BREAKAWAY (The Dartmouth Cobras) (44 page)

Chapter Twenty

Luke stopped short in the hall outside the player's lounge. Retreated a few steps and swallowed back the name that almost spilled past his lips.

Seb sat on one of the big leather sofas, holding Jami. He spoke quietly over her head to Chicklet who shook her head and fiddled with a half-full bottle of water. A few feet away from them, Perron stood by the refreshments table, looking like he wanted to say something, but wasn't sure what.

I know what to say.
Luke scowled and stepped forward. Seb had pushed Jami too far with some kinky shit or something. He didn't fucking deserve h—

"Don't." A heavy hand fell on his shoulder and jerked him back into the locker room. Mason stared down at him. "I don't know what's going on between the three of you, and frankly, I don't care. He just got her calmed down, so give her some time to pull herself together. She was crying because of you."

"What the fuck did I do? You don't care what's going on, but you're blaming me?"

"Relax, kid." Bower moved up to his side, close enough to force Mason back. "She just had a bad drop. You don't need to explain yourself to anyone."

"Yes. I do." Luke sidled past both men. He winced at the hard look Chicklet gave him as he inched closer to Jami. But, much as he respected Chicklet, her opinion of him didn't matter right now. "Hey, boo. Can we talk?"

Jami sniffed and wiped under her eyes quickly before lifting her head from Seb's chest. "Why? Bored of Amy already?"

Fuck this.
His jaw hardened. "I don't know, you bored of Demyan?"

Perron cleared his throat. "Might could be a good idea to have this little chat somewhere else."

Seb stood, pulling Jami up with him. "That's an excellent idea, Perron. Luke, I think we should—"

"We?" Luke's eyes narrowed. "I didn't say I wanted to talk to
you
."

Pain washed over Seb's face so fast Luke blinked and was sure he'd imagined it. Seb's eyes had gone cold. His lips drew into a tight line. "Very well. The training room is empty."

"Jami?" Luke already knew she wouldn't come. Actually, from the look of her, he'd be lucky if she didn't come over and kick his ass.

"You can't be serious."

"Should I take that as a no?"

"Fuck you, Luke." She turned her back on him and rose up on her tiptoes to give Seb a quick kiss. "Sorry for falling apart like that."

"There's no need to be. Please stay with Chicklet during the game." Seb's brow furrowed slightly. "And consider the scene over."

Luke sucked his teeth.
Good call, Ramos.

Jami shook her head. "But—"

"It. Is. Over." Seb cupped her cheek and kissed her forehead. "Go, mi cielo."

Chicklet managed to drag Jami out without too much fuss, but as the door closed behind them, the tension in the room rose like a thick, rancid smog. Seb walked by Luke without even sparing him a glance, but the other men were watching him with a mixture of pity, confusion, and disgust. Mischlue muttered something in French to Bower as Luke entered the locker room.

Bower glared at him. "
Tu
n'en
sais
rien
. He didn't start the fucking drama. I get that Jami is the team's sweetheart, but she's not innocent in all this."

Seb halted in front of his stall, his back stiff.

Before he could say anything, Tim stormed into the room. A row of sticks clattered to the floor as he kicked the wooden stand. "What the fuck is going on in here?"

Every man in the room went silent.

"I'm sorry, did getting ready for the playoffs interfere with your Soap Opera?" Tim kicked Pearce's helmet across the room. Then grabbed one of Bower's pads and slammed it into the goalie's chest. "I don't care who's fucking who, it stays out of this goddamn room! Now get your asses on the fucking ice!" His jaw ticked as Pearce stood. "Is that too complicated for you, Pearce?"

"No," Pearce said,
straightfaced
. "Just getting my helmet, Coach."

Luke bit the inside of his cheek so he wouldn't laugh. The tension broke as Tim looked over at the helmet on the floor between Demyan's feet. A few guys snickered.

Tim rolled his eyes. "That's hilarious." He sighed. "Seriously, guys, you need to pull it together out there. We haven't sold out like this in months. No one expected us to be real Cup contenders for years. Bring it home and you'll all have a team to play for, years from now."

"Wait." Velcro ripped as Mason pulled a strap to tighten his knee brace. He looked up and frowned. "I thought the team was stable."

"I'm not saying it isn't." Tim rubbed the back of his neck and shrugged. "But I've always been straight with you guys and I'm telling you, how far you go in the playoffs will have a big impact on what the league decides to do with us over the next few seasons."

Bower was concentrating really hard on doing up his pads. He obviously knew something. Luke studied the other men. They all looked worried. Except for Seb. He caught Luke's eye as he rose from the bench and fisted his hand around his stick.

"One game at a time." Seb spoke quietly, but their teammates, their coach, had gone silent. All eyes were on him. "Tonight, we win this one."

The men broke out in wild victory shouts, but Luke didn't join them. He couldn't look away from Seb. Not until the man inclined his head, which Luke took as some kind of truce. Whatever happened off the ice didn't matter. Somehow, Seb knew Luke needed his strength. And he was letting Luke know, without words, that he'd be there.

I could hate you, man.
Luke picked up his stick and nodded at Seb.
Fuck, it would be easier if I did.

But he didn't. And right now, he'd accept any help he could get. Even if he hated
himself
for accepting it once the game ended.

* * * *

Over twenty thousand fans stared at them, spilling down expectations built over years. They'd been led to believe that this team which should never have been was worth their support. Worth their hard earned money, worth their passion. If the Cobras hadn't made the playoffs many would have hopes for 'maybe next year', but since they had, hopes were high. Anything less than the Cup would be a disappointment, but at very least, the Sabres, the team that had earned the hatred of every man, woman, and child in the forum must be buried.

So serious. So important. They had all forgotten that this was a game. That it was supposed to be fun.

Sebastian slid onto the ice and the cheers crashing from above humbled him. He'd never been this important to a team, but for some reason the fans saw him as vital in their road to victory. If he played well, they would raise him high on a precarious platform. If he didn't, they would come down on him with a vengeance. And he wasn't the only player who would feel their wrath. It seemed the louder they screamed your name, the louder they would condemn you if you failed them.

Bower's presence on the ice brought the crowd to their feet.

The man singing the anthem was a Maritime celebrity, which didn't mean much grand scale, but local talent endeared the fans. Ray Parris had made it to Broadway, so it wasn't all that surprising that Silver Delgado had chosen him to sing tonight.

But Sebastian imagined she regretted the choice as the man butchered the American anthem. The off-key notes made Sebastian wince, but he tried to keep his face blank. From the corner of his eye he saw other players trying to do the same. And then the Canadian anthem began.

Most often the Canadian anthem was sung in both French and English. The English part was as bad as the American anthem had been, but the French . . .

Likely nervous, the man stumbled over several words, skipped a few, then carried on with renewed confidence. He seemed to think volume made up for the errors. Sebastian heard a rasping cough behind him and furtively glanced over to Bower.

Bower had his gloved hands fisted over the top of his stick and pressed against his mouth. His shoulders shook and his eyes shone. He made the mistake of looking at Mischlue, who hid his face in his glove, laughing so hard he appeared to be choking.

Standing by Mischlue, Luke reached out and patted his back, singing along as he often did, loud enough to be heard across the ice. His face showed on the screen above and the crowd laughed and cheered. Ray Parris stopped to let the crowd sing, and for a split second all that could be heard was Luke.

Luke's sounded even worse than Ray, and it clearly wasn't done in mocking, but that wasn't what made Sebastian's chest swell with pride. It was the passion, candid and raw, that changed the atmosphere from amused to eager. The crowd joined him, continuing with Ray, almost drowning him out. After he took his bow, Ray paused and sought out Luke. He smiled at him as though to say 'Thank you'.

Giving him a thumbs up, Luke shouted. "Fiddler on the Roof rocked! I'm a big fan, man!"

Mason nudged Sebastian as he passed, bringing his focus back to where it belonged. Before Jami and Luke, nothing could distract him from the game, but now they had to be forced from his mind before he could ease into the flow. Even now his attention split between Luke, taking the faceoff against Nelson, and Jami, high above in the
pressbox
.

The rasp of blades on ice jerked him back into his own body, into play. He cupped a soft pass and lunged forward with long strides. A large body plowed towards him, but he evaded the check with a smooth spin and then clipped the puck back to Demyan.

Shot. Rebound. The Sabres goalie trapped the puck under his body. Another faceoff. Play went from end to end, through one shift after another, nothing getting past either
netminder
. Long spans without a whistle exhausted each line and changes were quick for both teams to keep the players fresh. Cheers from the fans died down, and an edge of expectancy filled the crisp, ice-bitten air. The pace of the game became repetitive, dragging with both teams carefully guarding their zones.

Leading by two games, the Cobras lacked urgency, but the Sabres grew desperate as they reached the last seconds of the first period. They needed this game. They needed a way to prove to themselves they wouldn't be swept from the playoffs, shamed by a newer team who had yet to prove they belonged. Back on the ice, Sebastian found himself scrambling after reckless, unexpected plays. A slash dropped him to his knees.

No penalty was called, but he didn't bother to look at the ref. Pain tore through his side as he pushed up to his feet and thick bile rose in his throat. His gaze locked on the puck, he dove forward to block a shot. Black and red spotted his vision. Stick blades jabbed into his ribs, stabbing the spot the puck had struck. The sharp whistle pierced his skull as he pushed up to fists and knees. The sound chimed off bruised bones. But he refused to stay down.

A hand jutted out in front of his face. "Can you stand?"

"Yes." Sebastian forced a smile to his lips and let Luke help him up. He tightened his grip on Luke's hand, holding on longer than necessary because it was allowed, out here, on the ice. Because Luke had no reason to pull away. His pain dulled to a throb as he searched Luke's eyes and found nothing but concern. "Thank you."

"Seb . . . ." Luke's teeth dented his bottom lip as he stared at their clasped gloves. He jerked free and skidded backwards as the ref approached. "Nothing's changed here." His throat worked as he swallowed. "But only here."

"Of course." Sebastian inclined his head and squared his shoulders. He should have expected this. Luke was a professional. Life beyond the ice was only a brief pause, a distraction. For one as young as Luke, the game was all that mattered. And he believed what they'd had was too complicated to be worth the many risks.

Now was not the time to try to convince him otherwise. But that time would come.

* * * *

"I'm sorry, Akira!" Jami hugged Akira tight, still feeling horrible about forgetting to meet her before the game. She'd tried to tell her a few times after she'd come into the
pressbox
, but Akira had shushed her. And hadn't taken her eyes off the game until the first period ended.

"It's okay, but . . . ." Akira pulled her away from where Chicklet stood between Laura and Tyler. She ducked her head when Sloan glanced her way, pulled the sleeves of her huge jersey—with Sloan's name and number on the back—over her hands and inched closer to Jami. "What's going on? Ford said you were crying."

Sneaky son-of-a-bitch.
So that's how he'd gotten Akira to come with him. Jami scowled at Ford as he lifted his head as though he'd heard her thoughts. He stood on the other side of the room, looking more like security than one of the team owners in his faded, torn black jeans and white tank top. She knew he usually wore suits to the forum, which meant he probably hadn't planned to attend the game.

"I wasn't crying, I just . . . ." Jami rolled her eyes and shook her head. "I'll tell you about it later. Thanks for checking on Peanut for me."

"No problem. I was just a little worried when you didn't come home." Akira frowned. "And then none of the girls had seen you, and the guy stopped me at the elevator and didn't know I was allowed up here—"

"I'm a really crappy friend."

"Oh shut up." Akira planted her hands on her hips. "You are not. Just call me next time something's up."

"I will. I promise." Jami hugged her again, holding her close to whisper in her ear. "So Ford was okay? He didn't make you uncomfortable or anything, did he?"

Akira glanced over at Ford, then lowered her voice. "No, actually he was very polite."

"Polite?"
Ford?

"Yeah. He got the security guy to back off, then told me he recognized me from tryouts. When he asked me to follow him, I . . . ." Akira dropped her gaze to her feet. Her slick black hair fell over her cheeks. "I almost got right back on the elevator. He must have noticed I was ready to run, but he acted like he didn't. Then he mentioned you crying and I forgot to be scared."

Jami grinned, looked over at Ford again, mouthing "Thank you". He shrugged like it was nothing, glanced over at Akira, then shoved his hands in his jean pockets and moved closer to the glass to stare down at the
zamboni
as it cleaned the ice. She turned to Akira. "Well, as you can see, I'm fine. Are you enjoying the game?"