GAME MISCONDUCT (The Dartmouth Cobras) (29 page)

“Not really.” She gave him a sheepish grin, then ducked her head. “That’s not what’s bugging me, to tell you the truth.” She lowered her voice, glancing at the rest of the bench to make sure no one was listening. “When she’s not groping the kid, she’s staring at you. All the girls were whispering about it in the locker room. Is she one of those trashy puck bunnies who chases pro-hockey dick?”

Sloan crushed the bottle in his fist. “No, she’s not.”

“Well, she certainly acts like one.”

Without saying a word, Sloan stood, then vaulted over the boards. He tried to immerse himself in the game, but no matter how fast he skated, he couldn’t escape Lindsey’s words. That anyone had such a low opinion of Oriana had him seeing red.

How could they keep this up without everyone thinking the same? Should it matter? Fine, she’d started all this with the intention of blackmailing her father, but things were different now. What would happen in the long run, he didn’t know, but one thing was certain. He’d make sure Oriana never regretted what had passed between them.

As he calmed, his rage dropped from almost-boiling-over to a manageable simmer. His control was still a little off, but, so long as he wasn’t pushed too far, he’d be fine. No one would get hurt.

“No smart-assed remarks now, Sloan?” Oriana’s smoldering, whiskey eyes seemed to glow behind her visor. “Figure out that they won’t get you anywhere?”

Say nothing.
He feigned to the left and passed her on the right. His skates slipped, and he slowed until he could feel the steady slice of his blades on ice. He heard Oriana panting as she struggled to keep up with him.

“Come on, tell me how you’re going to beat me here, then beat me again when we’re alone.” She smacked his shin pads with the blade of her stick. “Tell me how much you want to hurt me.”

Oh, God, I want to hurt you.
But he fixed his sights on the goal. He’d get nowhere with her if he gave in. If she riled him up now, she’d get more than she was ready for.

As he closed in on the net, Chicklet came out to meet him. Amateur mistake. He let the puck skid about a foot away from him, kicked it to the left, then twisted his wrist for a backhand shot.

Pain exploded through his cheek and jaw. White sparks burst in his vision. His control snapped. He closed his eyes, inhaling, exhaling, praying for a few precious seconds to pull himself together.

Oriana’s stick clattered to the ice, and she grabbed his arm. “I’m so sorry!”

He jerked away and snarled, “Don’t touch me.”

“Sloan, please . . .” Her soft, feminine voice filtered through the buzzing in his ears. “You’re bleeding; let me see—”

She can’t see me like this. She won’t understand.

“Back off.” When his eyes met hers, she went white. He must look like a monster. He didn’t want her scared of him, not here, not like this. But he had no idea how to avoid it. His eyes narrowed when she didn’t move. “
Now,
Oriana.”

“No.” She glared at him as she took hold of his jaw and reached up to compress his bloody lip with her sleeve. “I’m training to be a doctor; you don’t really think I’ll just leave you like this.”

He let himself slide backward out of reach and gave her a cold smile. “Funny, because you weren’t so calm when Dominik got hurt. Guess you’re right. There are others to cater to your needs. And, like any spoiled brat, you’ll lash out at those who don’t kowtow to your every whim.”

“Sloan . . .” Her tone warned him he was going too far.

But he couldn’t stop. His discipline on the ice didn’t allow for emotions. His discipline was all that kept him from surrendering to violence like a mindless animal.

Something inside him shut down. He couldn’t do this if he cared how she’d react, so he did his best not to. “I said back off. Now!”

“Fine.” She licked her lips, nodded jerkily, then swallowed. “That’s fine.”

Blood spilled over his chin and splattered on the ice. His vision was still a little fuzzy, but the buzzing in his ears was gone. He skated over to the black team’s bench and grabbed a towel. The men and women in black jerseys watched him like he had a bomb strapped to his chest and a trigger in his hand.

It took him a few seconds to notice that no one was playing anymore. Everyone either sat or stood perfectly still, on or around the rink. Staring at him.

Blood roared and crashed inside his skull. He clenched his jaw, released.

Relax, relax, relax.

The mantra usually worked, but he couldn’t recall ever losing it this bad before. Not since he was very, very young. He’d learned to suppress the anger, the urge to lash out, until an appropriate—and pleasurable—time. But now he couldn’t seem to . . .

Fingers snapped in his face. “Sloan, pull yourself together.”

He blinked at his father. Cold washed over all the hot rage, leaving him numb.

His father towed him away from the benches, snatched the towel, then slapped it over Sloan’s lip. The swollen flesh throbbed. His father kept his voice very low and calm. “What set you off?”

What?
His brain didn’t seem to be functioning properly. He did his best to answer anyway. “Oriana—”

“Because she cross-checked you?” His father put more pressure on his lip, his usual calm gone. “You don’t usually lose your temper with women. I don’t like this.”

Blinking, Sloan shifted away from his father. “I didn’t lose my temper with her. I just needed some space.”

“That still doesn’t explain why you lost it in the first place. You get sticks in the face all the time.”

“It wasn’t just the damn cross-check.” Sloan felt the eyes of all the people in the arena like hundreds of cold fingers crawling all over his flesh. He had to get out of there. “I was already pissed because—well, Lindsey said something nasty about Oriana. And I didn’t like it.”

Lame, so fucking lame. He’d gotten all unhinged because of stupidity. He prayed another team didn’t find out about this kink in his
impenetrable
armor. They’d expose his weakness, and he’d end up killing someone on the ice.

For some reason, his father smiled. “That’s good to hear, Sloan. You’ll have to find a better way to deal, but I like where this is going.”

Sloan’s brow shot up. “You do?”

His father patted his shoulder. “Yes. You’ve only ever reacted this extreme to people insulting
me
. And not since you were a boy. I never thought you’d let yourself care about anyone, let anyone past all those boundaries you put up, but you have.”

“I haven’t known the girl that long, Dad.”

“So you
don’t
care?”

“I didn’t say that.”

With a smug smile, his father nodded, then gestured toward the benches. “Good, because Oriana’s gone.”

“What?” Spinning on his blades, Sloan’s gaze swept over the benches, then the bleachers. He ground his teeth when he saw, true to his father’s words, that Oriana had taken off. Tyler’s absence reassured him a little; at least she wouldn’t get lost out there alone. But it irked him that she’d had the gall to leave without telling him. “This time, I’m using my fucking belt.”

“Don’t overdo it, son,” his father called after him as he made his way off the ice, doing his damnedest to remain composed. “This is your fault.”

Is it?
Sloan slammed the red metal arena door against the wall, leaving the sound of the game resuming behind him. She’d cross-checked him in the face, and, somehow, this was his fault? He let out a bitter laugh.
Either way, she’s still gonna pay.

Making quick work of ditching his skates in the locker room and donning his sneakers, Sloan hurried out into the hall. Then huffed out a sigh of relief when he spotted Tyler.

Only Tyler was alone.

U
nder the awning of the Mom-and-Pop-style restaurant, Oriana pressed her watch into the bent old man’s hand.

“This watch is sterling silver—an antique.” She pointed at the dent-laden, silver pickup. “The For Sale sign says ‘Five hundred, negotiable.’ You’ll get more than that if you pawn the watch.”

“I don’t doubt you.” The old man squinted at the silver band, shaking his head slowly. “But I don’t feel right about this. You look upset, honey. Why don’t you come in and let me buy you a coffee? Then I’ll drive you wherever you want to go.”

The soft ocean breeze wafted over her and cooled the sweat-coated flesh under her T-shirt. She’d stopped in the locker room just long enough to shed all the protective gear and ditch Sloan’s old skates. She had no doubt Sloan and Tyler would come after her, so she’d stolen out through a side door and kept out of sight when Tyler called for her. She hated worrying him, but she knew he’d bring her back to Sloan. The man was his captain; Tyler wouldn’t stand against him.

Or maybe he would, but she didn’t want that either. All she wanted was to go home. And the sign in the window of the beaten-up truck gave her the perfect opportunity. She didn’t have any money on hand, but she’d entered the restaurant that the truck was parked in front of, figuring her watch would make decent currency. She’d asked around and found the owner. Her luck ended there. The old man was perfectly willing to help her, but not on her terms. Every time she broached the subject of the truck, he hedged as though not sure he wanted to sell it at all.

“Do you have a map?” Oriana asked, doing her best to keep her irritation out of her tone. “I’m pretty good with directions. If you tell me how to get onto the highway, I can manage the rest myself.”

The old man’s wrinkles crumpled around his eyes and mouth like thin paper. He shivered and glanced at the restaurant. “I do, but—”

“Oh, good. Then it’s all settled.” She gave him her sweetest smile. “Actually, you’re right. I might change my mind about the watch. How about you hold onto it for now, and I’ll come back with the money next weekend.”

“I suppose—”

“And since I’m so very grateful for your help, I’ll pay you double what you’re asking.” Breath held and fingers crossed, she willed him to say yes. The Dartmouth Cobra cap attached to his belt loop gave her an idea. “And I’ll throw in a pair of tickets to a Cobras’ game—”

His patchy white eyebrows hopped up to his receding hairline. “Playoff tickets?”

She opened her mouth to tell him the Cobras wouldn’t make the playoffs, but she didn’t see killing his dreams helping her cause. So she just nodded.

“Can’t turn down an offer like that.” He gave her a gummy grin, dug into the pocket of his corduroy pants, then handed her a key. “Promise me you’ll take care of yourself?”

“I will!” She leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss on his cheek. “Thank you!”

Shortly after, sitting on the cracked plastic seat of the old Chevy pickup, Oriana rested her head on the steering wheel and let relief fill her. Soon, she would be with Max again, safe from Sloan’s violent mood swings and his cocky attitude.

Screw Sloan,
she thought as she shifted the truck out of park.
Dominik can take his place easy. And Tyler. I’ll have to make this up to him . . .

Her insides felt strange, kind of like a bowl of hot porridge topped with ice cubes. Cozy and warm at the thought of the men who wanted her, cold at the idea of Sloan’s absence. She’d hated him ignoring her even more than she hated him laughing at her. But mostly she’d hated how he’d pushed her to lash out.

How he pushed you?
The little voice in her head that sounded like her sister laughed at her.
So suddenly you’re not responsible for your own actions?

She tuned out the voice like she tuned out Silver rambling about her latest sexathon. Shifting gears, she eased her foot off the gas and let the truck roll. The scent of stale cigars rose in a draft from the floor of the passenger’s side. The cruddy red carpet was covered with ash and big orange burn marks. She made a face and sighed, rolling her window down to air out the humid, stinky cab.

Maybe it’s not a town car, but it’s my way to get away from Sloan.

“Oriana?”

Slap, slap, slap.
She glanced over her shoulder and saw Tyler, running almost alongside the truck’s cab. Fast, but not fast enough to catch up if she accelerated.

“Get a lift with Sloan, Tyler!” she called out, putting a bit more weight on the gas pedal. “I’m going home!”

Tyler shook his head and ran faster. She poked her head out the open window. The cool wind slapped her face and stole her breath. Big, fat trees and tiny houses rolled by at a crawl, and Tyler seemed to be running in place. His face blurred as her eyes watered, but she could see that he’d finally stopped running.

Waving his hands frantically over his head, he shouted, “Oriana, hit the brake!”

Oriana faced forward. A large form strode into the middle of the street. She slammed her foot down. On the wrong pedal.

The truck lurched, then jerked to stop when she hit the brakes. She shifted to park and sat still just long enough for all her organs to settle back where they belonged.

Leaning against the hood of the truck, Sloan watched her, his lips in a tight, amused slant.

He’s so dead.

“You stupid son of a bitch!” Oriana threw the driver’s side door open and stepped up to Sloan, smacking his chest with wild slaps. “I could have killed you! Are you insane?”

“No.” Sloan caught her hands and used her own momentum to twist her away from him, facing the truck. He latched onto both of her wrists and held her against the cab as though placing her under arrest. His tone was cold, sharp, like a freshly edged blade on ice. “Are you?”

Violent tremors took over her body as she strained her neck to look into his eyes. They didn’t look feral like they had after she’d hit him—they were steady, impassive. Which was somehow much more frightening.

“N-no.” She rested her head against the top of the gritty fender. Her head felt light with fear, both from almost running Sloan over and from being utterly at his mercy. Much more and she’d pass out. “Please—I—I can’t breathe. Let me go.”

“You sure?” He leaned close and cocked his head as though to better hear her answer.