BREAKAWAY (The Dartmouth Cobras) (58 page)

“We do now.” Ford avoided Richter’s hard look from across the room and lowered his voice. “I sold the forum. And half of my shares.”

“What?” Oriana put her hand over her mouth. “To who?”

“Someone with the money to pull this team out of the black. With my shares, and the ones my father bought out from the other investors, the new guy holds the majority. I know Silver won’t like it, but I had to act fast.” He rubbed his temples. “Before my dad figured out what I was doing.”

“You don’t need your dad anymore. Selling your shares should have made you financially stable.”

“Yeah . . . except I didn’t keep the money.” He laughed. “I put some into buying myself a new bar so my dad couldn’t use his influence to shut me down. And I put the rest in an account for Silver. I know she’ll use it for the team—once she gets over it coming from me.”

“I’ll talk to her accountant. She doesn’t need to know right now.” Oriana put her hand on his arm. “She’s on bed rest. No stress. You said you wanted a meeting later this week. Let Dean figure it out.”

“I gave up having a say.” Ford scowled at his gleaming black shoes. Not that he’d ever really
had
a say. His father had always called the shots. “Hell, at least I won’t have to wear suits anymore. And I’ll have nothing to do with the team. Silver will be happy.”

“Shut up, Ford. You kept me around after my father cut me out. I’m doing the same for you.”

“Please don’t.” Ford’s lips curled away from his teeth as the Ice Girls left the ice and the large dance mat was rolled up and carted away. The game was about to get started. He turned his back on the rink. He had no interest in seeing the team their family had sunk all their money into lose. “I’m not like your men, sis. I don’t give a fuck about the game. I was always in it for the money. So the
Kingsley’s
could milk the team for all it was worth. Now that’s
ov
—”

“Yes!” Sahara jumped up and down, then ducked her head, giggling as a camera flashed in her direction. “Oh my god, I so shouldn’t be cheering you guys!”

Ford shook his head at her, stepping up to his sister’s side to watch the replay. Straight off the faceoff, Scott Demyan had snatched up the puck, moving in a blur, weaving around players like they were practice pylons. He let the puck go without a second hesitation, raising his arms in celebration before the ref even called the goal.

“Nice,” Ford said, with grudging admiration. Hell, he was Canadian. He knew a good goal when he saw one.

Oriana elbowed him in the ribs. “What were you saying about not giving a fuck, bro?”

His lips quirked. He elbowed her back. “All right, so I’m full of shit.” He schooled his features as he caught Richter studying him from across the room. “Just don’t tell anyone one, okay? I’ve got a bad reputation to live up to.”

“I won’t have to tell anyone.” Oriana smiled serenely at Ford as she settled into a chair to enjoy the rest of the game. Brow arched, she patted the seat beside her. After Ford plunked down, her lips slanted into a smirk. “Keep it up. They’ll see for themselves.”

* * * *

Sloan entered the owner’s box in the third period, having watched most of the game from the press box where he’d given several interviews during commercial breaks and between periods. He avoided any mention of his relationship with Oriana, Max, and Dominik. Spoke openly about his expectations for the second round of the playoffs, as if a win was guaranteed. Even though, by the second period, it didn’t look likely.

Ingerslov
had let in three goals in five minutes. And another two at the beginning of the second period. Tim had finally been forced to pull him and put in Dave Hunt, all of twenty with negligible experience above the minors. He’d probably be exceptional in a few years, but now?

“Yeah!” Over to one side of the room, Ford leapt to his feet beside Oriana, hugging her tight as she squealed. Sloan blinked and shook his head. He knew Oriana had embraced Ford as her brother, but the young man usually showed her nothing but cool detachment—something that had made Sloan want to nail him to a wall more than once.

Give him time. He’ll do something to upset her, then all bets are off.

As Oriana glanced over at Sloan, her eyes, sparkling with laughter, warmed him like a shot of good, strong whiskey. He smiled at her, then inclined his head to Ford. Max insisted they had to be nice to the kid. As far as Sloan was concerned, leaving the punk with all his teeth this long was pretty decent of him.

“Callahan, I was hoping you’d stop by.” Richter waved him over, then gestured towards the ice. “What do you think of the kid? You know I like
Ingerslov
, but he’s not a playoff goalie. Hunt just might be.”

Running his tongue over his teeth, Sloan observed the young goalie slamming his stick against the post and screaming at the ref over what he apparently thought was a missed call. “He’s got a temper.”

“So do you.”

“True.”

“He’s also been to the club. Wayne told me he’s too hot headed to be a Dom, not until he grows up a bit—he got mouthy with a few members. But . . . .” Richter rubbed his jaw. “He showed a lot of interest in the impact play. Didn’t flinch from the hardcore stuff.”

“What are you getting at, Richter?”

“Talk to him. You might have a few things in common.”

“Wayne thinks he’s a sadist.” Sloan took a deep breath, letting it out slow at Richter’s nod. “Fine, I’ll see what I can do.”

Nearing the end of the game, Sloan found himself slightly more motivated to take the kid under his wing. He was cocky. Undisciplined. Too quick to anger and too slow to recover from a bad play. All the things Sloan couldn’t stand in a player. But he had potential.

And maybe, just maybe, learning how to use a whip the way all the best
Doms
did—from the other end—would smarten him up. Sloan’s lips curved into the edgy smile that had most subs quivering when it was turned on them.

I think I’m
gonna
enjoy this.

A minute left. The score tied. Several miraculous saves by Hunt, and impressive goals by Max, Pearce, and Demyan, had turned the tide of the game. Carter had been strangely quiet, uncharacteristically calm and focused. He’d raked up assists on almost every goal, but seemed to be bidding his time. He even passed back to the defenseman on the point rather than drive forward into a clear path for the net.

Nelson bolted for the defenseman. A solid hip check sent him flying. Carter picked up the loose puck, firing from center ice as the clock counted down the last seconds.

The fans went berserk as the sirens screamed. Carter dropped to his knees, threw aside his gloves, and clasped his hands as though in a prayer of thanks. Ramos reached him first, dragging him up to hug him even as the rest of the team crashed into them. A close up on the
jumbotron
showed Ramos knocking off Carter’s helmet to kiss the top of his head.

No big deal really, not with what Carter had just pulled off. But the press would use it.

Richter glanced over at Sloan.

Sloan nodded. “I’m on it. Send the PR to the locker room. We can’t keep the press out now.”

Insanity reigned the locker room. Blue droplets of Gatorade trailed down Carter’s cheeks as he accepted congratulatory abuse from his teammates. His hair was ruffled. He was punched in the arms and given bear hugs. Sloan made it in the room just in time to watch his smile fade as the reporters swarmed around him.

“Did the recent incident with your Captain make you feel more comfortable being open about your relationship?”

Carter’s lips moved. He paled. “What?”

“How long have you been with Ramos?”

“I . . . .” Carter gave Ramos a helpless look. Mouthed something like, “I can’t do this.”

“Hey, this isn’t an interview for Cosmo! We just fucking won!” Demyan elbowed his way to Carter’s side, leaning his arm on the younger man’s shoulder. “Ask him how he did it, because that was fucking beautiful!”

Ramos tried to pull Carter out of the horde. They pressed in closer.

Several of the reporters shifted their questions back to the win, but the rag vermin were still hanging onto questions about Carter’s sexuality, coming at him again and again as though pushing for him to snap and say something they could use.

Sloan moved with the other players until they surrounded Carter, forcing the reporters to aim their rapid fire questions at them. But Carter still seemed overwhelmed. He glanced towards the door, as though hoping a path would clear so he could escape.

Only one player remained apart, stripping out of his uniform like nothing that was happening affected him at all. Pearce chuckled softly as a few reporters took notice. “If you’re looking for a story, I can give you one. You’re wasting your time with the kid.”

Slowly, the room quieted, everyone waiting to hear what Pearce would say.

“I’ve only ever been with one woman. And it’s been years.” He slouched against the side of his stall. Seemed bored. “I prefer men.”

Hours later, in a bar the team had chosen to celebrate—Ford’s new bar, actually—Sloan brought Carter a beer and slid into a chair at the corner table where he sat alone with Ramos.

“Shit, kid. I’m sorry about that. They might not have come down on you so hard if I’d—”
  

“Hey, it’s okay.” Carter took a swig from his fresh beer, looking a little tipsy as he leaned back in his chair. “I’m just glad it’s over. And I kept my promise.”

“Your promise?” Sloan raised a brow at Ramos when Carter simply smiled and shrugged.

Ramos dropped his arm over the back of Carter’s chair, squeezing his shoulder. “He told Jami he would win.”

“Well, I owe her a beer too then!” Sloan grinned and lifted his beer. “To Jami!”

“To Jami!” The rest of the players echoed, clearly paying way more attention to the private conversation than they should.

By the bar, Richter shook his head and lifted his bottle.

“Carter—Luke.” Sloan placed his beer on the table, holding it between his good hand, and his damaged one. “I get you not wanting to come out in front of the press, but you know you don’t have to hide or anything, right? The whole team has your back.”

“I saw that.” Carter hunched his shoulders. “It’s not that I’m trying to hide it. I’m just not ready to . . . .”

Ramos slid his hand to the back of Carter’s neck, massaging corded muscles gently. “You kept another promise tonight, semental. You were honest with me. That matters more than you declaring anything to the world.”

Sloan stood, sensing that Carter and Ramos needed time alone. And more happy for them than he could say without things becoming awkward. He understood their position, probably better than anyone. While Silver flaunted her relationship and couldn’t care less what anyone thought, Oriana preferred to keep things private. Not because she was ashamed of what they had, but because her feelings were for her men alone.

“Enjoy the rest of your night, boys.” Sloan lowered his voice, tipping his beer for one last cheers. “To the game. And to teammates who know how to deal with the press.”

Bottles clinked with his. Both Carter and Ramos glanced over at Pearce, who sat with a few men who weren’t part of the team, letting them buy him drinks while turning down their advances. His eyes sought the door often, but Sloan doubted anyone besides him had noticed. A brief exchange between Pearce and Demyan when the team had first converged to the bar told Sloan everything he needed to know.

For the first time ever, Demyan didn’t want the attention. Unlike the rest of the team, he wasn’t showing his support. He’d taken off with two puck bunnies, smiling for the cameras as he draped an arm around each of their shoulders.

Carter wasn’t hiding anything. Sloan truly believed that.

But Demyan was.

Finding Oriana in a heated conversation with Hunt, who seemed to be humoring her, Sloan hugged her waist and kissed her throat. Dominik eyed them from the other side of the table.

“Time to go home, pet. I want to celebrate.” He chuckled as she rested back against him. “And it’s going to hurt.”

“
Mmm
. That sounds good.” Oriana licked her lips as she tipped her head back. “Just the two of us?”

“I won’t celebrate with the whole team, I’m too greedy for that.” He nipped her earlobe. “But I suppose you could bring a man or two, if you’d like.” His tone turned husky. “Choose wisely.”

She immediately reached out for Dominik. “Sorry, Hunt. Maybe we’ll see you around the club?”

“I’d like that.” Hunt stood, running his fingers through his tight black curls before offering his hand to Sloan. “I’ve heard a lot about you. I look forward to working with you. On and off the ice.”

Hunt’s gaze lingered just a little too long on Oriana. Sloan tightened his grip on the man’s hand, jerking him forward. “Good. Then you know the only way I’ll let you leave marks on her is if you let me leave marks on you.” He
bared
his teeth as Hunt gapped at him. “Don’t answer now. Take your time. Consider
very
carefully.”

 
Oriana ditched them to find Max. Dominik followed Sloan out to Max’s car, since Max had agreed to be the designated driver.

Predictably, Dominik stepped up to Sloan the second they were alone. “I don’t like him. We will discuss this before he goes anywhere near Oriana.”

Sloan smirked and rested his hip against the passenger side door. “Of course. As long as we’re sharing, we make all decisions together.”

“What aren’t you saying, Sloan?”

“I’ve been offered a coaching position in Calgary—they know this injury has probably ended my career. The Flames are also making a bid for Max.” Sloan cocked his head as Dominik drew away from him. “So, yeah, we have a lot to ‘discuss’.”

 
Dominik’s jaw ticked. “You’re not taking her away from me.”

“Not tonight, no.” Sloan saw Oriana and Max approaching from the corner of his eye. “Do you really want to get into this now?”

“No.” Dominik forced a smile, muttering under his breath. “But this isn’t over.”

“Not by a long shot,” Sloan said, pleasantly as he held the back door open for Oriana. “We’ve only won the first round. We shouldn’t be overconfident.”