BREAKAWAY (The Dartmouth Cobras) (24 page)

"Hey, you okay?" Jami crawled onto the bed and curled up beside him, brushing her fingers lightly through his hair as she studied his face. "If you're worried about me, I'm good. A bit sore, but I'll live."

Luke planted a shit-eating grin on his face and pushed up to a sitting position before dragging Jami, still naked and wet from the shower, underneath him. "How sore?"

"Too sore for that." She shoved him off her, then rested her head on his shoulder. "You've got practice tomorrow. I have the dance audition. Why don't we get some sleep?"

Sleep?
Hell, he couldn't sleep. He'd keep Jami up all night if he could to remind her, and himself, that a hot, willing woman was all he needed. Which wouldn't be fair.

Easing her head away from his shoulder, onto her pillow, he sat up and pressed a quick kiss to her forehead. "Good idea. I'm
gonna
head home. Give me a shout tomorrow and let me know how it goes, '
kay
?"

She gave him a tight smile and pulled the blanket over herself as he stood. "Sure."

He zipped his jeans and hesitated by the foot of the bed. "Hey, you'd tell me if something was bothering you, right?"

"Nothing is bothering me, Luke. Have a nice night."

"You too." He pulled on his shirt and went to the hall to put on his shoes and socks. He knew she was lying. A good Dom would force her to come clean, but he wasn't her Dom. Seb was. Let him deal with her.

'Cause if he's focused on her, maybe he'll leave me alone.

Chapter Ten

"Fuck, Carter! You're screening me!"

Sebastian frowned over his shoulder as Bower shouted at Luke and Luke awkwardly sidestepped to the other side of the net. Out of Bower's way, and well clear of Sebastian. The young man had been avoiding him all morning and he couldn't figure out why. But it was messing with Luke's play. Fine, this was only practice—a quick two hour practice the coach had insisted on to keep them sharp without tiring them out—but the coaches and trainers were all on the ice, keeping an eye on who was ready for the pressure of the playoffs. And who was buckling.

Luke looked like he was buckling.

The head coach, Tim, skated over after blowing his whistle and pulled Luke aside. He spoke low, but Sebastian could still hear every word.

"I don't know what's up with you, Carter, but either tell me or get your head in the game. If what's going on with your mother is distracting you, maybe it's best if you take some time off."

His mother? Why hadn't Luke said something? To him or their teammates?
Even Bower, Luke's best friend, looked surprised.

"It's not about my mom." Luke scowled over at Sebastian and Bower. "I know you're listening! My mom's responding well to treatments, since you're so interested." He looked at Demyan, who was too far to have heard anything, but apparently had pissed him off just by skating by at the wrong moment. "And it has nothing to do with my ex either, before you bring that up."

Demyan held his hands up, stick fisted in one, and shook his head. "I wasn't
gonna
say shit, man."

"If it's not your mother, or your ex, what is it?" Tim sighed and spoke before Luke could answer. "You know what? Doesn't matter. Can you play or not?"

"I can play." Luke snarled. He smacked his stick on the ice and his eyes seemed to challenge anyone to question him.

Tim shook his head and slid off to the side where his assistants and the trainers waited. The mock game continued for another twenty minutes, at which point Tim irritably shouted for them all to go home. Luke wasn't the only one whose head wasn't in it. Bower was snapping at everyone and Demyan was eying the door in a nervous way that made Sebastian wonder if he was in some kind of trouble.

Callahan let them all have it once they were in the locker room. "What the fuck was that? You guys ready to hand this series over to the Sabres?"

"Sloan, relax." Perron tossed his equipment in front of his stall and plunked down on the bench. "Might be the guys are a bit nervous. We've all got a couple days to pull our shit together."

"I hope you're right." Callahan rubbed his hand over his face. "Because that was pathetic. Looks like everyone's got some kind of drama going on and I sympathize. Really. But Tim's right. Keep it off the fucking ice."

"Good idea." Perron stood and stepped up to Callahan, putting his hand on his shoulder. "Speaking of which, we need to talk."

Eyes narrowed, Callahan brushed Perron's hand away. "Talk about what? I'm fine."

"We
ain't
talkin
' here, buddy."

"Why the fuck not? You accusing me of something, Max? I did my goddamn job out there."

"Your shot's off again. If your hand is bothering you, you better say something."

The room went quiet. Sebastian looked around at all the carefully blank faces. None of them had been paying attention to the captain. They all had their own things going on.

"My hand is fine." Callahan went to his stall and quickly changed, ignoring all the players who watched him in silence. He walked out without a word, Perron following close behind.

Owen Stills, a rookie defenseman who'd been brought up from the farm team for the second time to replace Mason while he recovered from a knee injury,
thunked
his head against the back of his stall and groaned. "We're screwed."

Zetseva, a Russian forward whose English was improving almost daily, tossed his shin guard at Stills' head. "We no screwed. You big pussy. Stop wearing mother's panties."

 
The men broke out laughing and the tension broke. Sebastian grinned and carefully arranged his equipment in his stall before heading to the showers. Luke and Demyan were both there, not speaking as they washed up. Until Demyan's container of body wash slipped from his hand.

Eyes closed, face covered in suds, Demyan laughed and called out. "This is going to sound bad, pal, but you want to pick up the soap for me?"

Sebastian caught the flash of rage in Luke's eyes. The way his muscles tightened. And surged forward to catch his wrist before Luke's fist connected with Demyan's head. He dragged Luke away from the showers and spoke under his breath. "Get out of here. Walk it off."

"Fuck y—"

Tightening his grip on Luke's fist, Sebastian practically growled. "Now. Niño."

Luke wrenched away and stormed out. Sebastian watched him from the doorway of the showers as he dressed, and jerked his chin towards the locker room exit when he paused. After
 
Luke walked away, Sebastian did his best to appear relaxed. Unaffected by all that had passed.

I need to speak to him. Find out . . .

No. He’d done enough. As he scrubbed in the shower, avoiding quizzical glances from Demyan—who apparently took longer showers than most women—he forced himself to admit his first instincts regarding getting involved with another player had been right. Because it wasn't Luke’s mother, or a woman, disrupting his game.

It was Sebastian. And that would end now.

* * * *

Sloan clenched his fists at his sides as he stepped onto the elevator and Max followed him in. He didn't need the man's calm bullshit right now. He needed Oriana and everything she could give him. But telling her husband he wanted to be alone with her was still weird. Much as it satisfied them all for him to do a scene with Max watching, sometimes pushing her limits, with someone else forcing him to hold back was a pain in the ass. Max wasn't as bad as Dominik, but he had his moments. He still winced when he saw the bruises Sloan left on their woman. The last few times he and Oriana had played together, if Max couldn't be there, he sent Dominik. And Dominik was never content just watching.

They don't trust you.

Which wasn't true, and Sloan knew it. But sometimes he couldn't help but feel like he borrowed his time with Oriana from her husband and her Master. At this point, nothing seemed like it belonged to him. His game was off and if he told coach his hand hurt like a motherfucker every time he picked up his stick, he'd be sent to the team doctor. And he'd be out for the rest of the season. If he let Max or Dominik know how often Oriana begged him for more—how tempted he was to give it to her—they'd never leave them alone again.

 
"Sloan, you're all over the men to pull it together," Max said just as the elevator doors opened. "How can you expect them to when you can't?"

Sloan shook his head and stepped onto the fourth floor. "You had some nerve bringing up my hand in front of the guys."

"Hey, I said I wanted to talk to you alone."

"There's nothing to talk about."

"You're fucking full of it. Your hand didn't heal right. You think I don’t see you popping them pain pills every day from that crack doctor you're seeing? Fine, surgery might take you out of the playoffs, but if you keep going the way you are, you're going to end your career."

"You're paranoid. TJ's daughter's bones didn't heal right, so now you assume the same thing happened to me?" Sloan lowered his voice as they passed Ford's office. The last thing he needed was that asshole knowing he wasn't playing at a hundred percent. His contract was only good for one year, which ended this summer. Then he'd be an unrestricted free agent. Which meant he could sign with any team and the Cobras would get shit in exchange. He didn't see Richter, or Silver, wanting that, but Ford wouldn't care less. His focus would be on the team winning—or losing—in a way that made money for the Kingsley's, the team's biggest investors.

And even if Richter didn't want to let him go, he couldn't justify keeping him if Sloan couldn’t perform. Sloan wanted a long term contract. Anything short of a good playoff run wouldn't get him that.

"Sloan, I know that look. You're worried. You're trying to prove yourself and I get it. But you're not going anywhere."

"Tell me that next year when I'm playing for fucking Boston."

Max grabbed his shoulder to stop him as he lifted his hand to knock on Oriana's office door. "That shit
ain't
funny, man."

"My agent's gotten some damn good offers." Sloan shrugged away Max's hand, then grabbed his wrist before he could step back. "Admit it. You wouldn't be too torn up if I was gone. You hate what me and her have."

"What the fuck is your problem? You're my best friend. She needs you." Max jerked away and frowned at him. "Since when do you doubt that?"

A door creaked behind them and Ford sauntered into the hallway. "Lover's quarrel? Sorry to interrupt, but I've been meaning to talk to you Sloan. How does the team look? We got any chance to beat the Sabres?"

Fuck, Sloan wanted to pound the bastard's smarmy face in. Instead, he shrugged. "We wouldn't have made it this far if we didn't."

"True, but we had Dominik then. His knee is acting up. How are you feeling?"

"I'm fine."

"You sure about that?" Ford stepped out to the center of the hall and whipped something at him with an offhand. "Catch."

Max snatched it out of the air before Sloan could even move. It was a stapler. He held it up, then threw it into the wall before striding towards Ford. "Listen, you goat tit sucking momma's boy—"

Sloan latched onto Max's shoulder and hauled him back. "Don't."

The door behind them hit the wall. Oriana came out, eyes flashing. "What's going on?"

"
Nothin
'." Ford leaned on the wall and smirked. "Just wanted to see if our captain's ready to play, but your husband has a problem with my methods. Not good,
sis
. Didn't Dean say we shouldn't make things personal? Is Max going to be watching Sloan's ass during the playoffs? I can't see that going well."

"You two, in my office. Now." Oriana drew herself up, squaring her shoulders, tiny but imposing in her crisp black skirt suit. Then she glared at her half-brother. "You and I are going to have a little chat."

Inside Oriana's office, smaller than both her siblings' since
they
officially owned the team and she only had an advisory position, Sloan and Max stared at each other from across the room. Sloan turned away first and took a seat on the edge of Oriana's desk. He picked up a stained glass framed photo of himself, Max, and Dominik in front of his father's house during the All Star break in April, holding shovels and laughing as Oriana pelted them with snowballs from the side of the freshly cleared driveway. Things looked right in the picture, but Oriana had spent each night of their visit sharing a bed in the guest bedroom with Max. Sloan had let Dominik take his room and crashed on the sofa. His father knew a little about their relationship, but . . . not enough for Sloan to feel comfortable flaunting it.

Stealing kisses with the woman he loved had lost its appeal after the first few months, but the media attention made Oriana uncomfortable. After some rather nasty articles, Max had taken him and Dominik aside and asked if they could keep things low key. Private.

Of course he'd agreed. But he fucking hated it.

"What's eating at you, Sloan?" Max stepped up beside him and looked down at the picture. "I know the thing with your hand pisses you off, but there's more."

Sloan's grip tightened on the frame. He set it down carefully so he wouldn't break it. "Yeah, there's more. I'm sick of you and Dominik in my face all the time—of the constant reminders that you're her husband and he's her master. No one says shit when you take her off by yourself. No one bothers Dominik when he brings her to the club and doesn't want company. But me? Fuck, it's like I need goddamn supervision."

"It's not like that." Max shook his head and took a big step back, holding up his hands. "Hell, man, why didn't you say something?"

"That's what I'd like to know."

Both Max and Sloan's heads shot up as Oriana spoke from the doorway, arms crossed over her breasts. Max ducked his head and brushed his hand through his wavy blond hair.

Sloan pushed off the edge of the desk. "You seem happy with the way things are."

"You think I'm happy? Ugh! You're such an idiot sometimes!" Oriana pressed her eyes shut as she approached her desk, sinking into the chair, anger fading from her face as she covered her face with her hands. After letting out a defeated sigh, she dropped her hands to the desk. "I know how important your games have been—do you honestly think I'd let how I feel ruin your chances to make the playoffs?"