GAME MISCONDUCT (The Dartmouth Cobras) (5 page)

Oriana couldn’t do that.

A couple strolled by with steaming cups of coffee. The aroma lingered in the crisp, maritime breeze, fragrant tendrils of temptation, coming from the couple as much as the cups. A little café around the corner ground their coffee beans fresh for each pot right in front of the customers. The whole place smelled so earthy and rich, the caffeinated kick struck the second the door cracked open. Still her favorite haunt before and after exams, even though Max never . . .

Stop.

Coffee. Coffee would be lovely. A new plan formed and she smiled.

Maybe she couldn’t do ranting. But she
could
do thoughtful.

Fifteen minutes later, cardboard tray in hand, Oriana strolled into the forum and made a beeline for the elevator. The echo of her heels on the glistening, black granite floors sounded like the tick of a giant clock. High rounded arches and marble columns gave the appearance of a cathedral; the huge black and white portraits of hockey greats like Gordie Howe, suspended from the pristine white ceiling looked like saints of old. Without crowds, it didn’t seem like a place to enjoy rowdy sports. The last couple of times she’d met Paul here, she’d had to stop herself from looking for pews.

Eight months in Dartmouth and I still haven’t been to a single game.
Her steps slowed as she passed the big, red double doors that led to the stands. School work kept her busy, so she’d never questioned Paul and her father’s refusal to let her watch the games from the press box.

Well, no one could stop her from buying a ticket. Then she could enjoy the full experience without Paul or her father spoiling her fun by telling her not to shout at the players. Imagining a treat of beer and nachos, she inhaled deeply, then wrinkled her nose at the sharp scent of lemon cleaner hanging in the air from a recently passed mop. Nope, fantasy just wouldn’t cut it. Whether the men in her life liked it or not, she was going to the hockey game tomorrow night.

Movement to the far left quickened her pace.

The night guard pushed to his feet. “You can’t be in here.”

Her heels skidded on the wet floor, and her best imitation of Silver’s haughty look froze on her face. The coffee tray went up.

She went down.

An arm hooked around her waist, and the coffee tray was swooped out of her hand. “
Careful
.”

A flash of white teeth broke through the warm brown of the face above her. Bulging muscles flexed under her shoulders. Hard abs rippled under her hand. The feeling of falling intensified, and the room spun as blood rushed from her head to her core.

Oh, god! Whatever you want to do to me, the answer is yes!

Time to get her libido on a freaking leash. Maybe the granite cracking her skull would save her from embarrassing herself any further. She had the strangest urge to wrap her arms around his neck and press her body flush against his. Instead, she did her best to curve away from him.

Tray balanced on one big hand, the man set her on her feet. “That would have been a nasty spill.”

The room leveled out. Black and gold filled her vision. Another freakin’ Cobra’s jersey. Her eyes traveled up and locked on big, pouty lips, a shade darker than his skin, outlined by a trim black goatee.

There was only one black player on the Cobra’s roster. Dominik Mason. She’d watched a few of his interviews and knew he was the tough guy of the team, their enforcer. His smile usually meant someone would get hurt. A lot of people were scared of him.

But how could a man look scary with lips like that?

She blinked when the edges of his lips twitched and cleared her throat. “Um, thank you . . .”

He chuckled and handed her the tray. “Dominik Mason at your service, ma’am.”

The way he said “service” made all the tiny hairs on her flesh rise. Deep as cavern wind, with a hint of hidden danger, his voice made her tremble, and she wouldn’t pretend it was with fear. He wouldn’t have to talk dirty to get a girl worked up. He could just say her name.

Did he know her name?

Enough! What the hell is wrong with you?

That book had messed with her head. Time to find Paul before she threw herself at the next guy who smiled at her.

Yeah, ‘cause you’re acting just like that bunny. Pathetic
.

Oriana met his warm, brown eyes and pulled on the poise she used with the press. A mask that never fit quite right but tended to serve the purpose of redirecting questions to her father or Paul with a nod and a smile. “Thank you, Mason.” She inhaled and gave him a stiff smile. “I really should get going . . .”

“As I said.” The guard approached them, a scowl bunching the wrinkles on his face. “You can’t be in here. We’re closed to the public.”

Mason crossed his arms and glanced at the little man. “You’re new, aren’t you?”

“Yes, but—”

“This is Oriana Delgado.” Mason jerked his chin at her. “I don’t think she qualifies as ‘the public’.”

He does know my name.

The guard’s scowl melted away. He still didn’t recognize her—no surprise there—but he wouldn’t question Mason. “Sorry, ma’am.” He tipped his hat and returned to his desk.

“Going up?” Mason pressed the button to the elevator at her nod.

Holding the tray with one hand, she used the other to adjust the strap of her book bag. “Are you?”

Please say no.
Being alone with him in an elevator wouldn’t be good. The hint of something spicy on his breath made her mouth water. Six floors up would be plenty of time for a taste.

You’re projecting Silver again, Oriana. Stop before you do something stupid.

His lips curved like he’d caught the thought. “No. Unfortunately I’ve got a team meeting to get to. How about after . . . ?”

“I’ve got a date with my boyfriend.”

“You’re still with
him
?”

Could he sound any more disgusted? Of course, it wasn’t exactly a secret that the players weren’t fond of their coach. He was from Toronto, and a good half of the Cobras were from Montreal. There was bound to be some animosity.

That’s what she told herself anyway. Wouldn’t be loyal to admit her boyfriend was an asshole.

And the white picket fence you’re dreaming of might start looking more like a cage.

“Yeah. It’s been eight months.” She shifted the tray so the hot parts weren’t touching her skin. “It was really nice to meet you though.”

“My pleasure, Oriana.” He took her hand, gave it a little squeeze before retreating. “Don’t let anyone give you grief about being here. Okay?”

The elevator door skidded open. She stepped inside. “Okay.”

When the elevator doors clicked shut, she let out a breathy laugh. Keeping Delgado’s daughter happy was part of the job. Just not
this
daughter. Good thing neither Mason nor the guard knew better. Or the guard wouldn’t have let her in. And Mason would have ignored her, just like everyone did.

Self-pity now? You’re on a roll.

The elevator dinged.

“Put him on injury reserve. I don’t care if it means he can’t play for the rest of the season, we need to bring up a new forward.” Her father backed onto the elevator, the diamonds in his gold cufflinks flashing as he made a sharp motion with his hand in the assistant coach’s face to cut him off and directed his next words at the general manager. “We’re on a losing streak! We won’t sell any seats if we don’t get a win.”

Oriana ducked to avoid getting smacked by the last excited gesture. Her father hadn’t noticed her yet. And in this mood, she’d rather he not.

“We don’t have the cap for another player of Callahan’s caliber.” Dean Richter, the GM, a man whose demeanor brought on the urge to salute, stopped the door with his shoulder and spared Oriana a dismissive glance. “However, we have a couple of draft picks—including the one we’ve been using—that might be suitable. I’ll look into it.”

When her father nodded, the GM stepped back and the door slid shut.

Case closed. But apparently Tim Rowe, the assistant coach, didn’t see it that way.

“Sir, we have to consider the playoffs. And it was just an upper body injury.” Rowe hooked his finger to the collar of his starched white shirt and loosened his tie. A muscle in his jaw ticked, belying the calm in his eyes. “We can’t keep him on IR—the doctor cleared him to play. Give him a few games and he’ll be—”

The olive shade of her father’s faintly lined face turned blotchy red. “The playoffs mean shit out here when it comes to the bottom line, Tim. No one expects this team to make it that far! Fans come to the games expecting to see some action. Big hits, fights, and scoring!”

“Callahan is capable of giving you all that,” Rowe said. “And he’s a fan favorite.”

“He
was
a fan favorite. Don’t you fucking shake your head at me!” The veins in her father’s temples darkened to a frightening shade of purple. “That’s why Paul is the head coach! He gets that this is a business!”

She really, really didn’t want to draw his attention, but she figured she’d better before he had a stroke. “Where
is
Paul, Dad?”

Her father spun toward her and scowled. “What are
you
doing here?”

Rowe opened his mouth. Before he could insert his foot by defending her, she answered. “I figured—since your meeting was taking so long—that I’d bring you guys some coffee. Me and Paul were supposed to go out for dinner, but—”

“The team was called in for extra practice,” her father said. “You might as well go home.”

“I just saw a couple of the guys taking a break—is Paul down at the rink already?”

“He’s still in his office.” Rowe met her father’s glare with a shrug. “She deserves to know.”

“Know what?” Oriana shifted the tray to one hand and touched Rowe’s arm. “Is Paul okay?”

“He’s fine.” Her father cleared his throat. “He’s heading down to the rink soon, but—”

The elevator dinged again. Her stop. “Well, I’ll just drop this off with him and leave. I won’t keep him, I promise.”

“Oriana, he’s busy!”

Not too busy to explain why he didn’t have the decency to call and cancel their date. She strode across the hall, fingers denting the cardboard tray.

Rowe hastened to catch up with her. “Oriana, I should tell you . . . you don’t want to—”

Third door on the left. She turned the handle.

Wet, rhythmic slapping came through the slit of the door. She swung it wide. Paul
was
busy. With Chantelle, the director of media relations. On top of his desk, working
real
hard.

The tray slipped from her hands as her grip went slack.

T
he tops burst off the cups. Coffee splashed Oriana’s legs. Pain sizzled up her thighs but didn’t quite register. Her skin seemed to belong to someone else. Someone far away.

Slender thighs spread wide. Paul’s face screwed up as he thrust hard, obviously experiencing more pleasure than he ever had with her . . .

A shout crossed the distance. “Hey!”

Tears blurred the bright lights of the hall. She blinked them away and swallowed against the bile in her throat. Her nails dug into her palms, and the sharp pain countered the numbness taking over.

Breathe. You don’t care. Doesn’t matter. You really don’t care.

But she did. She’d cared enough to change everything for him. All for nothing.

The pages in that damn book she’d considered the salvation of her relationship flapped in her mind like a gust of wind had taken hold of them. The images mocked her—a powerful woman being worshiped by a man on his knees. Paul could never be that man. Never mind worship. Love and loyalty were too much to ask.

Someone touched her arm and she twisted away. “Don’t!”

Paul swiped at the wet hair stuck to his brow and wrapped one hand around Oriana’s wrist, trying to hold her in place while using the other to do up his pants. He let her go when his zipper stuck. “Stop it. I can explain.”

“Can you?” She evaded his grab for her and stumbled out of his reach. “Let me guess. It’s not what I think.”

“It’s exactly what you think. I have needs. You can’t fulfill them.” He folded his arms over his chest, lips drawn in a thin line. “We’re good in every other way. I deal with all your flaws. Cut me some slack.”

Did he really think so little of her? She bit the tip of her tongue and took a deep breath. “What flaws, Paul? What could I have possibly done to deserve this?”

“Look at you!” He gestured at her boots. “You’re fucking clueless. Either it’s baggy jogging pants to cover up the flab you’re too lazy to work off or some ridiculous outfit that makes you look like you’re playing dress up. What the hell are you wearing anyway?” He reached out to take hold of her jacket.

It was not the first time he’d implied she was fat, but it would be the last. She let her book bag slip off her shoulder and swung it at him. He sidestepped, caught the strap, and tore the bag from her hand. The buckle snapped, and her books flew out and skidded across the floor.
Lady in Charge
thumped into the wall beside Rowe, and Oriana’s eyes went wide as he glanced down.

Rowe’s brow twitched, but his expression was unreadable. He covered the book with his foot and smoothly slid it out of sight. Then he cleared his throat. “I think—”

Oriana’s father held up his hand. “No one cares what you think. Paul, why don’t you and Oriana go home and talk this over? Tim can manage the team for the night.”

“No.” Oriana forced her eyes away from the book under Rowe’s shoe and turned to Paul. “It’s over.”

Paul arched a brow and looked past her to her father. “I won’t have my partners invest another cent in the team if she won’t be reasonable.”

You think that’s unreasonable
? She opened her mouth, then snapped it shut when her father dropped a heavy hand on her shoulder.

“She will.” Oriana stared at her father, and he shook his head. “She knows what she stands to lose.”

With a curt nod, Paul disappeared into his office.

Her father eased the door shut. “Oriana, you have to understand—”