GAME MISCONDUCT (The Dartmouth Cobras)

by Sommerland, Bianca

  It was bound to happen. “So where do we go from here?”

  “Go?” He sat back and frowned at her. “What do you mean? I thought you were happy.”

  “I am, but . . .” No point in prolonging things and hurting anyone else. “I figured you’d eventually decide you were done sharing.”

  “Do you want that?” His brow creased when she shook her head. “Is it Sloan? I don’t see you being tired of Dominik, but maybe Sloan’s a bit much for you to—”

  “Sloan’s fine. To tell you the truth, the only one I’m ready to let go of is Tyler.” She covered her mouth with her hand, then shook her head. “I mean, unless . . .”

  “I see.” He stretched his arm across the back of the chair, then drummed his fingers on the leather. “You’ve finally come to terms with the fact that your feelings for Tyler aren’t as deep as your feelings for the rest of us. The guilt is eating you up. You’re waiting for some karmic backlash, and you thought this was it.”

  “Kinda.” She smiled, relieved that he knew her well enough that she didn’t have to spell things out. “It would serve me right having to choose between the three men I love.”

  His brow arched. “Love?”

  Her heart stuttered. I’ve gone too far.

  Then he laughed. “I’m shocked. Not so much with Dominik, but Sloan . . . I thought me and his dad were the only ones who’d ever love him. Does he know? Have you told him?”

  Amazed, Oriana shook her head. This man was incredible. Unbelievable. And most of all, wonderful. She giggled and smacked his chest. “You’ve got to stop scaring me like that! I’m never sure where I stand with you. Any normal guy would get pissed off if his girlfriend told him she loved another man.”

  “Since when am I normal?” He wiggled his eyebrows and grinned. “As long as Sloan doesn’t steal you away from me, it’s all good. Now, answer me. Have you told him?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Good. I want to see the look on his face when you do.” After patting her thigh, he helped her to her feet. “Now, go check the score. We just screwed right through first period.”

  “Must you be so crude?” She put her hands on her hips, pretending to be mad.

  He slid his hand under her jersey and ran his thumb over one very sensitive nipple. “Mind your manners, or I’ll fuck you until there’s only five minutes left of the game.”

  Much as she’d enjoyed herself, she didn’t think she’d survive another round with him. She darted across the room and hurried into her jeans before he decided to follow through with his threat. And before she decided she wanted him to.

  “I won’t be long.” She promised, kissing him so quick she missed his lips and scraped her lips on his chin. “Stay out of trouble.”

  “I should say the same to you.” He gave her a level look, suddenly very serious. “Richter has as much experience as Mason, and he’s a stickler for discipline. If you get mouthy with him, he’s liable to drag you back here and take out a switch. And you won’t like it.”

  Like I’d be stupid enough to mouth off to that guy? Of course, she was stupid enough to mouth off to Dominik and Sloan, but that was different. And anyway, they were her Doms. “You’d let him do that?”

  “If you embarrassed me by acting out in front of a Master like Richter?” His jaw hardened. “Absolutely.”

  Note to self. Do not embarrass Doms. “I’ll be good.” She bit her lip. “Are you going to tell Dominik about before?”

  A grin lit up Max’s face. He rubbed his chin as though he really had to think about it. “What will you give for my silence?”

  “Anything,” she said, and she really, truly meant anything. She’d had enough of Dominik’s brand of punishment to last her quite a while. Maybe forever.

  “Anything? How about this? Tell me why you don’t want him to know.”

  “Because he’ll punish—” She caught herself and shook her head. That wasn’t why. The actual reason made her smile. “I don’t want to disappoint him.” Her nose wrinkled. She’d so regret this. “Or you.”

  “Good girl.” His lip curved. Strolling across the room, he seemed to dismiss her. But then he rested his hip on the corner of Richter’s desk and folded his arms over his chest. “So you’ll speak to Dominik yourself?”

  Uck, no. Yes? “Maybe. Probably.” She smirked as a mischievous little sprite sprang up inside her mind. “But if I get spanked, you don’t get to watch.”

  His bark of laughter followed her down the hall. If she hadn’t felt so blissfully beaten, she might have skipped, or danced. Her thighs and butt were sore, yet her steps seemed light. Having Max back made the world bright and cheery and perfect.

  All we need now is a win.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Salty rivulets spilled from Sloan’s hair like he’d dunked his head, helmet and all, in the ocean. Third period, tied at one, and the Cobras led in shots on net. Didn’t mean much, as far as he was concerned, but the time they spent in control of the puck certainly did. Well, that and the way Coach Stanton paled a little every time they came close to scoring. They barraged shots at the Wild goaltender, picking up sloppy rebounds, turning the game into target practice as the Wild defense floundered.

  Sloan grinned at the Wild center as he waved his left winger over to cover the wide open slot in front of the net. The man snarled a curse under his breath as the player gave him a blank look. The Wild had considered the game in the bag, and their arrogance had cost them.

  Too bad only half of you showed up to play, eh, boys?

  The Cobra’s tenacious play would have made the score one-sided if the net minder hadn’t morphed into a wall after the first goal, but he appeared less and less solid after every attack. He’d slowed slightly on the glove side, but not enough for them to take advantage. There was only one way to get through him. They needed a fucking screen.

  Five minutes and the game would go into overtime. The Wild stats in overtime made the Cobras a joke. If they couldn’t score within the next ten minutes, they might as well go home. Perron was the only player they had who could take a shootout. Vanek got too nervous, and Sloan’s aim was still off.

  On his second straight shift, Sloan’s thigh muscles cramped up. He ignored the dull pain and took the face-off. He’d get the puck out of their zone and head to the bench. A few minutes rest and he’d be ready for the final stretch.

  The puck hit the ice. He surged forward, skimmed over the puck with his stick, then swiveled to retrieve it from a Wild defenseman. Mason barged past him and checked the man into the boards. The defenseman pinched just long enough for Sloan to safely leave the ice.

  Coach Stanton made a lackluster gesture for a fresh line. Vanek hopped over the boards and Sloan scowled. The rookie had been shuffled from line to line sporadically throughout the game, as though Stanton hoped the kid wouldn’t do as well without the chemistry he’d developed with the first line, then brought to the fourth. The coach didn’t seem to realize Vanek could adapt to any situation and make it work for him. He was a goddamn chameleon, able to play right, left, or center. In front of his own net, he was almost suicidal when blocking pucks.

  If Coach wanted to lose this game, he’d have to bench Vanek. Which he couldn’t do without people getting suspicious. Sloan grinned over his shoulder at Tim who was muttering something into his headset. Tim grinned back and gave him a thumbs-up. Someone higher up was keeping an eye on Stanton; that much had been made obvious when the assistant coach suggested they rest the starting goalie, Giroux.

  Carter nudged Sloan and jutted his chin toward the ice. “Stanton’s really got it in for that kid. He’s logged in more ice time than most of the defensemen.”

  Unfortunately, Sloan knew that couldn’t be blamed on Stanton. “Someone lit a fire under the kid. The second his shift ends, he’s begging to get back on. Tim’s been letting him—all Stanton is doing is fucking around with the lines, making sure we’re never on the ice together.”

  “Hell, man, even you could
n’t keep up with him. Besides, he’s forcing the rest of us to up our game, you know? It’s good for the team.”

  “Yeah, as long as either T.J. or Mason are with him. He’s pissing people off.”

  The whistle blew, and the crowd laughed. Sloan and Carter leaned forward to watch Vanek pantomiming boxing in front of the Wild’s bench. Mason blocked a player who lunged at Vanek, then made a “wanna go?” motion with his hand. The other guy backed off.

  As Vanek sidestepped to take a seat on the bench, Tim leaned over and grabbed a handful of his jersey. “What the fuck is up with you? You’re too good for that kind of bullshit.”

  “I’m just having some fun, Timmy boy.” Vanek spit out his mouth guard, then chewed on the end like a cocky calf. “Chill out!”

  “Timmy boy?” What the hell? Sloan motioned Carter back, picked up a water bottle, and tossed it at Vanek. The bottle hit Vanek’s chin and he jumped.

  “Do that again, and I’ll make sure you sit out the rest of the game,” Sloan shouted before heading onto the ice. “You looked like an asshole out there.”

  “Fuck you, Callahan.” Vanek gave him a one-finger salute, which showed on the scoreboard as Sloan rushed into play.

  He glanced up just long enough to get nailed. His knee hit the ice, and he vaulted forward, sweeping his stick out after the puck. The blade of his stick nicked the back of a player’s skate, and the man dove like he was an Olympic swimmer going for distance.

  A shrill whistle. The ref swung one arm down and pointed from Sloan to the box.

  “Tripping? Are you fucking cross-eyed?” Sloan groaned when the ref pointed again, doing the usual “deaf official” thing. Not like he really expected the guy to change the call, but he couldn’t go quietly to the sin bin when he hadn’t done anything. “Hang up your whistle and go paint some water lilies, Monet.”

  Skating backward, the ref came to his side and patted his arm. “You’re a smart guy, Callahan. How about you use those brains and shut up before I toss you?”

  Good idea. Sloan nodded and ducked into the penalty box. Two minutes—he’d still have about fifty seconds to score once he got out.

  From behind the thick glass, he watched as play carried on. Vanek was on with Carter, T.J., and Mason. Good thing the rookie had the team’s giants as backup, because they were facing the Wild’s biggest line. Vanek won the face off, but T.J. missed the pass, forcing Mason to circle behind the net to retrieve it. He made a risky cross ice pass to Carter who surged forward, Vanek on his heel. Vanek picked up his pace and tapped his stick on the ice. Carter snapped the puck to him at the blue line, then crossed just on side. He swiveled around a lone defenseman. The Wild scrambled to catch up. Vanek delivered a perfect saucer pass and got pummeled by the second defenseman.

  Thornton.

  Play seemed to switch to slow motion as Vanek left his feet. His helmet flew, and he dropped like gravity had suddenly kicked in. His head bounced off the ice.

  The horn sounded, and the crowd erupted in cheers. Then the cheers died.

  Vanek didn’t move.

  Carter’s skates made a slashing sound as he raced to Vanek’s side. The ref shouted for the trainers. Sloan stood, his brain going over what happened, like a recap could make it less real.

  A puddle of blood formed a halo around Vanek’s head.

  “You bastard! I’ll kill you!”

  Mason’s roar tore Sloan out of numb oblivion. The big man had Thornton down and didn’t seem to notice the two officials trying to pull him off as he jackhammered punches into the Thornton’s face.

  T.J. stood to the side, staring at Vanek. Trainers and doctors crowded onto the ice. One of the linemen opened the door to the penalty box.

  Sloan flew from the bin, and the rink blurred around him as he tackled Mason. He got an elbow in the jaw for his efforts. Mason wasn’t seeing him. By the haze in Mason’s eyes, he saw only blood. Rage had him in a lockjaw and wouldn’t let go.

  Blocking a punch, Sloan bodily hauled Mason around until he lay on his back. Mason snarled and took another swing, throwing his whole body into the motion. Sloan evaded, then fisted his hand into the collar of Mason’s jersey and backhanded him hard enough to snap his head back.

  “If I don’t get to help the guys lift up Vanek on that stretcher, I swear to God I’ll stay here and beat on you until they need to cart you out on another one.” Saliva and blood spilled over his lip. He sucked it in and spit over his shoulder. “Pull yourself together.”

  Mason nodded. Sloan stood and helped him up. They both went to watch the medics tend to Vanek.

  His stomach clenched as the doctor spoke right in Vanek’s ear, trying to get a response. Minutes felt like hours, and an eternity passed before the trainers carefully rolled Vanek onto the dark blue board and secured him with straps. Huge orange blocks were placed at either side of his head, and another strap went across his forehead. The doctor let Sloan, Mason, Carter, and T.J. heft the board up. The crowd, still standing, clapped and cheered as they gently laid the board on the stretcher.

  Vanek still hadn’t moved. His long lashes rested on his cheeks. He looked like a little boy, fast asleep. Bloody blond curls matted to his head ruined the image. And sleeping boys’ chests rose and fell with deep breaths.

  Sloan watched Vanek’s chest, preying as he followed the stretcher, whispering to whatever higher power there might be for just one breath. Just one. He swallowed as he reached the end of the ice and the stretcher was rolled out of sight. The rookie’s chest remained still.

  No rising. No falling. Nothing.

  * * * *

  The raw sound of Oriana’s scream echoed off the walls of the press box long after the medics took Tyler away. Or maybe they only echoed in her head. She couldn’t really say because she wasn’t quite there anymore. Hands under her elbows supported her as though her body couldn’t manage to stand upright on its own. Someone led her into the hall. Each step was automatic, her legs on remote control. A wash of cold coated her insides, and she felt like she might vomit coolant. She choked on a sob as a door opened in front of her.

  Max’s smile froze on his face and melted away. “What’s wrong?”

  “T-Tyler . . .” Violent tremors stole her voice, stole her breath, and silver-specked darkness almost stole everything else. She gorged her palms with her nails. “He’s hurt.”

  Wrapping her up in a solid embrace, Max half-carried her into the office and forced her to sit. He thanked someone, then handed her a bottle of water.

  A tiny sip and her stomach lurched. Max held her hair back, and a trash can was held out. After her stomach emptied, Max dabbed her lips with a gray handkerchief.

  “Tell me what happened.”

  She looked up. He wasn’t talking to her.

  Richter took a knee at her side and patted her hand. “Vanek took a bad hit and cracked his head on the ice. He was rushed to the hospital.”

  Max’s color dropped several shades. He swayed a little on his feet. One fist clenched at his side. He thumped it into his thigh again and again. Finally, he gave a jerky nod and crouched in front of her.

  “We need to go, Oriana.” His tone sharpened a bit more with every word. He took her hands and eased her nails from her palms. “Please. We need to go. When he wakes up, we should be there.”

  “Yes.” She inhaled and closed her eyes to find her center. Then she pushed to her feet. “My God, I’m sorry, Max. You’re wasting time here with me when—”

  “Don’t start that. I know what it’s like to see a man down on the ice, not moving. It’s fucking scary, especially when it’s one of your own.” He didn’t rise from his crouch right away. Rubbing his hands briskly against his knees as though his palms were cold, he stared at the floor between her feet, nodding to some voice only he could hear. “Damn kid, I told him not to wear his helmet strap so loose. He never listens . . .”

  Seeing Max struggling to pull himself together, Oriana was disgusted by her own weakness. Max cared about Tyler, on a mu
ch deeper level than she possibly could after such a short time. And her falling apart forced him to focus on her pain rather than his own. Rather than siphoning off his strength, she should be lending him hers.

  She bent down and cupped his face in her hands. “Max, let’s go see him. He’ll learn his lesson after this, even if we have to tie him up and beat it into him.”

  Max straightened with her, brushed a soft kiss over her lips, then gave her a tentative smile. “He’ll be okay.”

  Brave mask glued on, she pulled Max’s hood up, then wrapped her arm around his waist. “Of course he will.”

  Outside the forum, Oriana hesitated by the passenger side of Max’s car and gazed up at the slice of moon, surrounded by dirty, snow-colored clouds. She could only find one pinprick of light in the hazy sky and couldn’t tell if it was a star, a satellite, or a plane, but, whatever it was, she made a wish on it.

  Please let him be okay. Let me have been overreacting.

  No wishes could change the facts they got at the hospital. Tyler wasn’t okay.

  But he was alive.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  The small waiting room was crammed full of sweaty bodies. Cozy in beige and brown tones, with three blocky sofas, a coffee table full of magazines, a tiny TV up in one corner replaying the game and big windows shrouded by thick curtains. A hush fell over the room as The Hit came on screen. Oriana winced as Thornton’s elbow connecting with the back of Tyler’s neck played out in slow motion. The ref hadn’t made a call because at first it looked like a clean hit. But the NHL board of governors would review the hit and probably suspend Thornton.

  Unless they had their heads up their asses. Which sometimes happened.

  Carter, who hadn’t stopped pacing since he’d arrived, punched the stack of magazines and jabbed his thumb over his shoulder at the screen. “He didn’t even have the fucking puck anymore! Don’t tell me that wasn’t intentional. Thornton had it out for the kid.”

  Across the room, Ingerslov braced his forearms on the window ledge, parting the heavy curtains to reveal the dark pitch of night. “The puck left Vanek’s stick a millionth of a second before Thornton hit him. Doesn’t even count as interference.” Grumbles from the other men had him turning and taking an “I surrender!” pose. “I’m not saying I think it was an accident; I’m just not holding my breath on Thornton getting penalized.”