GAME MISCONDUCT (The Dartmouth Cobras) (7 page)

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.”

T
he 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 flowers 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?”

Her tiny nose wrinkled and her nostrils flared. “Definitely. Why, do you have an idea?”

“I might.” But she wouldn’t like it. Fuck, he wished he could come up with something else—
anything
else. Instead, he had to use the one thing that would remind her of why she’d ditched him in the first place. “What would you think of involving the other guys?”

The look on her face was priceless. Lips parted, cheeks cherry red, she stared at him like he’d just asked her to strip and strut around the forum naked. His lips quirked. The next part of his plan was almost as bad.

“The other guys?” Her voice squeaked and she turned even redder. “How many of them?”

Hell, she thinks I mean the whole team!
“Just four. My line and two defenseman.”

“Ah.” She rubbed her bare arms, then covered her cleavage with her hand. “And what exactly do I do with them all?”

“You don’t have to do anything.” He reached out and curved his hand under her jaw, angling her face up so she could see the camera in the hall right between the locker-room and the bathroom. “We’ll just make it look like you did.”

Her hand slid up to her throat. “Oh.”

Oh?
Frowning, he studied her face. She blinked at him and pulled away.

Very strange. She seemed nervous, but Mason always said dilated pupils combined with rapid blinking and—he watched her tongue dart over her bottom lip—
that,
were signs of arousal. His blood surged downward and his palms got damp. He’d been worried about scaring her, but his suggestion seemed to have had a very different effect.

The metallic heels of her boots clicked as she walked across the room, watching him through the mirror. “So you think evidence that I’m . . . fooling around with the team . . . you think that will be enough?”

“I don’t know—Paul’s got some pride; I don’t see him wanting to be associated with something like that, but this is more about your father.” He paused, meeting her eyes in the reflection. “I have a reputation, Oriana. There are a lot of rumors about me sharing women. If I bring the guys in here, and then walk out with you half naked—”

All the color left her face. “Half naked? You want me to walk out of here—”

He quickly stepped up behind her to hug her before she got all upset for nothing. “In a jersey or somethin’, I know you’re not into exhibitionism.”

“Max.” She squirmed in his arms until she was facing him. Her fingers hooked over the collar of his white undershirt. “I might—”

Please don’t say it. Not unless you . . .
Breath held, eyes shut, he waited. And waited.

“Um.” She gave his shirt a little tug. He looked at her, and she looked away. “Let’s get this over with.”

“Sure.” He ground his teeth, then glanced at her hand. “You’ll have to let me go.”

“I know, I just . . .” Her fingers slid up the length of his throat. She licked her lips again, deliberately, as though savoring the last drop of something sweet. Or slightly salty. “Will you—”

“God, woman! You’re going to drive me insane!” He took her face between his hands and kissed her, groaning when her lips and body fitted against his. Slick, peach-flavored lip gloss smeared everywhere. The depths of her mouth held pure, hot sin. But the tentative touch of her tongue was almost innocent. Letting out a gruff sound, he deepened the kiss, loving how she clung to his shoulders and took everything he gave. In this moment, she accepted him. Because her head wasn’t telling her not to.

This woman—this unhindered, passionate woman—usually hid from the world. But he’d gotten glimpses in the past of all her many facets. The sweet, eager-to-please girl. The clever imp. The hot-blooded tease—who didn’t often come out to play.

I won’t let you stash them and be all proper, darlin’. Not this time.

He caressed her tongue with his, then grazed the sensitive spot on the roof of her mouth. She bunched up the collar of his shirt in her hands like she was afraid he’d get away. And he wanted to stay with her more than she’d ever understand.

If only his needs were different. Or hers.

But his body’s needs seemed normal enough now. His pulse raced and his dick got hard. Like any guy who wanted a woman.

“I’m willing to try, Oriana.” He sucked on her bottom lip, then moved down to kiss the slender length of her throat. “Not here, but when this is done, we’ll go out to dinner and act like a regular couple. If you can forget what you saw and what I said—”

“No. I won’t forget and I won’t pretend.” Oriana retreated a step and put a finger on his lips. “I already told you I wouldn’t do that to you.”

He felt like she’d just thrown ice water in his face. She wouldn’t even give him a chance. Not that he blamed her. What she’d seen him and Sloan do would traumatize most women.

Her fingers stroked along his cheek, then delved into his hair. She rose up on her tiptoes and gave him a quick kiss. “You said we should take this one step at a time. How about we do that?”

“Yeah.” Drawing her into a firm embrace, he pressed his lips to her brow before backing. “Let’s do that.”

* * * *

Black leather boots, a book bag, and a white jacket were strewn across the bathroom floor. Sloan followed Perron, confused as hell when he saw who was inside. He hadn’t expected to see
her
again. Wasn’t sure he wanted to.

Oriana Delgado sat on the wide, gray laminate counter, bare feet on the edge of the white sink, forehead resting on the mirror. The reflection showed him her face was blotchy, like she’d been crying. Sloan didn’t feel an ounce of pity for her. What could this stuck-up brat possibly have to cry about?

“Oriana,” Perron said. “They’re here.”

Her eyes pressed shut, she gave a jerky nod, then hopped off the counter. Looking unsteady on her feet, she turned to face them. “I—”

Perron stopped her mid-turn and ran his hands down her back. His fingers brushed the exposed flesh of her ass where the bottom of her dress had twisted to one side. Sloan’s mouth went dry. That heart-shaped butt was just made to fit in his palms, made for him to squeeze while he . . .
fuck!
Even outside, all covered up, she’d tempted him. Now, with her all rumpled and temptingly vulnerable, it was impossible to feign disinterest.