t care less whether she followed or not. Which reminded her of Silver. She’d completely forgotten Tim and Silver had been close before he met his wife.

  Kindred spirits. She took a deep breath and joined him on the elevator just in time to avoid the doors closing on her.

  “What kind of help are we talking about?”

  * * * *

  The scrape of blades on ice echoed off the rink along with the odd shout from the trainers. Oriana followed Tim to the suicide box—the space between the benches for cameramen to take shots from ice level—and for a moment simply absorbed the sensation of actually being this close to the action. The air smelled like freshly fallen snow, moist with a nip of cold.

  “You’ve never been here before, have you?” Tim put his hand on her shoulder, and she jumped. He laughed. “Hey, why so wound up? You’re acting like I just snuck you into the teacher’s lounge.”

  She gave him a sheepish grin and shrugged. That was exactly how she felt. Like she was out-of-bounds.

  “Why are we here?”

  “I thought you’d enjoy seeing the guys up close and personal.” Tim jerked his chin in the direction of the rink.

  One look and everything around her faded away. Her mouth went dry, and she swallowed spastically.

  Max.

  Completely oblivious to her presence, Max cut across the ice in a burst of speed, his blades a silver blur. Stopping short, he hip-checked one of his teammates, laughing his rich, skin-tingling laugh when the man shouted at him. Gliding backward, he made a come-get-me motion with his gloved hand.

  Oriana rested her hands on the top of the boards, grip tight on the cold edge so she wouldn’t hop over and run to him. Her heart beat hard against the cage of her ribs. She licked her lips as she imagined how he’d react if she gave in to the crazy urge. Would he be embarrassed?

  No, not Max. He’d probably laugh and race over to save her from killing herself on her stupid boots. He would act like no time had passed because that was the kind of man he was. Everything would be forgiven. Forgotten. She envisioned him swooping her up into his arms. Then reason crept in. She didn’t want to get him in trouble.

  But she could see him after. And when s
he did, she would tell him how wrong she’d been. She smiled. Maybe he’ll let me make it up to him.

  “That’s better.” Tim gave her a little nudge, then leaned his forearms on top of the boards beside her. “Now, I have a very important question for you.”

  Tearing her eyes away from Max, Oriana looked up at Tim. “Yes?”

  “How far are you willing to go to get the evidence you need?”

  Good question. Oriana considered the lengths Silver had gone to when their father told her, in no uncertain terms, that she wouldn’t be going to Hollywood to pursue an acting career. For months afterward, pictures of Silver filled the tabloids, pictures of her with different men, going into fetish clubs, coming out wearing half of what she’d gone in with. When big investors threatened to withdraw their support, her father not only agreed to let Silver go, he’d also paid all her expenses and gotten in touch with one of his contacts in the film industry to get Silver an audition.

  A little too much for Oriana. She couldn’t imagine doing something so extroverted.

  She opened her mouth to tell Tim as much. Then the sound of a puck pinging off a goalpost, followed by a loud “Fuck!”, brought her attention back to the rink.

  “Try again, Callahan,” one of the trainers called out.

  Standing on the blue line, Callahan nodded and accepted a pass from the trainer. He glared at the empty net. Oriana held her breath as swung his stick, then slapped the puck with the stick blade. The puck zipped through the air in a black blur, too fast to follow. Another ping. The rink went quiet.

  Callahan threw his stick toward the net and headed for the open Zamboni entrance. Oriana winced when he kicked the wall on his way out.

  Someone cleared his throat behind her. “What are you doing here? You were told to go home.”

  Oriana’s spine stiffened. She glanced over her shoulder at Paul. And Chantelle.

  “I—”

  “Came to see Max? I’m not surprised.” Paul exchanged a look with Chantelle, and then they both looked at Oriana like she was a pathetic little girl with a crush. “Go ahead, throw yourself at him. He’ll use you like he does all the other girls. Maybe then you’ll appreciate what you have with me.”

  Wow. Oriana gaped after Paul as he drew Chantelle out of the box, whispering in her ear and kissing her neck. He obviously didn’t feel like he needed to hide his affair anymore. That he’d gone so far as to tell her to go ahead and sleep with another man showed her just how confident he was that she wouldn’t find a way to be free of him.

  Tim rubbed her arm. “I’m sorry, sweetie. We’ll figure out—”

  Oriana grabbed his wrist. “You asked how far I’d go?” She ground her teeth and studied the men on the ice. Then she gave a curt nod and gulped at the sick feeling in her throat. “How’s this? I’ll do whatever it takes.”

  Chapter Three

  The last of the men emptied out of the locker room, more subdued than Sloan had ever seen them. Friday night practice usually ended with the men converging to the closest bar for some down time. An excess of beer and women, then they’d all go home and crash.

  But not tonight.

  Fist pressed into the bench beneath him, Sloan took a deep, deep breath, fighting the urge to put a hole in the wall and risk breaking his hand again. One game without a goal and they were sending him to the freakin’ farm team?

  This had to be some kind of sick joke. With his stats, they couldn’t seriously think they’d do better without him. Could they?

  “You’re not as . . . resilient as you used to be, Callahan.” The trainer made a face as though he could taste the bullshit smeared all over his words. “The center they brought up has the spunk the team needs.”

  In other words, the kid would rack up penalty minutes by getting in a fight every game and creaming the other team’s players against the boards in the dirtiest, showiest way possible.

  Sloan had tried to live up to the violent image the Cobras’ owner wanted to portray, going so far as to throw down his gloves during a game midseason and call out the biggest guy on the ice. The crowd loved it. Coach Stanton loved it.

  Too bad he’d broken his hand on the guy’s helmet. He might have won the fight, but in the two months he’d been gone, the new kid had won several. The fans had a new hero.

  “It’s just for the last month of the season. We both know the team’s not going any farther,” the trainer said, as though he’d caught the gist of Sloan’s thoughts.

  And that was supposed to make him feel better? “I’m being sent down for reconditioning. It’s humiliating. And they still expect me to play tomorrow?”

  The trainer had the grace to look away. “I think they expect you to prove they’re making the right decision. After tonight, I don’t think you’re ready to prove them wrong. Your stick handling is off.”

  Sloan slouched and rubbed his face with his hands. For fuck’s sake, he’d been with the team for five years. Hadn’t he earned more than two games to get back in the rhythm?

  Before Delgado, definitely. But ever since the bastard took complete control of the team and the forum the year before, integrity meant fuck-all.

  “Thanks for giving me a heads up, Randy,” Sloan said, head down. “Stanton would have blindsided me.”

  Randy didn’t comment. He shuffled out and left Sloan to change.

  The door hit the wall. Two of his men stormed in.

  “What the hell’s going on?” one player pretty much roared. “Randy looks like he just downed a burger covered in maggots.”

  Brow arched, Sloan glanced at the team’s top offensive-defenseman-slash-enforcer, Dominik Mason. White teeth bared, lips curled, the man reminded him of a big black bear with burrs in his fur. Took quite a bit to agitate Mason, so he must have some idea of what was going on.

  Snapping up the towel he’d abandoned on the bench when he’d been sidetracked after his shower, Sloan rubbed his hair until the short onyx strands puffed up. He used his fingers to tame them. “I’m being sent down to the minors after the next game. Don’t say nothing. It was decent of Randy to let me know.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding.” T.J., the team’s oldest and biggest defenseman, thirty-seven and a daunting six-foot-nine, folded his arms and leaned on the lockers, making them creak. “You’re the best player we’ve got.”

  “I’m not productive enough for Delgado.”

  The door opened again. Sloan tossed the towel in the general direction of the biggest pile on the floor, then propped his hands behind him on the bench to watch the team’s finest gather, all bristling at the injustice while Mason shared the news.

  “You should have gotten an assist on my goal Wednesday.”

  “This is bullshit.”

  Vanek, the left winger, and his best friend, Perron, another defenseman. Sloan grinned. They were a loyal bunch.

  “Nothing we can do about it, guys.” Sloan slapped his thighs and stood. “Let’s just enjoy our last game together.”

  Perron eyed the sleek, black cell phone in his hand and gave a curt nod before stuffing it in the pocket of his baggy, gray jogging pants. “Or we can figure out a way to keep you on the roster.”

  Pulse quickening, Sloan sat back down and schooled his features. He didn’t want to look too excited, but they didn’t call Perron “The Catalyst” for nothing. “Tell me what you’ve got.”

  * * * *

  Max left the men in the player’s lounge and approached the bathroom across the hall. He knew his vague “Trust me” hadn’t satisfied Sloan, but that was the best he could offer until he made sure his plan worked for everyone involved. He reached out to push the door open and noticed his hand shaking like he had pregame jitters.

  He clenched his fist and knocked. “You in there, sugar?”

  No answer. Well, hell, he shouldn’t be surprised. Even if Tim was right and she needed his help, that didn’t mean she’d accept it. Her reasons for rejecting his friendship—for rejecting him—hadn’t changed. He still saw the flow
ers she’d left to die on the passenger seat of his pickup that night, on her birthday, when he’d told her he loved her.

  You went too far. You had no right.

  But things had changed.

  “Look, Tim called me and . . .” He rested his forehead on the back of his fist. “I’m . . . I’m here if you need me, Oriana.”

  The door opened a crack. Oriana peeked out at him, eyes rimmed with tears. “That’s what you said when I stopped being your friend.”

  Shit. She likely thinks I’m going to rub it in. He pinched the tense flesh between his eyes and eased the door open. “I was pissed off when I said it, but I meant every word—” Every word? Including “have a nice life” and all the crap after? “I mean—”

  “I know what you mean.”

  Her arms crossed under breasts, which seemed dangerously close to spilling right over the top of her corset-style bodice. For a second, he wondered how she could breathe with the laces done up so tight, but then he forced his gaze to where her nails dug into her bare arms. Then up to her face.

  Fresh tears spilled down her cheeks. Her lips trembled.

  “Come here,” he said, holding out his hand. Deep inside, part of him braced for rejection the way he’d brace for a solid check into the boards. But he knew on the outside he looked calm. In control.

  She sobbed, put her hand in his, then threw herself into his arms. “I’m sorry. You were right. You were right and I was so stupid—”

  “None of that, love.” Face buried in her hair, he closed his eyes and absorbed her scent, her warmth, grateful for the chance to be close to her again. Maybe not for long, but he’d take what he could get. “We both know why you were with Paul. The important thing now is gettin’ him out of your life.”

  “Yes.” She sniffed and looked up. “Then we can—”

  “One thing at a time.” He tapped her nose and smiled so she wouldn’t take him cutting her off too hard. Much as he wanted to, he couldn’t let her finish that sentence. She’d end up offering something she’d regret. “Tim said you were willing to do anything to make your dad and Paul back off. Did you mean that?”