Goal Line (The Dartmouth Cobras Book 7)

by Sommerland, Bianca

  “White isn’t stupid.” Of all the things Becky had said, one would figure the last thing Sahara would focus on would be the slight against White’s intelligence. But she just couldn’t absorb the rest. And White, like Pischlar, had kept her sane this morning while she’d been waiting for the phone calls from Grant’s lawyers. Calls that never came. “He swore he wouldn’t get in a fight with Grant even if he was allowed to play. And he’d do his best to make sure no one else did either.”

  Becky gave a quick nod. “That’s good, but thankfully, we don’t have to worry about him. We will do a quick press release. It’s up to you whether or not you’d like to be there. Or if you’d like to wait to talk to the district attorney before you say anything publicly.”

  “I want to wait. Talking to the cops was bad enough.” Sahara winced and looked over at Laura. “No offense—it would have been ten times worse if you hadn’t been there.”

  “None taken, honey,” Laura said with a small smile. “I think you’re handling this very well, and we’re all proud of you. The DA is a great guy and he’s dealt with high-profile cases before.” She handed Sahara a card. “Call him if you have any questions. I have to get back to work, but Chicklet will be with you all night. Not that we expect Grant to show up, but we’re not taking any chances. He’s got some rabid fans that came to see him, and we don’t want them coming after you.”

  Sahara rubbed her arms to stave of the sudden chill, realizing that those fans would be a bigger threat than Grant for the next few weeks. He couldn’t find her at Pischlar’s, but the fans would be at this game, and possibly the next one. She’d have to stick to the restricted areas of the Forum. Stick by Chicklet in the parking lot. And pray that they would leave when the Islanders did and never come back.

  “I’ll stick with Chicklet—until I’m with Pisch anyway. I feel safe with him and White.”

  “That’s good…” Laura glanced over at Keane, who was dealing with paperwork and giving them some semblance of privacy. “Umm…Pisch is a great guy, and I’m happy you’re comfortable with him. We were afraid you’d be avoiding men for a while. The thing is, he’s…” Her brow creased as though she was struggling to find the right words. “He’s not the relationship type. You know what Scott’s reputation was? Well, Pisch’s isn’t much better. He has some kind of standard, but I’m afraid, if you get too attached, he’ll make his usual graceful exit from your life.”

  Nothing Sahara didn’t already know, so she let out a light laugh. “He gave me the speech the first time we scened at the club. Don’t forget, I played with Ford too. And we’re still friends.” She shrugged, something hurting deep in her chest as she accepted the reality of her future. One she’d hoped to change only last night. “I’m not ready for a relationship. It’s better if I’m with someone who doesn’t want more.”

  “Hon, you don’t know that.”

  With the way that she’d reacted toward Dominik? Yes, she knew she was still too much of a mess to consider a life with anyone. The fact that she’d gone from not dating to considering something long-term was proof of how seriously not ready she was. She’d have to learn to stand on her own before she headed down that particular road.

  “I do. But it’s fine.” She pushed out of the chair and met Keane’s eyes as he lifted his gaze. Strange, but besides her reaction to his heady dominance, she hadn’t felt the pull from him that she’d experienced every single time she’d been in his presence. She had his full attention, but she wasn’t looking for some kind of signal that he might be interested. Which made it easier to smile back at him without the slightest bit of shyness. “Thank you, Sir. For everything.”

  He studied her face for a moment. Then stood. “No need to thank me, Sahara.” He came over and gave her a hug that was almost paternal. Which made her past crush even more awkward. “If there’s any way I can help you, please let me know.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “And as for being ready, there’s no rush. You’re still very young.” He patted her arm gently. “I do hope to see you at the club again soon. During times like these, our close community can give you the escape you need. You could use some time out of your busy head, sweetheart.”

  A suggestion, not an offer. But that was fine. Pischlar would have no problem playing with her. He was safe. She wouldn’t lose her heart to him.

  But as she said goodbye and walked with Chicklet to the Ice Girls’ changing room, she couldn’t help thinking back on those golden eyes and that warm smile. One that didn’t make her feel just safe.

  Dominik had made her feel alive.

  Chapter Seven

  The team was starting to head out to the ice, but Max stayed put when he saw the number flashing on his phone. Private number, so it could be the hospital. And he could only think of two reasons Oriana would call right before a game.

  Either there was really bad, or really good, news. If it was bad, he didn’t expect to hear Oriana’s voice at all. Jami had gone to keep her company while he and Sloan were here, and the girl wouldn’t hesitate to let him know if something went wrong. She didn’t hate the game anymore, but the girl had her priorities straight.

  As much as he loved her, he had to admit Oriana’s obsession with the game went beyond most of the players’. Which is why he’d insisted she have company.

  “I wasn’t going to call, but I figured good news would keep your focus where it belongs.” Oriana sounded tired, but upbeat. A positive sign. “The latest blood test looks good. I’ll be here another day or so just to be safe, but my doctor said the platelets in my blood are at a better level, and as long as I continue to respond well to the medication, I shouldn’t need surgery.”

  “They were considering surgery?” He’d known that she’d had to go through more tests, but surgery hadn’t been mentioned, even after the troubling results.

  Oriana sighed. “Worst-case scenario. But if the next scan shows improvement, I can go home. They couldn’t fit me in until tomorrow, so I won’t know more until then.”

  He nodded, leaning against the wall by his stall and combing his fingers through his hair. “I’ll be there right after the game. But I’m glad you called me. Looks like they’ve got everything under control.”

  “They do. But you don’t sound relieved.”

  “I am; I just hate that you’re stuck in the hospital. I know how much you were looking forward to this game, sugar.”

  “Jami’s got it up on the TV. I see the other guys warming up, so get out there!” She let out a sharp breath, as though raising her voice had hurt. “I’m going to let you go. Give Sloan a hug and a kiss for me.”

  He snorted. “In front of the guys? I’m sure he’d love that.”

  “Blame me.” Her tone was soft and slightly playful. Which was more reassuring than anything she’d said. “Just make sure he’s not blaming himself. And win this one for me.”

  “I’m on it, love.” They exchanged goodbyes and he hung up, tossing his phone on top of a hoodie in his stall. He ambled toward the entrance to the rink, almost knocking Vanek over in his rush. He grabbed the younger man by the shoulder. “You good?”

  Vanek frowned at him. “Why didn’t no one say Oriana was hurt? First Sahara, now Oriana? What the fuck happened last night?”

  Jerking his chin to the hall, Max continued forward. “Completely unrelated. Oriana hit her head on the bathtub.”

  “Because of a scene?”

  “Because I’m an idiot and I left the floor all fucking wet.” Another jab of guilt slammed into his chest, but he did his best to hide it from Vanek. The kid was one of their best players. He needed his head in the game. “She’s doing better. Called me to make sure I didn’t worry, so don’t you start.” He gave Vanek a hard pat on the back. “And you heard what Mason said about Sahara. She’s tough and she didn’t let that son of a bitch stop her from performing tonight. So you’re gonna follow her lead.”

  “Yeah, well, it’s a good thing he ain’t here. He’d be leaving on a stretcher.�
�� Vanek gave a feral smile, then jammed his mouthguard in his mouth before stepping onto the ice.

  So much for getting the kid’s head in the game. He caught Zovko’s gaze and Zovko inclined his head in response. The man would keep an eye on his sub. And Max would too. Was the best they could do.

  Sidling behind the bench, Max gestured Sloan over. Speaking low, he told him everything Oriana had said. Sloan’s throat worked hard and he hunched his shoulders.

  Well, hell. Max rolled his eyes and decided to follow his sweet wife’s instructions. He looped an arm around Sloan’s neck and gave him a big, loud smooch on the cheek.

  Growling, Sloan shoved him away. “What the fuck, Max?”

  Max grinned, seeing the flashes from cameras all around. “Sorry, Coach. Lady’s orders.”

  “Fuck me.” Sloan’s cheeks reddened as Shero chuckled behind him.

  That’s been established as a no. Max considered saying it out loud, but he wasn’t a sadist. Or a masochist. Pushing Sloan any further wouldn’t be very smart.

  Besides, Oriana needed to see him out there, ready to play the game.

  Puck drop and he skidded back to block a shot, passing across the ice tape to tape with Demyan. Play moved out of the Cobras’ zone and he raced to hold his position as the forwards set up. Vanek and Pischlar snapped the puck back and forth between them as Demyan took point. Kral, the defenseman paired with Max, held the line.

  Demyan took a high stick from the Islanders’ defense as he fought to screen the goalie. Blood trickled down his lip. He licked it away after shooting the ref a dirty look. The Islanders’ defense clipped the puck toward Max.

  He couldn’t look away from the blood. There wasn’t much, but all he saw was Oriana on the bathroom floor. A puddle of red spreading on the tiles.

  Forcing himself back to the present, he put his stick down to block a pass. Too late. He scrambled after it as the Islanders went on a breakaway. Dove just short of the shot on net.

  Bower’s glove went up.

  The goal light flashed.

  Fuck. Max slammed his stick into the ice on his way to the bench. What the hell was that?

  “You all right?” Sloan asked, his hands on Max’s shoulders as he sat. “That was damn sloppy.”

  No kidding. Max glanced over at Demyan, who was getting his lip taped by one of the trainers. Another trainer offered Max a bottle of Gatorade. He took it, murmuring thanks. “Just saw shit that caught me off guard. I’m over it.”

  “Like fuck you are.” Sloan shoved away from him and went across the bench to talk to Shero. Shero nodded at whatever he was saying.

  And Max was held off his next two shifts.

  By the time he was waved onto the ice, he’d managed the tunnel vision the guys needed him to have. One of the Islanders took a puck to the face as the Cobras went on the attack, and he barely blinked. The mess was cleaned up, and Zovko took the face-off and tucked the puck back to Max.

  Straight saucer pass to White. Vanek crowded the net, jumping out of the way for a clear shot.

  Goal! Now that’s how it’s done!

  Center ice. Zovko was thrown out of the face-off and Vanek took his place. Words were exchanged. The puck hit the ice.

  Vanek’s gloves followed. His tone was shaky as he circled the Islanders’ forward, Peters. “You don’t get to talk about her like that. You wanna go?”

  Peters snorted. “Not happening, little boy. You got a crush on her?” He stuck close to Vanek, who’d scooped up his gloves as play resumed. “Consider yourself lucky. She’d ruin your career, just like she’s trying to do to Higgins.”

  “You don’t wanna fight, why don’t you fuck off?” Vanek charged to the corner to dig out the puck. Then he started chirping. “You married, meathead? Punch your wife with those big hands?” He freed the puck with his skate and kicked it to Zovko. “You find her sexier all bruised and bloody? You look like the type.”

  Damn it, Vanek. Shut up!

  An Islanders defenseman pinched in on the left, retrieving the stray puck and firing at the net. Bower made the save, but the rebound landed right between Peters’s feet.

  Thankfully, he was paying more attention to Vanek than to the game. Kral got the puck to Max. He skipped it to Carter.

  And all hell broke loose. Peters grabbed Vanek by the back of his jersey. Zovko hauled Peters around and tossed his gloves.

  With a feral smile, Peters did the same. “Defending your boyfriend, man?”

  “Yes.” Zovko cracked Peters in the jaw. Nice hit, and he held his own as Peters nailed him with several rapid punches.

  Even fight, so Max wasn’t worried. He kept out of the way, with an eye on Vanek, who was being held back by one of the Islanders. The guy was talking calmly and didn’t resist when Carter came to pull Vanek away.

  Not everyone on the team was an asshole. The few that were just gave the rest a bad name.

  The refs let the two men go at it. The crowd cheered every time Zovko got a good hit in. But it had been a long shift and both guys were getting tired.

  Max waited for the refs to separate them. He saw Zovko’s helmet fly with a brutal punch.

  And everything seemed to slow as Zovko went down. He was out before he hit the ice, so he didn’t brace for impact. Or protect his head.

  Blood pooled over the ice. Max didn’t move as the trainers skidded up to Zovko’s still form. Barely acknowledged Vanek’s shout of fear.

  “Come on, big guy.” Bower hooked a hand to Max’s elbow and slid him over to the bench. He glanced back. “Carter, get our boy out of the way!”

  Seconds later, Vanek was pinned between Carter and Demyan. A stretcher was brought out. The fans stood and clapped as the players helped carry Zovko off the ice.

  “Shit.” Sloan approached, his skin gray and his eyes wide. Of everyone’s reactions, Sloan’s hit Max the hardest. The man had no issues with blood. Or hadn’t. Players had been hurt before, and Sloan was the one who got the team back out there with assurances that their teammate was in good hands.

  But he wouldn’t be that man tonight. Not after what had happened to Oriana.

  The ice was cleaned yet again, and the ref spoke to both coaches—the Islanders’ and Coach Shero—and Carter was pulled in to serve Zovko’s penalty. Vanek was benched, pale and lifeless and completely unresponsive with a trainer sticking close to him, speaking low.

  “Perron!” Shero came over and gave Max a firm shake. “You’ve seen worse. I know you’re going through a personal issue—no, don’t look at me like that. I adore Oriana, but she would be the first to remind you that this is the playoffs. The men are shaken. They will follow your lead.” He squeezed Max’s shoulder. “Can I count on you?”

  Can he? Max wasn’t sure he could promise anything. He’d already fucked up once because he’d had trouble not seeing Oriana whenever blood spilled. And when he’d finally managed…

  But Shero was right. Oriana was watching. She’d be worried about Zovko. About the whole team. She didn’t need to see him fall apart when they were counting on him to step up.

  “I got this, Coach. You worry about him.” Max looked at Vanek, wishing the trainers would get him off the bench. Between Vanek’s own injury, learning about Oriana’s, and seeing Zovko go down, the kid couldn’t be expected to continue playing like everything was fine.

  Shero nodded and went to the trainer. Together they led Vanek off the bench.

  The game continued, but no matter how hard Max tried, he could tell the guys were distracted. His attempts to score resulted in multiple pucks ringing off the post. Carter ended up back in the box twice for stupid penalties. Then Demyan did the same.

  When Richards was called on a questionable interference penalty, then thrown out for mouthing at the ref with just three minutes left in the game, Max resolved to accept this defeat. They were down 6-1.

  He still played his hardest, still shouted encouragement to the men who didn’t look like zombies out there.

  But he was fucking g
rateful that the press wouldn’t be allowed in the locker room after the game. The team needed some space to get their heads on straight.

  Which seemed unlikely at this point.

  The team that left the ice after the loss wasn’t the one that had made it to the playoffs. And if something wasn’t done, they wouldn’t have a chance at making it past the first round.

  * * * *

  Nasty damn loss, but Dominik had no regrets. He’d put his all into the game. His team was a mess, but he had a few ideas of how to deal with that. First thing would be getting an update on Zovko’s condition. And since Vanek would no doubt be by his side until someone forced him to leave, he’d bring the kid to see Oriana as well.

  And Sahara.

  Knowing the young man’s history, growing up seeing his mother mistreated by several different men, Dominik wasn’t all that surprised that he’d shut down completely. But the team needed him. After quickly dressing in the locker room, Dominik went on the hunt for Vanek, wondering if he’d left still in his equipment. His stuff had been bundled haphazardly into his stall, so there was no telling if he’d even gotten changed.

  “Mason!” Max raced down the hall after him, taking a few gulps from the open bottle of water in his hand, then swiping the spill from his lips. “You looking for Vanek or Sahara? They’re both in the parking garage with Chicklet.”

  Dominik inclined his head. “Got it.” He strode toward the parking exit, glancing over at Max, who kept pace with him. “What makes you think I’d be looking for Sahara?”

  Max snorted. “I tend to be quite observant.”

  Dominik rolled his eyes. Damn voyeurs.

  “I also noticed she’s been spending a lot of time with Pischlar and White.” Max gave him a sideways look. “You’re not into sharing, so—”