Iron Cross: The Dartmouth Cobras #6 (2 page)

Pischlar cocked his head and gave the reporter an indulgent smile. “Who said I was gay?
I’ve dated women. I’m dating a man. I’m up for anything.” He chuckled. “I’m in an open relationship, and I’m awesome in bed. If you want to know more, I’ll give you my number.”

A few of the reporters looked shocked, but tempted. The old man who’d asked the question seemed to have swallowed his tongue. Tyler was pretty sure he’d swallowed his own.

Damn, how could he just… I mean, wow.
Not that Pischlar should hide it, but to just put it out there like he didn’t give a shit what people thought?

When the press left the room, Callahan went over and gave Pischlar one of his rough, manly hugs. So did a few of the other guys. One thing wouldn’t change with the team. They backed their own
, no matter what.

But Tyler would have expected Callahan to tear Pischlar out for not being all politically correct with his interview. Maybe not in front of the team, but
in his office at least. Instead, he seemed totally okay with everything.

“Hey, Demyan.” Tyler pulled Demyan off to the side, speaking low so no one else would hear him. “What did you say to Coach?”

Demyan shoved his hands into the pockets of the jeans he’d changed into. “I told him Easy was coming out—in a way. Room service took a few pictures of him and some random guy on the last road trip. There’s been stuff all over the ’net. Easy didn’t want people thinking he was ashamed or anything, but he had to face them as himself. Keane asked him to wear a suit for the interview, but he needed something that was…well,
him.
Callahan got it.”

“That’s good, I guess.” Tyler wasn’t sure why any of them had to share personal stuff. He remembered when reporters had come to his house to ask him about how soon he’d be back on the ice after his concussion. He’d always worn the team hat and one of his many Cobra
T-shirts. Like that, the press wasn’t really questioning Tyler. They were questioning “Vanek.”

One of the team’s most promising rookies at the time.
A player. Not the man he was off the ice.

“We can’t all do it, Tyler.” Demyan sat on the stool beside Tyler’s stall even as Tyler lowered to his own. He put his hand on Tyler’s forearm. “
You can’t and that’s cool. I’m not allowed to. I gotta give ‘the right answers.’ But out there, beyond the game, we do whatever the fuck we want. We’ve just gotta be careful.”

W
as kinda weird that Demyan was calling Tyler by his first name, but whatever. Guys did that when they were being all supportive. Not that he could figure out why Demyan needed to give that support. Chicklet liked things private. And her girlfriend, Laura, was a cop and
needed
things that way. A few of Laura’s close coworkers knew she was a sub and into BDSM. But nothing was public.

Demyan’s grip tightened on his arm. Tyler opened his mouth to tell the man to ease up, but then spotted Raif standing with Zach Pearce across the room. Pearce
was the first Cobra—hell, the first professional hockey player—to “come out” to the media. He was involved with Demyan and Rebecca Bower, their goalie’s big sister. The three of them had some nice domestic thing going on. Becky’s kid was the center of their universe.

But Pearce had history with Raif. And Demyan got a little weird whenever Pearce and Raif hung out. Like they were doing now.

Pearce finished dressing and laughed at something Raif said, which had Demyan breaking fucking blood vessels in Tyler’s arm. Pearce flung his arm over Raif’s shoulders. “I don’t think anyone’s surprised a game against the Leafs ended in a few brawls.”

“You are not a fighter. Or did you forget?” Raif’s brow lifted at Pearce’s protests. “In a bar, yes, you can hold your own. On the ice? You embarrass yourself.”

“Thanks.” Pearce snorted. “You did pretty good out there, but you’re gonna fuck up your hands if you keep hitting guys with their helmets on.”

“I go for the body.
” Raif gave Pearce a hooded look. “I’m sure you’ve noticed.”

“Yeah, I noticed
.” Pearce went quiet as Raif took off his sweat-stained undershirt, baring his muscular chest. “You going to the bar after? I think a few of the guys are gonna hang out.”

Demyan pushed to his feet and glared at Pearce. “I thought we were going straight home, Zach. Becky said Casey stayed u
p to watch the game.”

Pearce frowned. “She wouldn’t let Casey stay up this late.”

“Hey, you know how
our
daughter is. Becky’s probably worn out. She’d have tried to get Casey to sleep on the sofa at least, but we both know she’ll be awake when we get home.” Demyan looked around the room, letting out a bitter laugh. “Maybe it’s just me, but the guys who have kids went home already. I’m getting up with my baby girl in the morning. You want to hang out, go for it.”

“Don’t start, Scott.” Pearce sighed and turned to Raif. “He’s right. My daughter probably isn’t asleep yet. But you should spend time with the guys. They know you’re an amazing player, but most don’t know
you
.”

“And you think they should?” Raif didn’t move. Didn’t even acknowledge Demyan.
There was a sexual tension in the room Tyler couldn’t ignore, even though Raif wasn’t saying anything suggestive. “You need to be with your family, but I see no point in spending the night out when we have practice tomorrow.”

“We all have practice, Raif. You’ve
pulled all-nighters before.”

“With reason.”

Pearce’s lips parted. His eyes darkened a little as he moved away from Raif. “Yeah. There was always a good reason.” He closed his eyes as Demyan strode out without a word. “But that’s in the past, Raif. I should go.”

Turning his back on them, Tyler changed
quickly, glad to see Demyan and Pearce were gone when he turned around. Only Raif was left, so Tyler mumbled “Good-bye” and started for the door.

“Stay.” Raif’s sharp tone stopped him short. He crossed the room with slow, even strides, and it took all Tyler’s strength not to retreat when Raif stepped up to him.
“How many stitches?”

Squaring his shoulders, Tyler met Raif’s eyes. “Three.”

“Not so bad then.” Raif’s lips quirked, like he was amused as he glanced down at the hands Tyler sporadically fisted and unfisted. “Why so nervous, Ty? You’re not my sub. I won’t punish you for disobeying me.”

“I know that.” Tyler made a shallow scoffing sound, but his gaze fixed on the center of Raif’s chest. His very wide chest, covered in a
dusting of dark hair that went from his lower pecs down the center of his cut abs. “You know how it is, Raif. Wasn’t no big deal.”

“Lo
ok at me when you talk to me. We are friends, are we not?” Raif moved a little closer. Let out a soft chuckle as Tyler lifted his head to look at him. “I do know how it is.”

“Good.”

“Will you go to the bar with the others?”

“No. I’m going to the club.” The back of Tyler’s neck was getting hot. Thinking about the
BDSM club had him thinking about how Raif was a Dom there. An experienced Dom. One who would treat Tyler very differently than he did in the locker room.

Kinda like a cute little puppy that belonged to someone else. And wasn’t very well trained.

“The club. I take it Chicklet will be there?” Raif asked like it didn’t matter one way or another.

“Why? You gonna tell on me?” The
y were still in the locker room, so no need to be all respectful.

Raif’s hand abruptly
shot out to frame Tyler’s jaw and Tyler jumped. Stared into those dark brown eyes which seemed to dare Tyler to move a muscle.

Yeah. Not
that
stupid.

“No, Ty. I won’t need to tell her a thing.” Raif gave him a positively evil half
-smile. “
You
will.”

“I
will
?”

“Yes. And you’ll relay a message for me.” Raif ran his thumb alongside the stitches on Tyler’s
lip. Bent close to whisper in Tyler’s ear. “She needs to tighten your leash. You are sorely in need of discipline because as you are now…” He stepped back, shaking his head and clucking his tongue. “Let’s just say I’d be ashamed if you were my sub.”

Grinding his teeth, Tyler glared at Raif. “Fuck you.”

It didn’t come out as strong as Tyler had meant it, but he got the hell out of the locker room. Didn’t stop until he was in his brand-new black Maserati, a car Chicklet loved because of the way it growled. He’d tried to give it to her, but she’d just smiled and shook her head.

“I don’t need presents, my boy. And I happen to love my
Jeep.” She raked her fingers through his hair. “Besides, I like seeing you behind the wheel, my spoiled little angel.”

He hated it when she called him that, but he knew better than to complain. Was okay to joke a little when she was in a good mood though, so he lifted his brows and stroked the steering wheel. “I earned this. How am I spoiled?”

Her red lips curved as she put her hand on his thigh, her nails sharp and long, as they only were on weekends they played, digging into his flesh through his jeans. “Because I let you buy it. You’d drive a rusty piece of shit if I told you to, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes.” The idea actually had his dick hardening, so close to her hand and those wicked nails. People would think he was crazy
if he drove a wreck. They’d pity him. But he wouldn’t care because every time he got behind the wheel he’d know he was showing his devotion. “I’ll get rid of this car and—”

“Did I not speak clearly? I like seeing you behind the wheel. My beautiful boy deserves the very best.”

And Chicklet deserved everything he could give her. She didn’t care about the things money could buy. All that mattered to her was that she owned his body, his mind, and his heart.

He wouldn’t
make her ashamed of him. He’d be the best goddamn sub at the club, crawl for her, and kiss the tips of her pointy leather boots if she wanted him to. He’d take the pain she dished out, forget about his limits, and trust her to bring him to the very edge without going too far.

And
…and he’d tell her everything. Except for Raif’s message because after Tyler did everything in his power to be the perfect sub, to anticipate her every command and please her—

Raif could deliver the message himself. And she’d laugh at him.

* * * *

Well-worn leather, fitting her like a second skin, the metal tip of her boot stilettos clicking sharply on the wood floor, Chicklet made her way across the
Blades & Ice BDSM club to relieve Ford Delgado from bartending duties. She laughed and shook her head as Ford distractedly offered her a shot of whiskey. He wasn’t paying any attention to who she was.

Bad boy.
Thankfully she wasn’t a naughty sub or an inexperienced, careless Dom, sneaking a drink before a scene. She tapped his forearm with her long, gleaming, black nails. “I’m playing later tonight, Ford. Go check on your girl.” She smirked when Ford snapped his gaze from where Cort was learning the ropes—or, more accurately, the whip—from Sloan. Sloan was one of her best friends, but the sadist was a bit twisted. The way the muscles in Ford’s jaw ticked, you’d think Sloan was beating on his sweet little sub, Akira, but it was actually Cort getting a taste of the short hunting whip.

Not my type, but
…yummy!
Chicklet watched Sloan expertly wielding the whip, laying red stripes across Cort’s bare shoulders and back. Cort rested his forehead against the round beam he was bound to, only lifting it when Sloan stopped to check on him and give a few tips. Such a broad expanse of flesh to mark up above the faded black jeans riding low on Cort’s hips, and he didn’t struggle against the restraints. But he wasn’t enjoying the whipping, wouldn’t let himself sink into the drugging endorphins. He was a good-looking man, one she wouldn’t mind handling herself.
If he was a sub.

Ford’s concern made a lot of sense.
A brute of a baby Dom in training, who wouldn’t safeword if his life depended on it, was scary in the hands of a man who enjoyed dishing out pain as much as Sloan did. But Sloan had been working with Cort for a month. Wouldn’t have started this lesson unless he could read the big man well.

Chicklet
had mentioned Akira because she wanted Ford’s focus where it belonged. Akira was being tested, forced to kneel just outside the roped area and watch her fiancé take each welt-raising lash without a sound. Adorable in her studded, black leather halter top and belt of a leather skirt, her sleek black-brown hair spilling down her back. Usually so serene on her knees. Now though, she had her hands clasped on her thighs, and her eyes were spitting fire. More than once she moved to stand. Stopped herself.

Akira had more experience than either of her men, so
Sloan trusted her to stay put. Breaking that trust would be very bad if the trio wanted Sloan to keep training Cort.

“She shouldn’t be watching them.” Ford slammed a rag down on the bar top, but stopped and inhaled slowly before moving out from behind the bar. “She doesn’t understand why he needs to do this.”