Delay of Game (The Baltimore Banners Book 6) (2 page)

Each shout, each scrape of metal on ice, pierced Justin's skull and threatened to send his head rolling from his shoulders. But he couldn't give in to the pain, couldn't give in to the urge to just skate off the ice and hit the locker room and curl into a ball and die.

Not when the coach was watching him with those narrowed eyes. He had no idea what Sonny LeBlanc was thinking, not with his face carved from granite. But the scar that slashed down along his cheek flashed an angry red, a sure sign that he wasn't happy.

Justin took a deep breath and turned away from the boards, forcing himself to focus. He moved his feet under him, sliding back and forth, side to side, until sweat poured from under his helmet and coated his face.

Two quick blasts from a whistle, the sound sharp and shrill in the cold air of the practice rink. A new drill, a new kind of torture for his ravaged body. Justin bent down and grabbed his stick from the ice, his stomach rolling with the motion.

Not now. Shit, not now.

He shook his head, trying to clear his mind, trying to focus on anything but his traitorous body. Then he moved forward, the blades of his skates slicing the ice as got into position for the shooting drill.

Mat Herron skated up next to him, spraying him with snow. "Looking a little rough there, Tome."

Justin grunted but didn't say anything, barely even nodded acknowledgment. Mat's voice was low, his words nothing more than an observation, maybe slightly laced with concern. Yeah, of course they'd be. How many times had Mat been the one to drag his sorry ass home and dump him in bed?

But not last night. Why the fuck couldn't Mat have been the one to take him home last night? Justin wanted to ask but said nothing. If he did, Mat might ask how he got home. Might ask questions Justin didn't want to answer, that he couldn't answer.

And Justin sure as hell wasn't going to tell him what happened. He wasn't going to tell anyone, not if there was even the slightest chance word would get back to Randy.

He let his gaze wander to the far side of the ice, where the Banners' defensemen were running their own drills. His eyes immediately found Randy, resting on his tall hulking form. Val's brother was only an inch or two taller than he was, maybe a little broader through the chest. Any other time, Justin figured they'd be almost evenly matched.

But this wasn't any other time, not when Randy's sister was concerned. And not when Justin wasn't in top condition, something he hadn't been for the last four or five months, not since right after Thanksgiving.

At least he hadn't done anything stupid last night, hadn't tried anything.

That he could remember. He wasn't completely certain Val had told him everything.

Yeah, because throwing up all over himself and her bathroom wasn't humiliating enough, right? Because passing out next to the toilet was nothing more than normal behavior. Because having your teammate's baby sister haul your sorry drunk ass to bed and strip you down was—

Pain exploded in his gut, sharp and burning. Justin dropped to his knees, bending over as he fought to catch his breath. Shit. Don't let me hurl, don't let me hurl—

"Tome! Get your ass over here."

Justin took another deep breath then slowly straightened, pausing long enough to kick the puck that had caught him in the stomach with his skate. Mat watched him, brows lowered over eyes filled with pity.

Fuck. He didn't need this shit. Not now, not on top of everything else. He turned on his skates and moved toward the bench, putting his all into each stride until he was standing in front of the coach.

Sonny stared at him, unmoving except for the small twitch in his right jaw. Silence stretched between them, long and uncomfortable. Justin fought the urge to squirm like a twelve-year-old caught with his hand up a girl's skirt. It didn't help to realize that's exactly how he felt. Only it was Sonny who caught him, not the girl's brother.

The coach gave him one last long look, those cold flat eyes raking over him from top to bottom and back again. He leaned to the side and spit, then motioned behind him with a jerk of his head.

"You're done for the day. Clean up and be in my office in thirty."

Justin opened his mouth to argue, to question. Hell, to beg. But one more cold look from Sonny stopped him. He snapped his mouth closed and stormed off the ice, pausing long enough to slam his stick against the wall leading back to the locker room. Once, twice. The stick broke in two, the curved blade flying behind him and bouncing off the wall. Justin threw the handle down the hallway and kept going, each stride long and angry.

He reached the locker room and tore off his helmet. It hit the locker across from his with a loud bang then fell to the floor and rolled away. Justin dropped to the bench and leaned forward, lowering his head into his hands.

Shit. Shit, fuck, dammit to hell.

Now what? He didn't want to think about what was coming, didn't want to know why Sonny told him to meet in his office. It didn't take a genius to figure out whatever was coming wasn't going to be good.

Justin's stomach tightened and rolled again, this time from fear and anxiety. How had things come this far? How had he completely fucked things up this bad? Maybe it wasn't that bad, maybe he was overreacting.

Yeah, right.

He pushed himself from the bench and peeled off his gear, removing each piece carefully before piling it in front of his locker. Then he grabbed his gym bag and towel and just stood there, looking around him.

Was this going to be the last time he stood here? The last time to gear up before hitting the ice, the last time he showered after practice? The knot of fear in his gut grew, pushing away everything else.

Please don't let him have completely fucked everything up to that point.

The words repeated themselves over and over in his mind as he showered and changed, becoming a never-ending chant. The chant grew louder, faster, as he walked down the hall to Sonny's door, as he knocked on it and waited.

And then his mind went blank, filled with nothing but fear when he walked into the office and saw Sonny sitting behind his desk—as well as the Assistant Coach, George Stephenson, standing to his side.

Sonny looked up from a stack of papers on the desk and fixed Justin with a flat stare, void of any thought or emotion. He finally motioned to one of the leather chairs in front of him, pointing at it with a blunt-tipped finger.

"Have a seat, Justin."

Justin. Not Tome. Surely that was a good sign, that Coach was using his first name, wasn't it?

He lowered himself into the chair, trying to look nonchalant when all he wanted to do was grip the leather armrests until they snapped off. Instead, he clasped his hands tightly together in his lap, forcing the soles of both feet to remain flat against the floor. He took a deep breath and glanced at George before turning back to face Sonny. The room was eerily quiet, the lack of noise oppressive and disconcerting.

Until Sonny's booming voice shattered the silence, causing Justin to jump in the chair.

"Anything going on you want to tell me about?"

Justin opened his mouth, then quickly shut it and swallowed. How was he supposed to answer that? He couldn't, not when he didn't have answers.

Not answers he could put into words, and definitely nothing he wanted to share.

"Coach?"

Sonny fixed him with those oddly flat eyes, showing no emotion. Then he let out a long breath and leaned back in his own chair. He laced his fingers together and placed them behind his head, taking his time as he brought one foot then the other up to rest on the desk. The chair squeaked with each movement, the sound grating at the base of Justin's skull.

"I had you on the front line the beginning of the season, playing you for twenty minutes or more each game." Sonny shifted in the chair, making it squeak again. "Now you're on the fourth line. Your ice time is pathetic, but not nearly as pathetic as your play. I'll ask you again. Is there anything going on you want to tell me about?"

"I—" Justin's throat closed up and he snapped his mouth closed. What the hell was he supposed to say? He didn't know, had no idea how to even begin explaining what was going on, not when he barely understood himself.

What was going on? Nothing, just him being a fuck-up, just like always. He squeezed his eyes shut and forced the accusing voice to the back of his mind. Then he looked down at his lap, at the skin pulled tight across his knuckles, pale and clammy. His leg was shaking, the sole of his shoe making soft thumping noises against the carpet.

Justin unclenched his hands and placed the palms flat against each knee, forcing his leg to remain still. Then he cleared his throat and looked back at Coach, his eyes focusing on a spot just behind the man's left shoulder.

"Just some personal stuff, Coach. Nothing I can't handle."

"Is that a fact?"

"Yes sir."

"Hm." Sonny watched him for several minutes, long minutes that stretched Justin's already worn nerves. Then the man sighed and dropped both feet back to the ground, each one hitting with a loud thump that echoed in the room. He leaned forward and pushed some papers around the desk, then stopped suddenly and fixed Justin with another steady look.

"Playoffs are in four weeks and I need everyone at the top of their game if we want to win that Cup again. Give me one good reason why I shouldn't send you back to the minors right now."

The bottom of Justin's stomach dropped open, filling him with icy paralysis. Everything around him faded, disappearing into a gray mist that threatened to suffocate him. The only thing he could see was Sonny's face, those emotionless steel gray eyes fixed on him. Hard, pointed, seeing everything, seeing too much.

Think, Tome, think. Sonny asked him for a reason. Why the hell was he just sitting here, not saying a fucking word? Everything he had worked for, everything he had ever wanted, was seconds away from being destroyed, tossed to the side like garbage.

His old man was right. He was a fuck-up.

Justin opened his mouth to speak, with no idea what he could say. But it was too late. Sonny waved him off with a sharp movement of one hand and a loud exhalation of breath.

And an expression of disappointment that cut deep into Justin's chest.

"You're a scratch tonight. 'Personal reasons'. Go home, think about why I shouldn't break every rule and pull every string I can to send you down. I don't want to see you until practice tomorrow. And I'm telling you right now, I catch just one whiff of alcohol, even mouthwash, on your breath—tomorrow or the next day or even next month—and you'll be packing your bags and moving north. Is that understood?"

"Yes sir."

"Go, get out of here. And think about what I said."

"Yes sir." Justin flew from the chair, nearly knocking it over in his haste to leave, wanting nothing more than to escape before Sonny changed his mind.

A scratch. He was a fucking scratch tonight. Anger bubbled just below the surface of his chest and he pushed it away. There was no reason for him to be angry, not when he knew it could have been so much worse.

It could still get so much worse.

The door closed behind him with a loud click, the sound bouncing off the painted concrete walls. Justin stopped in front of the large logo painted just outside Coach's office. A large eagle, its wings outstretched, its center colored red, white, and blue. Two crossed hockey sticks framed the ferocious bird, the bottoms clutched in its claws.

Justin had been traded to the Banners seven years ago, had his best years on the ice here in Baltimore. He was twenty-nine, he still had a few years left. A few good years, if he could get his head out of his ass and back on right. He didn't want those years wasted up north in the minors. Hell no. If that happened, he might as well just retire right now, because he'd never see ice in the major league again. That much was a certainty.

He closed his eyes and tilted his head back, ran the palms of both hands across his face. What the hell was he doing? Why the hell was he letting all the doubts, all the accusations, get to him now, of all times?

Bullshit. He knew better.

And he needed to get his act together. Now. But first—yeah, first, he needed to apologize to someone.

Val toed off her shoes then propped both feet on the edge of the desk, leaning forward to rub them. The movement stretched the muscles in the backs of her legs and she sighed, leaning forward even more.

What she needed was a massage. A full body, deep tissue massage. With aromatherapy oils. Yes, that was exactly what she needed. She tried to go at least once a month and she was—

She frowned, thinking. Yes, she was definitely overdue—by about eight months, at least. Her lips twitched up in a small smile. Just one more thing she said she'd make a habit of doing that never seemed to get done. Massages, long weekends off, day trips to nearby locations.

She sighed again then leaned back in the chair, her eyes darting around the small office. Trade-offs. It was all about the trade-offs. And the trade-offs were definitely worth it, especially if it meant being her own boss, having her own business.

She still couldn't believe it. Not only did she have her own business, but the business was successful. They had done it, all four of them. Her and her three friends: Alyssa Harris, Jodi Randall, and Renee Gilbert. Not only had they opened a sports bar and restaurant catering to women, they had made a success of it.

A huge success, if the nightly crowds and continued great reviews meant anything. And in this business, they meant the world.

They had just celebrated the second anniversary of The Maypole's opening. Enough time had gone by that she didn't have to spend fifteen hours a day here, seven days a week. No, she didn't have to, but she still did. Maybe not every day, not every week like when they first opened. But enough that she still didn't make time for those little trade-offs.

Like full body massages once a month.

Okay, maybe that was one thing she should work on getting better at. Instead of a splurge, she could call it an investment in mental clarity, something that would make her focus a little sharper for business.

Like right now.

She had given hostess duty to one of the waiters so she could come back here and work on the books. It should have taken her thirty minutes at the most, since the reports were constantly kept up-to-date. That made her life so much easier, so much smoother.

But instead of finishing the reports and heading back to the floor, she had drifted off into a ridiculous daydream.

Not just ridiculous. Silly. Stupid. Fanciful. Completely unlike her. She was intelligent, steady, with her head firmly on her shoulders. Val didn't daydream, not like this.

Not about guys.

No, not just any guy. About Justin Tome. Her brother's teammate.

She really needed to get her head out of the clouds. There was no reason for her to be dreaming about him, especially after last night.

Except last night was probably the reason she was dreaming about him. If she hadn't stripped him naked, she wouldn't be having this problem.

But there was no way she was going to let him sleep in her bed, on her sheets, in those disgusting, stained clothes. If she could have managed it, she would have thrown his ass in the shower. As it was, she had enough trouble getting him out of the car and into her condo. Never mind the hassle of getting him undressed after the mess he made all over her bathroom—and himself.

Justin Tome was too much of a partier and she shouldn't be thinking about him. Or his ass.

But what an ass it was. And not just his ass. He had the whole package, top to bottom and everywhere in between. Definitely in between.

"Oh for crying out loud, knock it off."

"Talking to yourself now?"

Val started, her hand automatically going to her chest as she turned in the chair. Alyssa laughed and walked over to the desk, sinking into the chair with a loud sigh. "My feet are killing me."

"I was thinking the same thing."

"Really? Is that why were you telling yourself to knock it off?"

Val looked away, surprised to feel her face heating. Silly, completely silly. And completely unlike her. She shook her head, more to tell herself to stop then as an answer to Alyssa's question, and lowered her feet to the floor. She bent down with a groan, not wanting to put the heels back on but knowing she had to—she certainly couldn't go back out to the floor without them.

"So you're blushing, and refusing to answer my question. Why do I think your mind was on something else besides feet?"

"It was nothing, honest. Just me being silly."

"Silly?"

Val waved away the question then leaned forward to make sure the latest entries were up-to-date in the computer program before saving it. No, she wasn't avoiding Alyssa's question, she really wasn't.

"So what happened last night?"

"What do you mean?"

"Val, this is me you're talking to. I know you took Justin home because he got trashed. Again."

Val whipped her head around so fast that strands of hair struck her face. She batted the loose strands from her cheek and mouth and pinned Alyssa with a death stare. "Alyssa, you have to swear you won't tell Randy. I mean it. Pinky swear."

"Why would I tell Randy?"

"Oh, I don't know. Maybe because you're living with him? I mean it, pinky swear right now."

"I'm not going to tell him." Alyssa leaned forward and wrapped her pinky around Val's, squeezing once for good measure. "I know how your brother gets. And honestly, it's none of his business anyway. So—did anything happen?"

"No, nothing happened." Val leaned back in the chair but couldn't quite meet Alyssa's whiskey-colored eyes. Which was ridiculous, because nothing happened. Nothing at all.

"Really? Are you sure about that?"

"Of course I'm sure. I would know, wouldn't I?" Val shook her head. "He was drunk, you saw that."

"Yeah. I'm still not sure why you volunteered to take him home, though."

"What was I supposed to do, leave him here? It's not like he could drive and all the other guys left. It wasn't a big deal."

"Are you sure about that?"

"Yes, I'm sure. I barely got him inside before he passed out. The man weighs a ton." Val didn't think she needed to tell Alyssa that he was pure solid muscle. Or how well-defined those muscles were. Or how—

Yeah, she so needed to stop thinking like that. What was wrong with her? She was working too much, that had to be it. She could afford to take time off now, and she should do exactly that. First thing in the morning, she'd call and schedule that massage.

Alyssa shrugged, the move almost too casual. "Okay, if you're sure nothing happened that you would tell your best friend about."

"Alyssa, of course I'm sure." Val met her friend's eyes but only for a second before she looked away. She sighed, her shoulders slumping. "Okay, fine. He got sick and I had to undress him. But that was it. Nothing happened. Well, okay. Maybe I peeked. A little. No. A lot. Oh hell. Okay, I ogled the man's naked body while he was passed out on my bed. I'm a pervert. There, I said it. I'm a twisted pervert. Are you happy now?"

Alyssa laughed, the sound almost too loud in the small room. Val muttered then reached for a pen and tossed it at her friend. Alyssa ducked and the pen bounced off the wall with a tiny ping.

"It's not funny! I haven't been able to stop thinking about it all day. I need help. Therapy, I think."

"You still have any chocolate in your desk?"

"Oh, good idea!" Val yanked open the middle drawer and rummaged through the contents until her hand closed around a plastic bag. She pulled it out with a smile of triumph and sat it in the middle of the desk. Two pieces for her, two for Alyssa.

They ate the chocolate in silence, giving it the attention it deserved. Then Val balled up the tiny foil wrappers and tossed them into the trashcan next to the desk.

"So you're sure that's all that happened? Because Justin is a good looking guy and you’ve been watching him for the past few months whenever he comes in here."

"Yes, honest. And so what if he's good looking? He’s been partying too much. So not worth the trouble."

Alyssa shrugged and tossed her own wrappers into the trash. "Just checking. Because he's sitting out at the bar right now."

"What?" Val nearly jumped from the chair. She couldn't have heard correctly. "You can't be serious. It has to be someone else."

"No, it's definitely him. I did a double-take when I first saw him."

"But they have a game tonight." Val frowned, mentally going over her brother's schedule. Maybe she had the days mixed up. She looked over at Alyssa. "Don't they?"

"Yes, they do. And then they leave for Buffalo after practice tomorrow morning."

"Then why is he here? He should be at the arena!"

"That's what I thought, too. Which is why I came back here to ask you what happened."

"Oh, this can't be good." Val pushed away from the desk and hurried across the small room, Alyssa right behind her. Noise greeted them as soon as she opened the door. A cacophony of dozens of voices in conversation, the clatter of silverware against plates and the tinkling of glass against glass. Underneath that the steady rhythm of music, just loud enough to be heard. Val paused, her gaze moving across the tables and booths to the large bar.

Nearly every stool was occupied but she still had no trouble spotting Justin. He was sitting at the end, his stool pushed slightly away from everyone else. She paused, taking in his strong profile and rugged looks. Dark blonde hair, a little shaggy, scraping past the collar of his green polo shirt. The sleeves of the shirt pulled tight across his sculpted arms, not quite hiding the tribal tattoo encircling his left bicep. He had another one, she knew. A ferocious eagle done with exquisite line work high up on the right side of his chest. Her fingers had traced the lines last night, when he was passed out in her bed.

Heat flooded her at the memory. Embarrassment, and something else she didn't want to admit to. No, she wasn't going there. She couldn't go there. It didn't matter how good looking he was, Justin Tome had too much baggage. Val didn't care how many times Randy accused her of wanting to fix things. Her brother's teammate was a project she didn't want. She wasn't interested. No way, no how.

Alyssa nudged her in the back. "Are you going to go talk to him, find out what's going on?"

Val should say no. She should disappear back into her office until he left. Better yet, she should just go home.

Justin shifted on the stool, his head turning in her direction. His dark gaze met hers, wary and uncertain. He shifted again, acknowledging her with a small nod. But he didn't look away, just kept watching her.

Like he was waiting.

And if he hadn't looked so uncertain, so damned lonely, she would have been able to just nod in return and disappear back into her office. Val sighed and moved forward, weaving through the tables, stopping to smile or say hi as she made her way to the bar.

Darrin, their head bartender, noticed her coming and shoved a spare stool from behind the bar next to Justin, giving her a place to sit. She didn't want to sit. She didn't even want to be here.

But she was already next to Justin, her hand reaching out to grab the back of the stool as she climbed onto it. She nodded at Darrin then turned to face Justin, not sure what to say or how to act.

Which was ridiculous. Nothing happened between them, she shouldn't be feeling like they were getting ready to have that awkward morning-after conversation. He had passed out after getting sick, that was all. So what if she had been watching him the last few months? So what if she saw him in all his naked glory? So what if she fixed him breakfast this morning? It wasn't the same thing. Not at all.

She took a deep breath and pasted a smile on her face. "How's your head?"

Justin shrugged, no trace of even a grin to let her know he realized she was teasing him. "It's been better."

Val nodded toward the sweaty glass he was holding between his two large hands. "Hair of the dog?"

"What?" He glanced down then looked back at her, shaking his head. "Oh. No, just plain iced tea."

Val gave up the forced smile and looked away. This conversation was going nowhere, more than awkward. She had no idea what else to say, not with Justin sitting there looking so lost and lonely.

He wasn't her project. He wasn't anyone's project.

So why did she just want to put her arms around him and tell him everything was going to be better? Silly. Silly and senseless.

"You can have a sip if you don't believe me."

"What?" She turned her head as Justin held up his glass, holding it out for her. Val shook her head. "No, that's okay. I believe you."

He sat the glass back on the bar, his large hands still curled around it. Rough hands with long, strong fingers and blunt nails, neatly trimmed. And why in the world was she studying his hands? Why was she even sitting here, not saying anything to break the awful awkward silence?

Her eyes drifted to one of the large flat screen televisions suspended behind the bar. The hockey game was on, of course. She squinted, looking for the score. The Banners were tied 2-2 with 9 minutes left in the second.