Goal Line (The Dartmouth Cobras Book 7)

by Sommerland, Bianca

  White was doing his yoga breathing thing though, so he wasn’t at panicking point yet.

  They hit the runway. The plane sped up.

  The grip on Shawn’s knee tightened even more.

  “If I’m gonna be out with a lower-body injury, mind squeezing a bit higher, pal?” Shawn laughed, hoping White would see the humor and relax a little.

  Instead, he dropped his head back and groaned. “Don’t fucking tempt me.”

  “Wouldn’t dream of it. But I’ll tell you this. You’re gonna fuck me before you die.” If he let himself consider that statement, he’d get damn depressed. But it made a good joke. “Obviously, that means you’ll live a very, very long time.”

  The slight slant of White’s lips was close to a smile, so Shawn sat back until they’d reached the altitude where he could put a movie on his iPod. He’d ordered the new Avengers one special because he knew White hadn’t seen it yet.

  “You’d seriously let me do that?”

  Movie all ready to go, Shawn sat back, arching a brow as he tried to figure out what the fuck White was talking about. “Let you do what?”

  “Fuck you.”

  All right, did we both die? Shawn rubbed a hand over his eyes and groaned. “Don’t say shit like that to me, Bruiser. People who aren’t fucking don’t need to have conversations about it.”

  White nodded slowly. He pressed the call button for the flight attendant, then ordered two whiskeys on ice. Apparently he needed both to continue the chat he wouldn’t let go.

  He cleared his throat when they were alone again. “But…you’ve sucked my dick, man. And other stuff. So it’s not like we’re just two people—besides, only Sahara’s ever gotten you off.”

  Fuck me. Shawn didn’t usually worry too much about being overheard, but Sahara had already flown to New York. To meet up with Mason. Shawn and she had talked, and he and Mason were cool, but the man didn’t need fucking details from White.

  Thankfully, Mason was sitting at the other end of the plane with the new kid.

  “I don’t really give a shit who gets me off.” Shawn let out a strained laugh that White didn’t catch. “You want to fuck me, then it’s pretty simple. Unbuckle your seat belt and go wait for me in the bathroom.”

  What should have shut him up about fucking made White’s face go red. He sat there for a bit, staring at his hand, which was still on Shawn’s knee.

  Then he got up and walked down the aisle between the seats, disappearing into the bathroom.

  In the hotel room, Pischlar watched White, standing a few feet away, staring out the window. Sahara and Richards were both in the room, looking uncomfortable. Sahara’s eyes were on White, and she was chewing on her bottom lip in that way she did when she was thinking hard. She better not blame herself for how weird things were between him and White.

  Neither of them had been thinking of her on that plane.

  Strangely enough, White’s fear of flying made it so no one even blinked when Pischlar followed him to the bathroom, then went in and locked the door. He’d done it before when White had gotten sick. Hell, so had a couple of the other guys.

  The second he was clear of the door—barely, because the bathroom was just a bit bigger on their charter flight than one on a regular plane—White pulled him close, tugging at his shirt and kissing his throat. Shawn bit the inside of his cheek to keep from moaning and undid White’s jeans. He freed White’s dick, stroking the already rock-hard length.

  There wasn’t much time. Someone would eventually come knocking at the door to see if Shawn needed help. Which, depending on who it was, might have once gotten a yes.

  If this weren’t White in his hands, with his lips on Shawn’s throat, moving against him like he’d gone wild with lust. Shawn didn’t expect this to last. Didn’t expect another chance.

  He pulled a condom and a small pack of lube from his wallet.

  “You sure, man?” White panted, speaking in a whisper. “This is fucking crazy, but I can’t stop thinking about you.”

  Don’t fucking go there, Bruiser. Shawn swallowed hard and laughed softly. “I’m sure. You wanna buy me dinner first?”

  “Why you gotta be like that?”

  “Fuck me, White. Before you change your mind.”

  Hands braced on the sink, Shawn almost came the second he felt the head of White’s dick pressing into him. So fucking slow, so gentle, it was obvious White had only ever done this with girls. He kept his hands on Shawn’s hips, easing in with gradual thrusts until his pelvis was flush against Shawn’s ass.

  “Fuck, Shawn.” White bit the side of Shawn’s neck, thrusting in a little harder. “Am I hurting you?”

  “Don’t call me Shawn.” He felt White stiffen as he tensed and forced himself to relax. “I’m not fragile. You’re more likely to break me if you don’t start moving.”

  White’s breath came out in a laugh, close to his ear. “But we’ve got to be quiet.”

  “Yeah.” Shawn’s grip tightened on the edge of the sink as White pulled out, then thrust in hard. “Fuck yeah.”

  The man might be straight, but White wasn’t a selfish lover. He figured out all the right places to hit and kept aiming for them. He rode Shawn hard, reaching around as he neared his own climax to wrap his hand around Shawn’s dick. He stroked in time with his thrusts, then brought his free hand up to cover Shawn’s mouth when he came.

  And fuck, Shawn was pretty sure he’d never come that hard. If White’s hand hadn’t been there, he would have shouted loud enough to get the captain of the damn plane back here. So much blood had pumped through his cock that he was pretty sure his brain was fucking done for. He used the last of his strength to pull his pants up after White pulled out.

  Which probably explained what had come out of his fool mouth.

  If they were alone, Shawn might try to talk to White. Take back what he’d said. But he had a feeling the only reason White wasn’t telling him to get lost was because Sahara and Richards were here.

  And Richards was only here because he fucking sucked with the press. The rookie tended to blurt out whatever came to his mind. Not in the blunt way some of the other players did either. More like he was being given a test and didn’t want to fail.

  Hell, just last week, Rebecca Bower, who ran public relations, had bitched to Coach Shero about Richards’s latest mess that she had to clean up. He’d been asked what he’d thought about the ref who’d given him three penalties during the last game of the series. And he’d answered with brutal honesty.

  The answer got him a fine from the league and a talking-to from just about everyone.

  Which was nothing compared to him spilling how they watched the Islanders’ goalie and knew he was weak high stick side. Wouldn’t you know it, the goalie had miraculously learned to close up that particular hole.

  Coach Shero had agreed to keep Richards away from the press until they could teach the kid to go with the damn script.

  And Sahara? Well, she was probably here to make sure they all behaved themselves. Richards lived with Coach Shero because the man seemed to think White would corrupt him.

  Maybe Shawn should leave the coach a memo, letting him know he had nothing to worry about anymore.

  The quiet was getting awkward. Shawn decided to fix that the only way he knew how. “You guys wanna fuck?”

  Richards’s jaw practically hit the floor. Sahara put her hand over her mouth, then glanced over at White.

  Shawn ignored them. He was fucking tired of tiptoeing around everything. If this kept up, he’d be just as sad and boring as the rest of them. He relaxed back on the bed on his elbows. “Come on, kid. White says you’re lousy in the sack, but I think he lies.”

  Slamming his fist into the window frame, White let out a growl. “Why do you always fucking do that?”

  “Do what?”

  “You know what.”

  Actually, Shawn had no fucking clue. Did White have an issue with Shawn being an easy fuck? Hadn’t seemed that way on the p
lane.

  He ground his teeth as he remembered when he’d slipped from his status quo in the cramped bathroom.

  “You okay?” White ran the cold water, washing his hands then wetting his face. “I, uh…fuck. We shouldn’t have done this here.”

  “Not sure it matters where we did it. Are you cool?”

  “Yeah.” White ran his fingers through his hair. “Hey, is this going to change anything with us? I mean, Sahara’s gonna be with Dominik. If she wasn’t, then maybe…”

  “Because you’re straight. And having pussy in the bed keeps you that way, right?”

  White drew in a sharp breath. “Why you gotta put it that way? We’re having fun. I thought you only flipped out when people expected more from you. I don’t.”

  “Fucking good thing. Don’t fall in love with me or anything, Bruiser. I’ll break your heart.” Shawn was doing his best to steel his own before it bled out in his chest. He’d known White was only experimenting with him because Sahara had offered herself as a consolation prize.

  “Don’t worry, I won’t.”

  The plane shook and the seat belt light came on. White’s face lost all color as he reached for the door. Shawn grabbed White’s arm to steady him.

  White jerked away.

  A brisk knock sounded on the door. Sahara bolted from her chair and ran to the door, probably hoping to see Dominik.

  Dean Richter, the team’s general manager, stepped into the room. “Sahara, you’re looking well.”

  “Thank you, Sir.” Sahara moved to let him in. “Is everything all right?”

  “Everything’s fine. I wanted to discuss something with Pischlar. If you don’t mind—”

  Shawn stood and strolled up behind Sahara, slouching against the wall as he inclined his head at Richter. “I’ve got nothing to hide. What’s up, Mr. Richter?”

  Richter’s lips thinned. “Very well. I appreciate you wanting to defend your teammates, but social media isn’t the place to do it. We’re in the playoffs, and you’re not a young man without experience dealing with this kind of thing.”

  Fucking PR, always checking our posts. On the bus, heading to the hotel from the airport, Shawn had checked out Facebook so he wouldn’t worry about the fact that White was ignoring him.

  There was a new picture of Richards up. The kid had done a magazine shoot and he looked fucking hot. It was a badly kept secret that the rookie hung out in random gay bars, and he had quite the following. A few twinks had left admiring comments.

  Some random asshole had started calling them, and Richards, nasty fucking names. Richards shared the photo and called the guy out. The guy told Richards he’d pound his ass.

  The idiot probably hadn’t considered how fucking sexually his words could be interpreted. So Shawn had commented to clarify:

  If you’re threatening the kid, you’re gonna have to go through me and the entire team, asshole. If you’re hitting on him? Get in line. If you’re really horny, and half as hot as your picture—wait, no way you’re fucking Jon Snow???

  Anyway, PM me and we can hook up. I’ll give you a pounding you’ll never forget.

  Shawn’s fans loved the comment. So did Richards’s. It had over 300 likes.

  But Shawn had been waiting for someone from management to come give him shit. “I’ll get Richards to delete the post. One sec.” He called over his shoulder. “Richards, delete that post! I got us in trouble!”

  “Richards is in here? With you?”

  Well, I’m fucking flattered. Shawn smirked. “Yep, he was sent in here so we could babysit. Wasn’t he taken away so we wouldn’t corrupt him? It might be a good idea to decide what your priorities are.”

  The veins in the GM’s temple looked about ready to burst. “My priorities are simple. You can’t be advertising your sexual activities on your public profile. Or his. I expect you to be a professional.”

  “On the ice and in the locker room? Absolutely. But I won’t have the team dictating my personal life.” Shawn straightened. “If I decide I want to fuck Richards, or White, or anyone else, it’s not a goddamn PR issue.”

  Dean’s brow furrowed. He shot Sahara an apologetic look, but he didn’t back down. “That may be true, but you’re going too far, Shawn.”

  “Are we friends now, Dean?” Shawn gritted his teeth. “I don’t recall anything in my contract limiting my sexual activities.”

  “Perhaps not, but the contract does dictate your conduct in public. If you have an issue with that, we will set up a meeting with your agent to discuss it further.”

  “Fine.” Shawn was done with this conversation. And with this whole fucked-up day. “Is that all?”

  Movement at his side, with a far too familiar scent, had him bracing himself for whatever White was about to say. Should be interesting. “Fuck, Pisch, what are you doing? Your contract is up this year. Do you want to be traded?” He put his hand on Pischlar’s shoulder. “It’s simple. You can’t fuck the whole team.”

  Really? Shawn laughed. He hadn’t even considered his contract. Maybe a trade would be a good thing. “You don’t get to make that decision.” Shawn shoved White’s hand off his shoulder. “Besides, Silver almost pulled it off, so it can be done.”

  * * * *

  Shit! Sahara sidled into the hall, trying to get out of the way and slamming into Dominik just as Dean rammed his hand into the center of Pischlar’s chest. Pischlar’s back hit the wall and Sahara winced.

  “Should we get Landon?” Sahara whispered as Dean said something to Pischlar only he could hear. She’d never seen Dean lose his cool, and Landon was probably the only one who wouldn’t risk his career getting in his face.

  Dominik shook his head and gently pulled her aside. “Not unless you want Landon to kill Pisch. You don’t need to see this. Go back to my room.”

  Dismissed. Again. She backed up as the raised voices inside the room echoed into the hall even after the door slammed shut. It opened again and White stormed off toward the elevators, not even sparing her a glance. Richards came out seconds later, closing the door softly.

  Leaving Pischlar with Dean. And Dominik, who could only do so much to keep his boss from beating the crap out of a player who’d clearly lost his sense of self-preservation. Maybe bringing Landon into the chaos was a bad idea, but there had to be someone who could take control of the situation. She paced a little farther down the hall, then back, her phone in her hand as she considered her options.

  She could do exactly what Dominik had suggested, but she hated feeling useless. Pischlar was her friend and he was hurting and this was probably her fault. She’d tried to help him get closer to White, but clearly something had happened to ruin whatever progress he’d made. The way he was acting, she had a feeling he wanted Dean to trade him.

  Which Dean would realize when he calmed down. Granted, he’d still be furious, but he wouldn’t let Pischlar use him as a way to sabotage his own career.

  There was only one person she could think of who would get through to Dean. And the timing was horrible, but when was the timing ever good for all hell to break loose? This was the playoffs. The most important thing was the team remaining a team.

  “Sahara? Is everything okay?” Silver asked the second she answered the call.

  Sahara chose her words carefully. “No one is hurt. Well, besides Pischlar. And I think I’m partially to blame.”

  She gave Silver the abbreviated version of the situation. Smiled at Silver’s calm request. Then went back to Pischlar’s room and rapped on the door hard enough to be heard over the shouting.

  Dominik opened the door and frowned at her.

  “Please excuse me, Sir.” She slipped by him and held her phone out to Dean, who had taken his suit jacket off and looked ready to beat the shit out of Pischlar. Or continue doing so, if the blood on Pischlar’s mouth was anything to go by.

  Dean straightened. “Not now, Sahara.”

  “Will you get on the fucking phone, Dean!” Silver’s voice could be heard, loud and cl
ear. “If you don’t talk to me, Sahara is getting Landon. And if you risk our starting goalie for your macho—”

  Dean took the phone and moved to the hall, calming visibly.

  That felt damn good. But Sahara wasn’t done. She walked over to Pischlar, facing him as he dropped into the chair she’d abandoned earlier. Crouching in front of him, she met his eyes. “Please don’t do this. I’m not sure what happened, but the team needs you.”

  Pischlar groaned and nodded, rubbing his hands over his face. “Damn it, I really fucked up. I’m easy. I’m not supposed to care about anything.”

  “That’s not true and you know it.” She gave his forearm a little shove so he’d look at her again. “You love him. Is it Richards? Did him being here get to you?”

  “Naw. The kid’s all right. And he’s going through his own shit.” Pischlar swiped the blood off his lips with his thumb then scrubbed it on his pants. “White wasn’t in his seat when the plane started jerking around. Neither was I.”

  “So he got scared. That’s okay. He’ll get over it.”

  “Oh, he’s over it. He made that perfectly fucking clear.” Pischlar shrugged. “I should have let it go a long time ago. Just glad the games are over. Trying to figure out what the fuck he wanted was exhausting. Now I know.”

  “I don’t think you do. Whatever happened might seem like it ruined what you guys had, but that doesn’t mean—”

  “He fucked me. He’s a pretty good lay. But most definitely straight.” Pischlar smirked, looking a bit more like himself. Confident and completely carefree. Which wasn’t as reassuring as it should be. “We might have fucked a few more times if you were still with us, but I’m happy that you’ve finally got someone worth your time.”

  Her throat tightened as she finally absorbed the entirety of her role in destroying Pischlar and White’s friendship. Having a woman involved had made fooling around acceptable in White’s head. He really had no idea how Pischlar felt about him. He probably wouldn’t connect Pischlar blowing up at Dean to his rejection. He’d probably be confused by how things would change.

  But they would. Because, as “easy” as Pischlar was, he had a big heart that he usually protected with a bomb shelter’s worth of walls. He’d opened the heavy steel door for White. And been blown to pieces.