BREAKAWAY (The Dartmouth Cobras) (37 page)

He laughed and licked the blood from his bitten lip. "Come on, Dominik. Don't hold back. I know you've been wanting to do this for a while."

"You're damn right I have." Dominik's teeth glistened like wet pearls in a bed of coal as his lips curled away from them. "Somebody's got to beat some sense into you, and I'm just the person to do it."

"Hey!" Max ran up to them, not even flinching as he pushed between them and almost got clocked in the head by a punch Sloan checked just in time. "Dominik, take a walk." He shoved Dominik when the man simply glared at him. "Go. Show some of the goddamn control that makes you such a good Master."

Clenching his fist at his sides, Dominik inclined his head and strode down the hall. The locker room door slammed behind him.

Max closed his eyes and let out a heavy sigh. "This has to stop, Sloan—"

"I'm not listening to any more of this shit." Sloan sidestepped, then sucked his teeth when Max cut him off. "Get out of my way."

"No." Max shoved him back into the wall and pinned Sloan there with his hands on his shoulders. "I get it, okay? You're pissed at the whole world right now and I get it. But you're my best friend, man, and you're scaring me."

"Fuck off, Max." Sloan tried to laugh off Max's concern, but didn't try to push him away. "How am I scaring you? Just 'cause I'm playing with a busted hand?"

"Because you're popping pills like fucking tic
tacs
. You'd get up in my face if I pulled something like this, wouldn't you?"

The bastard was right. But fuck, the team needed their captain. Needed him to . . . Sloan's anger deflated as he finally faced how incredibly stupid he'd been. The whole playoff craze had swept him up and numbed his brain. He’d do more than get in Max’s face if he risked his career, and his health, for a game, no matter how much it meant to them both.

He nodded slowly and met his best friend's eyes. "Yeah, damn you, I would."

Max grinned. "All right, you ornery fucker, give me a hug and head upstairs to the
pressbox
. You're
gonna
watch us play, right?"

That’s all I’ll be able to do for a while.
Sloan rolled his eyes and pulled Max in for a rough hug. "I'll watch you. But I'm heading home early so our woman can fuss over me. And you don't get to watch."

"Asshole." Max chuckled and thumped him on the shoulder. "You know—"

Bright white flashing blinded Sloan and shouting cut off whatever Max was about to say. Sloan squinted at the cameramen and reporters swarming into the hall.

"Callahan! Are you ready to come out?"

"Sloan, can we get a statement about your feelings on men hiding homosexuality in the league?"

"Is Oriana Delgado just a front? Does she know?"

Shoving Max in the direction of the training room, Sloan snapped under his breath. "Stay in there. I'll get Tim to clear out the vermin."

Eyes wide, Max shook his head. "No way. We'll just tell them—"

"No talking to the press during playoffs, Max. Team policy. Get in there."

Once the door shut and the lock clicked, Sloan made his way through the crush. Microphones were held in his face. Questions were shouted at him. But he just kept going, repeating over and over, "no comment."

By the time he got to the locker room, Tim was already herding reporters away from the door, promising an interview after the game. He waved Sloan inside and manned the door until the team's PR showed up.

Dropping to a bench beside Carter, Sloan massaged his temples and groaned.

What a fucking mess.
He wanted to smash something, like maybe a few cameras—or skulls—but the men didn’t need to see him lose it. Not again. Not right before the game. Then again, they didn’t need the drama with the press either.

Kinda
unavoidable now.

He could deny being gay all he wanted, but the press wouldn't believe a fucking word he said. And even if they did, if he didn't say just the right thing, they'd crucify him as some kind of bigot or something. He had a feeling the PR would be scripting a response for him. He hoped it included something along the lines of 'It's nobody's goddamn business who I fuck'.

Very unlikely.

"What's going on?" Carter stuck the end of his mouthpiece in the space where he'd lost a couple of teeth, grinning like a fool, but pale as a death mask. "Did I just hear one of those reporters call you a fag?"

Sloan shrugged. "They saw me hugging Perron. Like straight men can't hug. But whatever, they'll find something else to salivate over by tomorrow. They got bored of going on about the whole 'ménage' thing. They'll get even less from this."

"You think?" Carter chewed irritably on his mouthpiece. "I mean, if you were gay, they wouldn't let up right? They'd make a big deal about it?"

"Probably. But I'm not worried about it. Sucks for the guys that
are
gay—hell, sucks for a lot of us. You might have noticed me and Oriana don't go out in public? She's married.
Kinda
looks bad and getting called a whore and a cheater was getting to her." Sloan recalled the pictures of Carter and Jami Richter. The kid had probably already had a taste of what he was going through. Maybe that was why he looked so freaked out. "Jami never talked to the press and you did pretty good with the little 'I'm sorry if I showed disrespect to my team and my parents with my actions' speech. They move on when you don't tell '
em
anything. You'll be fine."

"Hey, I'm not worried either. Not like they could show those
pics
in anything but the tabloids." Carter let out a strained laugh. "But . . . I mean, what would you say? Like, to any guy that does want to come out? You know they're
gonna
ask."

"They'll ask." Sloan slapped Carter's shoulder and stood as he caught sight of Tim gesturing to him. "But I've got only one thing to say to them unless the PR tells me otherwise."

"What's that?"

"No comment."

"'No comment'." Carter nodded and hunched over to tie his skates. "Guess that covers it."

Standing with Tim and the PR lady, Sloan did his best to pay attention as they told him what he'd said had been perfect, that he'd handled the press well. And maybe he had.

But he couldn't help but feel giving Carter the same answer had been very
very
wrong.

* * * *

Final minutes of the third period and neither team had scored, but anyone who knew the game could see the Sabres set the pace. They had played solid defensively the entire game, avoided fights, and made opportunities whenever the Cobras let down their guard.

Which happened far too often for Sebastian's liking. The absence of their captain seemed to have shaken the younger men. Mason's presence helped some, but he was restricted to limited ice time since he hadn't spent much time practicing with the team. Which meant the energy he brought to the ice came in short burst, and died down just as quickly.

"Wake up, guys!" Bower shouted as the third line dragged their feet and eyed the clock. "Let's finish this!"

The coach shouted for a line change and the Sabres used their brief power advantage to launch another attack. Sebastian quickly covered the shooting lane and sent the puck flying to the other end of the ice. Demyan snapped it up and chipped it to Luke. Luke raced behind the Sabres net and angled a pass to Pearce who let it rebound off his stick towards the net.

A metallic
clink
drove the crowd to their feet. The Sabres goalie gloved the puck and kissed the post with enough enthusiasm that even his own team laughed.

Forty-five seconds left. The Sabres coach called for a time out. The Cobras gathered by the bench, half listening to Tim's last minute instructions, the other half looking like they had somewhere else to be.

Tim made a sound of disgust and picked up a large bottle of Gatorade. He took a sip, his eyes in slits as he looked them over. Then he spat on the floor and threw the bottle. It slammed into the inner board near the center bench with a
thunk
and burst open. The players started and stared at him.

Sebastian rested his hands on the top of his stick, using them to hide his smile. Tim was known as one of the most level-headed coaches in the league. Seeing him lose his cool wasn't something the men could shrug off.

"The second fucking game in the playoffs, just the second game, and less than a handful of you showed up to play." He shook his head and laughed, raking his fingers through his hair. "
Pathetic
. All right, Pearce, I want you to stay on with Carter and Demyan. The three have you have shown some grit and I'm impressed. Ramos, if you're hurting, let me know now. Otherwise, you're on with Mischlue. Nothing gets through, hear me?"

Time out ended.

"I am well enough." Sebastian inclined his head to Tim when the man nodded, then skated into position.

The ref tossed Demyan out of the faceoff. Luke took his place.

A quick slap off Luke's stick blade skirted the puck between Sebastian's skates. He angled his skate to redirect the puck and carried it out to center ice. Demyan received his pass cleanly, but a solid check knocked him off his feet. He scrambled up and followed Luke and Pearce into the defensive zone to cover his man.

Luke dove to block a shot, then moved swiftly out of Bower's line of sight as the Sabre's retrieved the puck. Sebastian read the play and covered Bower's left flank. Hot pain flashed through his side as the puck cracked into his ribs. He hissed in a breath through his teeth and tightened his grip on his stick as his muscles seized.

Mischlue knocked the puck away from the attacking forward and caught an elbow in the jaw. Bower dove to make a save and lost the rebound. Luke covered and kicked the puck towards Bower's glove. Three Sabres crashed the net, knocking it loose and falling into a pile of bodies.

The buzzer sounded, but there were still a few seconds left for one last faceoff. Bower helped Luke to his feet, putting his hand over the one Luke had pressed to his cheek.

"Shit, man." Bower winced. "Get that looked at."

Blood trickled down to Luke's chin and Sebastian forgot the game. He spun around, ready to follow Luke to the bench, but a hand on his shoulder stopped him short.

"Bad idea, Ramos." Bower glanced around quickly and lowered his voice. "You don't want the press making something out of nothing. He's okay, he just got nicked by a skate. Give it three seconds and you can fuss over him in private,
tu
sais?"

 
"Yes, I understand." Sebastian's jaw hardened as he slid over to the point.

Pischlar
took over for Luke. No one bothered setting up a play when the puck hit the ice. The regular periods were done. They were moving into overtime.

Once Sebastian reached the bench, the men let him pass, patting his shoulder and speaking quiet words he couldn’t quite make out. They seemed to be offering their support, but he couldn’t be sure. Until he saw for himself that Luke was all right, he couldn't find it in him to care for anything else.

* * * *

Luke's stomach did a dead-fish-flop as the thread tugged at the skin on his cheek. His eyes stung, but he managed to man up and take the pain. Wasn't so bad, really. He'd had worse.

Seeing the skate flash right near his eye had scared him more than anything.

"There you go. Only twelve stitches." The doctor sat back and pulled off his gloves. "Might leave a small scar, but you're good to play if you're feeling up to it. You didn't hit your head, did you?"

"Nope." Luke grinned at the doc and grabbed his gloves from the table. As the doc checked on Mischlue, who was icing his jaw, Luke went over to his stall and slumped onto the short wooden bench. He nudged Demyan and gestured to the mirror he stared at crossed-eyed to check a small bruise between his eyebrows. "Mind if I borrow that?"

"Sure." Demyan handed him the mirror, then leaned over to inspect Luke's stitches. "Came close, didn't it? You're lucky. Another inch and—"

"I'm sure Luke knows how lucky he is, Demyan,
mon
dieu
!" Bower scowled at Demyan as he ambled up to them. He handed his gloves to a trainer and gave Demyan a pointed look. "How about you make yourself scarce? Ramos wants to check on the kid."

"Ah." Demyan's crooked smile as he glanced past Bower to Seb set Luke's teeth on edge. "Got it. I'll give you two some privacy."

For fuck's sake, like we need it?
Luke glared at his skates as Demyan let Seb take his spot. The guys were acting like they knew something. And the whole press thing with Callahan and Perron made it clear that even suspicions were bad. Not that he was ashamed or anything, but did Seb
really need to fucking advertise their . . .

Call it what it is. Relationship.
Luke pressed his tongue against the inside of his cheek until the cut stretched and throbbed. He held up the mirror and bit back a groan. If this kept up, he was going to look like Frankenstein.

"It is not so bad."

Luke inhaled and faced Seb, with his deep natural tan, skin smooth above thick dark stubble, no scars except for a small one at the bridge of his nose. If he looked close enough, he could tell Seb's nose had been broken once or twice—it wasn't
perfectly
straight—but he could dress up nice and have people see him as more than a jock. He could pass as a clean cut businessman easy. When his career was over, he could do anything he wanted with his life.