"You keep saying that." He cupped her cheek. "Stand up."
She stood and gapped at him as he curved his hand around her throat.
"Let's test your theory, shall we?" His lips quirked at her frown. "What? Afraid that you're wrong?"
"I'm not wrong. I'll admit I never saw Oriana as a sub, but she shows all the signs of being one and it makes her happy. Which is awesome." She hooked a finger to the buttons of Dean's shirt. "But I'm not like that. I've never been sexually repressed, so if the whole being tied down and spanked thing really got me off I'd know."
"You were wet after I spanked you." Dean crowded her against the desk and put a bit more pressure on her throat. Her insides liquefied. "I slapped your breasts and pussy and you responded in a beautifully submissive way. I believe you've focused too much on what a 'real' submissive is, concentrated on all the ways you didn't fit, because you don't know what would happen if you truly surrendered to a dominant man. Any more than you know what would happen if you got into a serious relationship."
"I was in a serious relationship with Asher and Cedric."
"As in you no longer are?" His steady gaze held sympathy. "I'm sorry Silver. I didn't know it was over. I had the impression that you had an open relationship—and despite the fact that I didn't feel that you were right together, I knew they meant something to you. When did this happen?"
"Yesterday—or . . . well, this morning I guess." She shrugged as her throat grew tight. Then frowned at his shiny black shoes. "It doesn't matter. I should have seen it coming."
"Perhaps." His shoes moved closer and his hand came into her line of sight. His fingers brushed up her jaw and into her hair. He kissed her cheek, then her nose, then her lips. "But you still have the right to be upset about it."
She groaned and latched onto the back of his neck before he could back away. For good measure, she hooked her ankles behind his knees. "I'm not upset—about that anyway. I am annoyed at you though."
His eyes crinkled. "May I ask why?"
"You know why." She reached into his jacket and grabbed his belt. "You make me forget that I don't like you when you get me thinking about letting you fuck me."
He pushed her hands down and shook his head. "I'm not going to fuck you."
"Arg!" Slapping her hands on the desk, she released him and scowled. "You keep saying that! Why the hell not?"
"This isn't the place for this discussion, Silver." He went over to the files she'd dropped and quickly put them in some semblance of order before bringing them to her desk. "Which is actually why I wanted to speak to you. We really should keep things professional at work. I don't want whatever is going on between us to distract you."
Sliding off the desk, she straightened her jacket with an agitated yank. "There's nothing going on between us. Not even sex because you keep turning me down. But thank you for reminding me what a condescending asshole you are. Makes things much easier."
His jaw ticked and he shot her a cool look. "Don't be childish. I'd like to establish an amicable working relationship. We got off to a rough start, but I think we both want what's best for the team."
"Yes we do." Her whole body shook as though she'd just taken an espresso shot. The dampness between her thighs pissed her off. She really, really wanted to throw something at Dean for making her feel this way again, but she wouldn't be 'childish'. She just had to remind herself that there were other dicks around to be had. And worse came to worse, she had an arsenal of toys at home. "Is that all?"
He shook his head, started for the door, then paused. "I meant to tell you . . . the way you handled Landon—I was impressed. People say that you're selfish. But they're wrong."
The door shut behind him. She couldn't move. All the air in the room had rushed out with him, but the temperature had gone up. She pressed her hands to her hot cheeks and bit back a smile.
Impressing him never occurred to her. Never.
But she had and damn if it didn't feel good.
Chapter Eleven
Dean crossed the hall with long strides, his rubber soles creating a brisk tattoo on the tiles, remnant of his brief military stint. He put his thoughts in order with regimental efficiency, stacking wayward emotions in the back of his mind where they belonged. The game tonight had to take priority. He had a mission and . . .
He shook his head and quietly laughed at himself. It's a preseason game, Richter. Not combat.
Regret speared his chest and his cadence faltered. He'd enlisted in his late teens to attend university fully funded in return for 48 months of service. What had started out as a way to receive the education he couldn't have afforded otherwise became a way to get the structure he craved. Unfortunately, his pastime of playing street hockey ended his career. An awkward fall tore the ligaments in his right knee and reconstructive surgery, while essentially successful, wasn't enough for him to pass the medicals. After his discharge he'd turned his focus to the game he'd loved as a boy. He couldn't coach, but he'd been successful as a scout and had worked his way up to assistant general manager of the Washington Capitals.
When Delgado offered him the position of general manager, he'd jumped on the opportunity. As much as he'd loved his team in the States, his ambitions had him packing his wife and daughter and moving back to his birth country. While his marriage fell apart, he took comfort in the fact that twenty three men relied on him to see to their futures. It was almost like being an officer again—only without the prestige and honor of fighting for a cause. Or such a big cause. They still fought for something, in a way.
Maybe his love for the game made it seemed grander than it was, but it satisfied him. He pushed his men hard. Granted, they weren't putting their lives on the line for their country, but there was some national pride involved. Canada lived and breathed hockey and he would see his team flourish and become one of the legendary franchises.
So long as he didn't let anything distract him.
Pausing in front of the elevator, he pressed the down button and groaned. Reaffirming his goals didn't help. His dick strained against the steel-toothed cage of his zipper and his flesh recalled Silver's soft skin, her brief submission . . . and, worst of all, her strength. She cared for Landon, and the fear of losing him had almost paralyzed her, but she'd set that aside to see to his needs. How could he not respect that?
You told her you didn't want to distract her, the cold, logical voice within said. Be honest. You're afraid she'll distract you.
No. Nothing could distract him. But that didn't mean he couldn't enjoy her away from here, at the club where he was in complete control, where nothing unexpected could be thrown at him that he couldn't handle . . .
Speaking of which, it was time for him to meet their new player.
The elevator doors opened. He stepped forward. A woman with a CBC press badge pinned to her chest stepped out, forcing him back.
"Are you Dean Richter?"
"Yes." He glanced at her badge and ground his teeth. "Rebecca Bower. Are you here to see your brother?"
"No." The petite woman looked him over and pursed her lips. "I'd like to speak to you first."
"Of course." He held out his hand towards the elevator. "I am heading down to the rink to meet our new acquisition. You may join me—if you keep this off record."
"Sure." She backed into the elevator and fiddled with the amethyst pin on her lapel. She seemed nervous, but she pounced when the doors closed. "You have a game tonight. I need to know there's no chance of my brother playing."
Dean inclined his head and smiled. "You do know he's been cleared?"
"I really don't give a shit. I may have agreed to off the record, but if my brother is put on the ice, I'll dig in deep and find a way to expose your team for putting your players at risk." Rebecca pulled her cell phone out of her serviceable black purse. "The fire made the headlines. I've been fending off calls offering sympathy for my brother's demise all day. He left a message while I was on my way here, saying he was fine, but that's not good enough. I've already spoken to
the doctor he saw at the hospital. He was advised to take a few days off to make sure there weren't any lingering symptoms from smoke inhalation."
"Ma'am, I make a point of being informed of my player's medical conditions. I apologize if you've made this trip for nothing, but Landon is being well cared for."
"My trip wasn't for nothing." Her cheeks reddened slightly. "My editor approved it hoping I'd get a story. I refuse to make one out of my brother being an idiot. But an exclusive with Scott Demyan will satisfy him."
Dean nodded. "I can arrange that. The team will hold a press conference about the acquisition tomorrow, but I see no harm in you providing a preliminary report. Last I heard, your brother is resting in the player's lounge. He's a dedicated player and sticks to his routine. I'd prefer not to disturb him if you will accept my assurance that he's well."
"Thank you, Sir." She ducked her head and his inner Dom instantly acknowledged her tone and submissive behavior. For some reason, this seemed natural for her. And accepted. He refused to guess on her involvement in the lifestyle, but she was clearly comfortable with it. Unlike Silver— Rebecca cleared her throat to regain his attention. "May I ask you a question? Off the record?"
"You may."
"Are all your men Doms? I only ask because I need to know Landon will fit in here."
"Why wouldn't he?" His eyes narrowed when she looked away. "Answer me."
Her breath hitched. "He was eighteen when one of his professors introduced him to the lifestyle. The man was hard core, leatherman, but even after he learned that Landon was straight and dominant . . . well, he didn't care. He taught Landon everything he knows. They became close friends and the only thing Landon cared about as much as hockey was becoming the 'perfect Dom'." She scowled at her patent leather pumps. "His girlfriend at the time pretended to be submissive to keep her hooks in him. He felt guilty for not being able to give her the time she needed because of his dedication to the game, so he gave into her every demand when he wasn't on the road. Things ended . . . tragically." She paused and made a face, as though suddenly realizing she'd said too much. "If he wants you to know more, he'll tell you, but I just wanted you to know . . . ."
"I understand." Dean wanted to push her for more, and with how vulnerable she was after nearly losing her brother, she'd likely tell him anything he wanted to know, but he wouldn't take advantage of her. "And I'll keep an eye on him."
"Good." Her nostrils flared with a sharp inhale. "Because there are rumors spreading about him and Silver Delgado and I don't want her to—"
He straightened and put his hand on her arm as the elevator stopped and the doors slid open. "Landon is a big boy, Rebecca. I will do my best to make sure he doesn't get into a bad situation, but you'll have to trust him to make his own decisions. And Silver won't hurt him."
She glared at him and yanked her arm free. "So you say."
"Silver is the reason he's not playing tonight."
"Oh."
"Yes. 'Oh'." He smirked. "You really don't need to protect your brother from her. From what I've seen, she considers him a friend."
Rebecca followed him to the training room, muttering softly. "The friend status with that woman is a good thing."
Dean sighed and pushed the door open. He expected to see Demyan on one of the bikes, warming up for the game. Instead the man was face down on a table, groaning as one of their only female trainers massaged him.
"Right there—oh, yeah." Demyan shifted and caste the petite Asian woman a hooded look. "You've got magic fingers, babe. I can breathe all right now. You wanna see what else I can do?"
Before the trainer could answer, Dean spoke up. "I would. Perhaps you can join your teammates and get dressed for the game?"
"Coach didn't tell you?" Demyan let out a fairly convincing hacking cough. "I'm not on the lineup tonight. I'm sick."
Like hell you are. Dean studied the man, ignoring his cynical thoughts. His skin did seem a little flush, and he was breathing hard—accusing him of faking would start their working relationship off on a bad foot, so Dean let his suspicions slide and waved the trainer away.
"I'm sorry to hear that. Have you seen the team doctor?"
"Naw, he's busy with some kid—Tyler Vanek?" Demyan rolled over and stretched. "I'll be fine for the last preseason game, I just need to rest up a bit."
Vanek? Dean shook his head. The boy wouldn't be fit to play until midseason, if that. His head injury was so severe the doctor had told Dean, quite frankly, that his career might be over. The fact that he was young and in good shape leaned in his favor, but it was too soon to do more than pray for a good outcome. After he'd had time to heal.
Dean would have to speak to him.
"You have to pass the medical evaluation before you can play, but if you rest up tonight, I think you should be fine for Friday's game." Dean reached out and patted the wiry man on the shoulder. He wasn't even warm. "We'll be holding a press conference tomorrow to show you off to the fans." He glanced over at the pile of clothes by the table and pressed his lips together. Ragged jeans and a white wife-beater. Real classy. "I expect you to be wearing a suit."
Demyan chuckled. "A suit? Yeah, I don't do suits."
"You do now." Dean did his best to keep his tone neutral. He already didn't like the guy. "I suggest you go over your contract with your agent. All players must dress appropriately for team functions. This includes all games and press conferences. Not exceptions."
"Really? We'll see about that." Demyan sat up and wrapped the white towel draped over his groin around his hips. He looked ready to make a smart-assed remark, but then noticed Rebecca, standing a few feet behind Dean. "Hey there, cutie. Sorry the GM is being rude—he should have made introductions before he started nagging." He held a hand out. "I'm Scott Demyan."
"Rebecca Bower." Rebecca strode forward and grabbed Demyan's hand, shaking it hard before blurting out. "I would like to ask you a few questions if you don't mind."
Raking his gaze over her professional attire like he was stripping each piece off with his eyes, Demyan nodded slowly. "Let me take you out to dinner and I'll tell you anything you want to know, babe."
"I won't be here that long." Rebecca gave him a sweet smile and pulled her wallet out of her purse. "I left my daughter with my parents, but I promised to be back in time to tuck her in. My flight leaves in an hour. I miss her so much. Isn't she adorable?"
The way Demyan stared at the picture of the sweet little girl with curly pigtails proved that Rebecca had chosen the right escape route. Men like him didn't fool around with women who had 'baggage'.
Demyan cocked his head to one side. "Can't your husband tuck her in?"
Rebecca held out her left hand, wiggling her fingers with an amused expression on her face. "I'm divorced."
"Get your parents to do it then. I swear, it'll be worth it."
That did it. Dean didn't want this scum-bag on his team. Unfortunately, he was stuck with him.
"A fifteen minute interview shouldn't make your condition any worse." Dean slapped Demyan's shoulder hard enough that both he and Rebecca winced. "This will show the fans how dedicated you are."
Demyan grumbled something under his breath and squared his shoulders. "Fine. What do you want to know?"
Rebecca dropped her purse on the table after taking out a notepad. She glanced at it, then shot off her first question. "You've been involved in several scandals, including one that involved two prostitutes. Should the Dartmouth Cobras expect the same behavior here or have you changed your ways?"
Gut check! Dean grinned. Not only had Rebecca turned the slick asshole down quite effectively, but she'd gone right for the jugular to begin her interview. He'd heard good things about the Bower family and he already liked Landon. Perhaps he should send Rebecca off with tickets for the first at home game so he could meet them all.
Shoving himself off the table, Demyan scowled at his clothes. "Mind if I get dressed before the interrogation?"
"Not at all," Rebecca said. "
I'll wait for you in the hall."
Dean followed her to the door, then glanced over his shoulder at Demyan. "My assistant will be present for the interview, since we're presently between PR agents and we don't want you to say anything that would damage your—or the team's—reputation."
"Wouldn't want that." Demyan pulled on his jeans, looked up, and let out a weak cough. "After that I'm heading home. I'll swing by around noon for the press thing."
"It's scheduled for 10am."
"10am it is then." Demyan rolled his eyes. "Anything else, Richter?"
"No, that will be all." Dean smiled. "Ms. Bower will meet with you in the player's lounge. I think she can handle things from there."
And sometime between now and then, I'll have to speak to Silver. He closed the door behind him and hesitated beside it. She screwed up. She needs to know the press will rub it in.
For some reason 'I told you so' didn't even register. All Dean could see was the coming media circus. All he could think of was ways to protect her from it.
Even though she'd brought this on herself.
* * * *
Landon uncapped a bottle of beer and passed it to Silver. They'd sat silently in the Owner's box through most of the first period while she remained fixed on the play as though he might give her a pop quiz when it was over. He relaxed into the cushy leather sofa and fought the urge to play with her hair as she leaned forward and held her breath.
Down on the ice, several players brought up from their farm team jostled for the puck. Callahan and Perron rested on the bench, red faced and exhilarated, even with their limited play time. Preseason was a time to get the team ready for the real games, and to test the rookies to see who was ready to take their place on the team. The best players took the ice for a couple of games and the results meant nothing. Still, he would have liked to be down there with his new team. It didn't matter that the stats didn't count. He was itching to prove himself.
Silver tugged his sleeve and let out a tiny growl as Luke Carter, a rookie power forward, took a nasty hit into the boards. "That can't be legal! We have to go down there and—"
Defensive Zone (The Dartmouth Cobras #2) Page 13