GAME MISCONDUCT (The Dartmouth Cobras) (27 page)

“Quite the handful, aren’t you, cutie?” He patted her hand and winked. “If I was ten years younger, I’d give these boys a run for their money.”

Face red as fall leaves, Oriana ducked into the car.

His dad was right, a handful. But a good one.

And she’d made his father smile. And laugh. Had to admit, it made him love her a little.

S
kate laces tied tight, Oriana stood and let the other woman dress her in all the necessary protective gear. The pads felt weird, heavy, like wearing armor. She rolled her shoulders to make sure she could move despite the weight.

“Good?” asked the girl, who’d been introduced as Chicklet. She popped the gum she chewed nonstop. “Not too tight?”

Oriana nodded absently, then glanced at the other three women in the locker room. They had their backs to her and were whispering.

“They don’t seem happy that I’m playing.”

Chicklet snorted. “They’re thrilled. They just won’t show it because you’re the opponent. Once your name was picked for the red team, the head games started. Don’t let it get to you.”

Ah
. One of the girls looked over, and Oriana gave her the snobby look she usually reserved for pushy reporters.

“That’s the spirit!” Chicklet said. After handing Oriana a plain red jersey, she combed the bangs of her short brown hair away from her face, then put on her huge goalie mask. “Ready?”

“Yep.” Jersey on, stick in one hand, helmet hanging from the other, Oriana wobbled toward the door. “I might be a little rusty, but I promise, nothing gets to the net unless I’m glued to the boards.”

“Good enough.” Chicklet swung out her stick, smacking Oriana’s padded butt with the blade. Oriana let out a muffled shriek and Chicklet laughed. “Guess I can figure out why Sloan likes you so much. You’re into that ‘chain ’em and beat ’em stuff.”

“Well . . .” Oriana already felt like she was boiling inside all the equipment; flushing didn’t help. “I don’t—”

Chicklet held up one gloved hand. “Just an observation, kid. I’m bisexual, so I don’t presume to judge.”

Looking to be in her late thirties, Chicklet displayed a confidence Oriana wished she could emulate. The bold proclamation should have shocked her, but, considering what had passed between her and the men over the past week, she found herself taking it in stride.

The only thing that surprised her was what Chicklet knew about Sloan. She’d gotten the impression that he kept that part of his life private.

“So, you and Sloan, have you been friends long?” She stopped halfway down the long hallway and braced her hands against the gray stucco wall, rolling her ankles in the skates to relieve some of the strain.

“Ever since he moved his dad here five years ago. His dad served in the Navy for twenty years, making Sloan your typical military brat. He’s lived all over the place. The only constant was hockey—his dad made sure he was on a team, no matter where he was deployed. That’s how we met. Even though Sloan had been playing in the minors since he was seventeen, his father was so used to asking around for local teams that he did it automatically before he’d even settled in. People in town thought he was nuts—why the hell would Sloan Callahan want to play with us? But Jim’s such a nice guy, I told him to come watch us play a few times, see if his son would be interested. Found out the old guy was a pretty decent player himself.” Chicklet stuck her stick between her wide, black leg pads, and rested her chin on top of the handle. “We get together every weekend. Took a few months before Sloan had the time to visit. By then, everyone was excited. We’d all heard so much about Sloan, it was like we knew him. A bunch of guys organized a barbeque as a kind of ‘welcome to the neighborhood.’”

Oriana pushed away from the wall and rocked on her skates. “What happened?”

“Sloan didn’t show up.” Chicklet grinned, her puckish face small behind the white cage of her mask. She chomped harder on her gum. “People were pissed. They decided he was a jerk, but they acted all sweet around him whenever they saw him after ‘cause they didn’t want to upset Jim. I didn’t feel the same—I knew the man could take it. They came into my bar one night, and I flat out ignored Sloan.”

“What did he do?” Oriana asked, leaning so far forward she almost fell over. Sloan wasn’t the kind of guy who would react well to any kind of disrespect. And Chicklet didn’t seem like the type of woman who would let him spank her for it. “He must have been mad.”

Chicklet laughed. “He sure was. He cornered me at the bar and asked me what my problem was. So I told him. ‘You ain’t better than us,’ I said.” Her chewing slowed. “He nodded, then said, real quiet like, ‘I know.’ So I asked him why he didn’t show up. Apparently, he doesn’t like crowds. Can you believe that? Famous hockey player like him.”

Didn’t seem to make sense. Sloan obviously wasn’t shy—he dealt with the press just fine. Something about Chicklet’s tone told her there was more to it.

But what?

“He deals with crowds almost every day during the season,” Oriana said, thinking out loud. “Never seems to bother him.”

“Nope.” Chicklet’s teeth flashed, then disappeared as she blew a big pink bubble. “I don’t think it does.”

“Then . . .” Oriana looked down the hall, listening to the faint sound of music coming from the arena, thinking back on the log cabin with boxes full of Sloan’s things stacked up in the attic. Of the room Jim showed her, Sloan’s room. “This is the first real home Sloan’s ever had.”

“Cute and smart.” Chicklet popped her gum. “Sloan wanted normal here. He knew he couldn’t have it, but the big fuss his first day threw him off. He felt like he had no control.”

Oriana traced her upper lip with her tongue. “I can see that being a problem.”

“You don’t know the half of it. Sloan’s got violent tendencies he works very hard to restrain. He uses fighting on the ice, and rough stuff in the clubs, as an outlet,” Chicklet said. “He won’t put himself in situations where he might lose his cool. He wasn’t feeling right about things, so he stayed away.”

The door at the end of the hall opened, and the ruckus from the arena blasted into the hall like big speakers turned full blast. The fresh scent of new ice drifted in, followed by the overpowering aroma of popcorn and cheap beer. A man in a red jersey propped the door open with his stick.

“Coming?” he asked.

Not yet!
Oriana hooked her gloved hand around Chicklet’s arm before she could step away. Chicklet frowned the same way Dominik did when she got grabby. She let her hand fall. “Sloan . . . told you all this?”

Chicklet blew at her own face as though to cool herself off, then nodded. “Yes, but it’s not like you think. Sloan’s not my type—I like pretty boys that let me dress them up. But I knew how to get Sloan what he needed.”

Sweaty fist clenched in her gloves, Oriana turned her head to dry her upper lip on the sleeve of her jersey. “Someone who likes pain?”

“Loves it.”

“Is she here?”

“Number seven, Lindsey Moore.” Chicklet arched a brow. “Why?”

“No reason.” With a slight shake of her head, she started down the hall. Between the layers of pads, the wool socks, the humongous gloves with the strange stink of stale pickles—no wonder she was feeling off. A bit dizzy, nothing more. A drink and she’d be fine.

The glaring arena lights reflected off the ice, temporarily blinding her. Then her vision cleared, and all she could see was the stands. Packed with people.

Cameras, she could do. Sitting in a crowded stadium, hell, even kissing Sloan in front of all those people hadn’t been so bad. Actually, it had been kind of nice.

But these people were going to watch her struggle to keep up with two pros and people who played once a week. She hadn’t even skated since she was thirteen! She was going to make an ass of herself, and they’d all be there to witness her humiliation.

“Skate a few laps to warm up,” Chicklet said, propelling her toward the rink. She leaned close, then whispered. “Sloan and Lindsey are already out there—looks like they’re getting reacquainted.”

True enough. One look and she spotted Sloan, the biggest person on the ice, skating backward while a clunky woman wearing a black jersey with the number 7 plastered on her back, followed. Oriana could tell the only reason the woman looked clunky was because of all the equipment. The graceful way she glided across the ice reminded Oriana of Silver. Every movement was meant to entice. But even Silver wouldn’t have looked that good with that bulk.

Sloan’s laughter echoed across the cold expanse of the rink like the toll of a massive bell. Oriana bit the tip of her tongue and surged forward, sweeping the pile of pucks off the boards by the red team’s benches. They clunked onto the glassy surface like a dozen rubber stones. She grabbed a stick and stepped onto the ice. Her left skate slipped. She toppled to the right. Her arms flailed, and her stick went flying.

The world spun. Her chin struck something solid. Something warm. “Oomf!” Her teeth gouged her tongue and blood filled her mouth. But she hadn’t hit the ice. She was still standing.

Firm arms wrapped around her waist and led her closer to the boards. She glanced up and smiled tremulously at the boyish angel face above her.

“You said you could play.” Tyler skidded a little ways from her but kept one hand under her elbow. “I thought that meant you could skate too.”

“I can, it’s just been . . .” At another boom of laughter, she ground her teeth. “A long time.”

“Hmm.” Tyler slid backward on his skates, then forward, never moving his supportive hand. “Were you any good? If you were, your body will remember.”

She blushed and ducked her head. Her helmet felt like a furnace. “I could do some pretty cool spins, and I was fast.” Fast enough that she’d made it through the tryouts for the Queens County minor hockey league bantam team. They told her she had skill. She dropped out when her father absently told her women had no business playing the sport. And he didn’t respect those who tried.

One of many stupid moves she’d made on a long list while trying to please her father. A list she planned to mentally crumple and burn. Her wild week would mark a fresh start.

If only she could manage it on her own two feet.

“Your body doesn’t forget much, sweetheart.” Tyler backed her into the boards and pressed against her. “You’ll probably be able to recall the feeling of me being deep inside you years from now.” His gaze shifted from side to side, then he pressed a quick kiss on her lips. “Not that I won’t be giving you constant reminders.”

Tyler’s words made her feel very old. Only the young leapt into relationships head first and believed things would last. She couldn’t see the future as bright and shiny; too much was bound to go wrong.

But she had today—maybe tomorrow. Plenty of time to make some memories.

“Keep that up and I’m gonna think you only want me for one thing.” She folded her arms over her chest, slipped, then grabbed the boards with both hands.

“Right now, I do.” He put his gloved hand on the small of her back and eased her about a foot away from the boards. “I need you watching my back. We’ve got about five minutes to get you used to the ice again.”

Right then, she didn’t think five years would be enough, but after a couple of laps around the rink, she felt secure enough to speed up. The cold air stirred by sheer velocity made her feel more awake and alive than she’d felt in a long time. Tyler kept up without much effort, but she didn’t care. She giggled when he reached for her and spun away. Then flew backward, crossed her skates, and spun again.

She’d never make pro, but she was more than competent. An asset to her team. Which was good enough.

“All right, speedy.” Tyler caught her arm and swung her around. “Let’s see how you stick handle.”

He handed her the stick she’d dropped, then plunked down a puck between her skates.

She grinned and stroked the shaft of the stick with her gloved fist. “Seems like you thought my ‘stick’ handling was just fine.”

His jaw nearly hit the ice. Then he grinned and shook his head. “I’m starting to understand why the guys like spanking you so much.” He positioned the blade of his stick near hers. “Come on; let’s see if you can get away from me.”

I don’t want to get away from you,
she thought, but she tapped the puck, sidestepped, then rammed her shoulder into Tyler’s stomach when he lunged for her. He grunted and almost fell over. She took advantage of his fumbling and jetted across the ice, careful to keep the puck centered on the white tape wrapped around her stick blade. She couldn’t move as fast as before, but she didn’t lose the puck once as she circled the net.

“You go, girl!” Chicklet clanged her stick against the goalpost. “Damn, I’m glad you’re wearing red.”

Me too.
Slowing at center ice, Oriana panted and glanced over at the bench when Tyler called to her. They were about to get started.

Snow sprayed up from the ice and coated her legs. She tripped on her skates, righted herself, then glared up at Sloan.

“Not bad,” he said, reaching out to smooth a sweaty strand of hair off her cheek with his thick, gloved finger. “But we’re still going to cream you.”

“You sure about that, Captain?” She smirked and jutted her chin toward Tyler. “Tyler scored twenty-five goals his rookie year. You haven’t managed that in two seasons.”

She left Sloan to chew on that little fact and joined her teammates at the bench. Tyler handed her a bottle of purple Gatorade. She took a swig and made a face as the flavor of watered-down Jell-O coated her mouth.

Tyler leaned over the boards as she took a seat. “What did you say to him? He hasn’t budged since you skated away.”

“I reminded him your stats are better than his.” Sucking her tongue, she looked around for a bottle of water to get rid of the lingering gag-worthy taste. A man next to her spit a mouthful of red fluid in the general direction of the ice. She hid her mouth with her hand and discretely did the same.

“Ouch.” Tyler straightened and smoothed his red jersey. “You’ve got a mean streak, Oriana. I hope I never get you riled up.”