Goal Line (The Dartmouth Cobras Book 7) (2 page)

Someone was shouting on the phone. Cort lifted his hand and started folding fingers down as he stared down at Grant.

And continued his conversation with the caller, sounding much calmer. “No, ma’am. I think you heard wrong.”

He continued counting down with his fingers. Started on the last five.

Grant shot her an apologetic look and got in his car, swerving out of the parking lot before Cort reached one.

After ending the call, Cort faced Sahara with his hands on her shoulders. “Give me one good reason not to make sure the man can’t walk, never mind play.”

Sahara planted her hands in the center of Cort’s chest and shoved him away from her, so angry she couldn’t find words at first. Then she found plenty. “His mother just died and he needs a friend! I can’t believe you just did that! You’re nothing but a…a thug! You’re protecting me from him with violence? Do you really think you’re better than him?”

Cort blinked, jerking back like she’d slapped him. “I’ve never hurt a woman, Sahara. Akira told me not to come, but she was crying—she’s afraid for you. The man left bruises on you. I thought you were smarter than this.”

“I’m smart enough to handle my own affairs. I’ll explain things to Akira, but I don’t have to explain myself to you!” Tears blurred her vision as she spun away from him and ran back into the apartment. Grant had reached out to her and now he probably thought he couldn’t come near her if he wanted to live. She slammed her door and checked her phone. He hadn’t called. Not that she blamed him. Apparently being around her wasn’t safe.

Groaning, she slumped onto her stiff new loveseat and buried her face in her hands. The one chance she’d had to tear out a dark page of her past was ruined.

Her phone rang. She snatched it up and let out a sob of relief when she saw Grant’s number. She answered. “I’m so sorry about that. Are you okay?”

“I’m all right.” Grant laughed nervously. “That dude was nuts! Who is he?”

“One of my best friends’ boyfriends. I talked to her just before I answered the door.”

“Ah…well, then I can’t really blame her for sending him.”

Sahara blinked. “What?”

“Sweetie, all she knows is who I was. She’s right to worry, and I’m happy you have people who care about you.” He sighed. “Maybe, one day, I’ll earn their trust. And yours. But that won’t happen overnight.”

She rubbed her eyes and smiled. If Akira could hear Grant now, she’d understand why Sahara couldn’t turn her back on him. He needed someone to believe in him. She could be that person. Reclining on the sofa, she let out a rough exhale. “Well, you’re off to an awesome start.”

* * * *

With the first playoff game starting tomorrow, Dominik Mason knew he should rest. Instead, he ditched his white tank top, pulled on boxing gloves, and prepared to face off against the Dartmouth Cobras’ assistant coach. A man he’d once considered a good friend. Maybe would again someday.

Today wasn’t about being friendly. Assistant Coach Sloan Callahan had invited the players for optional physical training in the semiprivate boxing club the Cobras’ owner had recently drawn up a contract with. Other hockey teams had their players take boxing for conditioning and discipline, and the owner had decided the Cobras were badly in need of both. With professionals carefully supervising, any risk was negligible. A fight on the ice would do more damage, but most of the players weren’t brawlers anyway. They’d pull their punches and each match would be short. Not a single man wanted to do real harm.

As the team’s captain, Dominik was expected to set a good example. But he was more than willing to get into the ring with Sloan and work off some steam. He let the trainer put in his mouthguard and glanced around the large, dimly lit room. All the men were dressed similarly to him and Sloan, in white tank tops or T-shirts and black and gold Cobra gym shorts. Several players had teamed up at the hanging punching bags. Scott Demyan, reformed playboy and one of their team’s top snipers, secured a bag for their rookie backup goalie, Dave Hunt. The youngster was a large mammal with a shorter fuse than Dominik had on his worst day. The way he hit the bag, with precise jabs and powerful swings, made it clear he’d done this before.

Doesn’t look like training helped the kid control his temper much
. Dominik grinned when Demyan released the bag and stumbled backward when it swung and hit him. Demyan’s lack of experience was pretty obvious, but with hands like his, the last thing they wanted was for him to be fighting on the ice.

Sloan was the prime example of why. He’d had a hell of a shot when he’d played for them, but he’d broken his hand on a helmet during a fight, trying to prove himself an asset when the old team management had attempted to turn the Cobras into a more “physical” team. His bones hadn’t set right, and after surgery, his stickhandling and shot had never returned to his former elite level, so he’d retired young. But he was still a damn good leader and he’d be a decent match for Dominik in a fight.

Bouncing in place to warm up, Dominik glanced over at the boxing trainer who gestured for him and Sloan to meet in the center of the ring. A feminine cheer drew his attention to the side, and he had to bite down on his mouthpiece to keep from groaning when he saw the Delgado girls. Or, more specifically, Oriana.

He’d been in love with Oriana once, had shared her with Sloan and Max Perron, a man the team and fans called The Catalyst. Oriana was married to Max and collared by Sloan. She’d once been collared by Dominik, but he knew now he’d never really meshed with the other two men. They were Oriana’s future. Together, they made her happy. He’d only stood in their way.

Enough time had passed for him to make peace with letting her go, but he wasn’t comfortable with her cheering on Sloan from the sidelines. Not that he could tell her to go away. Her family might not own the team anymore, but they were still deeply involved in management. With Silver here and… Yeah, there he was, their brother, Ford, standing near the door observing all the players with detached interest. The siblings had a right to see how well prepared the players were for tomorrow’s game. Maybe, if he could just be professional about the whole thing, her being here wouldn’t matter.

Her being here
doesn’t
matter, Mason.
Dominik nodded to himself and bumped his gloves against Sloan’s. The other man didn’t seem at all affected by his woman’s presence. Dominik tensed and relaxed his muscles. Rolled his neck and backed a few paces, giving Sloan the opening to make the first move. He didn’t
really
want to hurt the other man, but the sadistic fuck would get off on hurting him. Best to end this as quickly as possible.

Sloan’s dark green eyes fixed on Dominik’s face and his lips quirked at the edges. He inched forward, fists raised.

A whistle blew and they both looked over to the left where the head coach, Roger Shero, was climbing into the ring. Gray and white streaked his dark auburn hair and the beard he’d started to grow. He reminded Dominik of someone’s grandfather, soft enough for a kid to sit in his lap for story-time. But he was a damn good coach, tailoring his approach to each player, not missing so much as a dirty look or a grumble in the locker room. No doubt he knew every detail of Dominik and Sloan’s past conflict.

The older man took off his black suit jacket and handed it to the trainer before waving him away. He straightened his black-and-white striped tie, his brown eyes twinkling with amusement as he looked from Dominik to Sloan.

“I’d hoped the two of you would get us started.” Shero patted Sloan’s bare shoulder. “New whiteboard rule proposed by Callahan. You boys have a problem, it gets resolved in the ring. No more fighting in the locker room.” He laughed and shook his head. “For the two of you, perhaps I should add the hallway as well.”

Not much fazed Sloan, but his cheeks reddened slightly at the reminder of their scuffle weeks ago. The fight hadn’t started with them, but it had escalated with their lingering animosity. He jerked his chin in a sharp nod. “You got it, Coach.”

Dominik inclined his head. “I’m good with that, Coach Shero.”

“Excellent. Keep it clean and don’t forget we’ve got a game tomorrow. You get five minutes to knock each other around.” Shero stepped back and motioned them toward one another. “You may begin.”

Cheers from the players that gathered around Oriana and Silver distracted Sloan for a split second. Dominik swung his fist, clipping Sloan in the jaw just hard enough to get his attention. Dark eyes narrowed, Sloan brought his fist up to protect his face and shifted sideways, snapping out a right hook at Dominik’s ribs.

Smoothly blocking, Dominik drove an uppercut into Sloan’s chin. Sloan stumbled a few steps, then returned in full force, each punch solid, but none landing anywhere that could slow Dominik in the least. The man didn’t have the technique to catch Dominik off guard. He blocked fairly well, but he was tiring himself out with each ineffective swing.

Maybe Dominik had misjudged him. He snapped a jab into Sloan’s sternum, then a left hook to Sloan’s face. Kept swinging until Sloan’s back hit the ropes. A sharp command from Shero and Dominik retreated to let Sloan catch his breath. The satisfaction in overpowering the other man was shallow. Without the rules of the ring, Sloan might have had a chance, but he was playing Dominik’s game now.

Blood pumping, his whole body vibrating with energy, Dominik watched Sloan recover and turned as Sloan circled him. He braced when Sloan lunged forward, absorbing the impact and slamming both his fists into Sloan’s sides. He shoved Sloan off and cracked him in the jaw hard enough to end the fight. Sloan fell to the mat, snarled, and bounded to his feet.

Shero blew the whistle. Time was up. He grabbed Dominik’s arm. “Good match! The enforcer takes this round.” He glanced over at Sloan. “Gloves off and shake hands. Show the men how it’s done.”

After removing his gloves, Dominik pulled out his mouthpiece. He met Sloan’s eyes, not sure how he’d take the loss. He held out his hand.

Grinning, Sloan took Dominik’s hand. His grip was solid, not a display of strength, but a genuine handshake. He even laughed as Dominik’s brow furrowed and pulled him in for a rough, backslapping hug. “If I’d wanted to win, I wouldn’t have gotten in the ring with you.”

Dominik snorted. “Fair enough.”

Sloan lowered his voice. “This isn’t the end. We’ll pretend for the guys though. If they think we’ve gotten over our shit, they’ll do the same.”

Jaw hardening, Dominik released Sloan’s hand. He forced a smile as he got out of the ring, but he couldn’t shake the impact of Sloan’s words. There was no reason for them to hang on to the past. He’d moved on. Oriana was Sloan’s now. What more did the man want?

But as Sloan moved over to the refreshment table with Oriana at his side, Dominik hesitated. His mouth was dry and he wanted to grab a bottle of Gatorade, but seeing Oriana touch Sloan’s cheek with concern in her eyes brought a bitter taste to his mouth. He inhaled slowly and went to the pile of white towels on a bench against the wall at the other side of the room.

Something cold touched his back. He cursed and spun around, almost knocking Tyler Vanek, the team’s golden boy, right on his ass.

Vanek held out the bottle of water like a peace offering. Behind him, Raif Zovko, the team’s newest star acquisition, steadied Vanek with a hand on the young man’s shoulder. Zovko was Vanek’s Dom, and one of the few players Dominik considered a friend.

So Dominik took the bottle and grinned at Vanek. “Sorry, kid. Adrenaline has me all edgy.” He uncapped the bottle, gulped half, and then wiped his lips with the back of his hand. “You’re not here to fight, are you?”

“Hell no! No one I hate enough to try and punch them, and Chicklet would get pissed if I came home with my face all messed up. And Raif would do bad things to me that would be no fun before I even got home to her, so…” Vanek shrugged, then looked over at Sloan. “Did that really work for you guys? If Callahan hadn’t been there for me in the hospital, I might have considered getting in the ring with him.”

Zovko’s expression shifted from amusement to interest. “If you truly want to be beaten by Callahan, I’m sure it could be arranged, Ty.”

“Umm…no thanks.” Vanek chewed on his bottom lip. “Besides, Chicklet wouldn’t let you—”

“Would you care to make a wager on that?” Zovko smirked when Vanek quickly shook his head, then turned to Dominik. “We are here because Demyan has asked to meet me in the ring.”

“Awesome.” Dominik shook his head and looked over to where Scott Demyan, one of the trio—which included Vanek—that players, and now fans, referred to as the “trouble triplets.” Zovko had dated Demyan’s partner, Zachary Pearce, in the minors. When Zovko joined the team, many had believed he and Pearce were having an affair. The issue was resolved, but apparently Demyan wanted his pound of flesh for his troubles.

Done with his own match, Dominik had planned to go home and chill for the night, but he decided to stay and offer Zovko his support since the man had few friends on the team. Besides, several of the other pairings were worth watching. The reasons for the fights were laughable. Everything from hogging the puck to not paying the fair share on a dinner bill. But unlike Sloan and Dominik, most of the players seemed to be having fun in the ring. Men came out laughing and arranging to go out for a couple of beers.

The last fight was supposed to be Demyan and Zovko, but raised voices on the other side of the crowd cut off Coach Shero’s call to the ring. Ian White, who usually handled the fights on the ice when Dominik wasn’t out there, was staring down Hunt. Both appeared to be growling like two junkyard dogs off their chains. Hell, Dominik must have missed whatever drama had come between the two, but Shero didn’t seem surprised.