Delayed Penalty (The Dartmouth Cobras #5)

by Bianca Sommerland

  “Should Dean and I start trying while you’re gone?” Silver wiggled a little closer to Landon, teasing him with the press of her hips.

  “Mmm, I think you should.” Landon glanced over at Dean, the heat in his eyes making Dean’s pulse speed up, something in them telling Dean the arousal in them was from more than Landon picturing their sexy woman in the throes of passion. But, as always, Landon seemed to catch himself. He looked away as he released Silver. “I better go before I’m late. But this is better. I hate fighting with you, mon amour, and without Dean, I think that’s all we’d ever do.”

  “Then I better thank him for us both.” Silver took Amia from Dean, cooing to their daughter as she gently pried Dean’s tie out of her hands. “Naptime, baby girl. Say bye to Daddy.”

  Amia giggled and latched on to one of Silver’s hoop earrings. Silver winced, carefully extracted her earring from Amia’s hand, then blew Landon one last kiss before heading up the stairs.

  Getting the door for Landon, Dean stood aside as Landon carried his suitcase out to the porch. There were many things he wanted to say, but instead, he smiled as Landon turned to him. “Make us proud, goalie.”

  “Dean . . .” Landon’s brow furrowed. He set his suitcase down and slid one hand behind Dean’s neck, pressing their foreheads together. “I wanted to tell you I’m sorry. I made this harder and that’s not what I was trying to do.”

  “No harm done, Landon.”

  “Right.” Landon swallowed audibly, then backed away, stepping out into the cold. “No harm done.”

  Hours later, Dean sat at his desk, unable to focus on the player stats laid out in front of him, his thoughts slipping to his and Landon’s last exchange. The wall Landon had put up wasn’t as solid as he’d first believed. With some effort, he could break it down, but did he want to? With what the man was going through, he needed Dean to be strong enough to set the boundaries. To give him and Silver a strong foundation to rebuild their fragile relationship. His own feelings were irrelevant. He had to be the person they could lean on.

  Without coming between them.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Tyler found himself shaking with nervous energy as Doc shone a bright light in his eye. So stupid, needing to come get an exam for a damn headache, but that was the deal he’d made with Chicklet when he’d gotten cleared for play.

  “I have to trust you, Tyler.” Chicklet had pressed his head against her thigh as he knelt before her, gently stroking his rumpled curls. “And I do. But there will be no toughing it out.”

  The guys might call him pussy whipped, and sometimes it pissed him off, but when he submitted to Chicklet, it wasn’t just an act to get some. He’d never felt anything so powerful as the peace that settled inside him when his Mistress took control and let him just be. He didn’t have to wonder if he was making her happy. She had so many ways to show him.

  “All good, son.” Doc smiled, taking a few notes down on his clipboard. “You haven’t felt dizzy or sick, so I see no cause for concern.” He handed Tyler a small sample pack of Advil. “Take these before the game. If the headache gets worse or you experience other symptoms, come back and see me. Otherwise, you’re good to go.”

  Grinning at the doctor, Tyler hopped off the table, throwing back both pills right there where the doc could see because he knew the rules. After Richards had gotten caught leaving his fish oil pills under his lettuce, Doc had been pretty mad. He couldn’t control what they did at home, but on the road, either he, a trainer, or one of the coaches had to be present when the players took any medication or supplements. Everything was written down.

  A little crazy, but whatever. Tyler started for the door.

  Then stopped short as it opened, his jaw practically hitting the floor.

  No fucking way!

  Hell, he wouldn’t lie. He wouldn’t be this starstuck if he met Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson. Okay, maybe that was a stretch—he’d been a wrestling fan since birth—but still, this was Raif Zovko. The man fans called Midas because of his mad skills. With his hands, unless you shut him down the second he got the puck, he struck gold. The man never missed the net or hit a post.

  “Hey, kid.” Zovko flashed Tyler a smile as he passed, nodding to the doctor as Doc gestured for him to take a seat. “You look familiar.”

  Tyler’s lips parted, but not a sound came out. All he could do was stare at the man like a brainless dolt. White silk shirt with the first few buttons undone, rich olive skin, broad shoulders. Dark hair, gleaming like polished mahogany, kinda messy, like the man had just climbed out of bed, but it still looked perfect. The man couldn’t look anything but perfect.

  Stop staring, Vanek! Be cool!

  He cleared his throat and managed to make a sound kinda like, “Hey.”

  “You all right?” Zovko’s dark brows drew together. He had a slight, smooth accent with a gravelly edge Tyler couldn’t quite place. It never came across this well during interviews. Zovko sat up as the doctor placed the blood pressure thing on his arm. Then he snapped his fingers. “Ah, I remember. You took a bad fall two seasons ago. Glad you’re back, but there are setbacks sometimes, yes?”

  “No, no setbacks.” Tyler shook his head hard. He needed to get the hell out of there before the man started thinking he was brain-dead. “Sorry. Nice to meet you. Coach—Coach is waiting.”

  “Sure thing. I’ll see you in the locker room.” Another smile and Zovko turned to the doc to answer some routine questions.

  Face burning, Tyler darted out of the training room, making a stop in the bathroom to splash some cold water on his face. If Carter and Demyan saw him like this right before Zovko joined them and they’d never let him live it down. But . . . damn, he couldn’t help it. Zovko was his freakin’ hero. Tyler had watched him play for the first time when he was nine or ten, and had gone from being pretty into hockey to deciding he wouldn’t stop until he went pro. His mom had bought him Zovko’s jersey for Christmas a couple of years later, and Tyler still had it in a frame in his game room.

  And now Zovko was a Cobra.

  By the time Tyler got to the locker room, Zovko was there, being greeted by all the players. Tyler went to his stall, head down, hoping to avoid the two men who wouldn’t be his friends for long if they said anything stupid. Richards sat beside him, his eyes wide as he watched their teammates taking turns introducing themselves. The eighteen-year-old rookie was trying to tape his stick, but he couldn’t seem to keep his eyes off Zovko.

  Which made Tyler feel a bit better about his own reaction. He laughed and took the stick from the rookie. “You’re making a mess.”

  “That’s Raif Zovko.” Richards reached back into his stall and pulled out a stack of cards wrapped in a thick elastic band. “Do you think he’d—”

  Tyler shook his head, leaning close to Richards and speaking low. “Ask him in private or the guys will bug you about it.”

  Blushing, Richards ducked his head and stuffed the cards back in his sports bag. “Good idea. But . . . is this for real? Man, if he’s with us, we’re so getting the Cup.”

  “My thoughts exactly.”

  “Hey, Vanek, did you see who’s here?” Carter called out. “Funny how we were just talking about—”

  “Luke.” Ramos stepped up to Carter, his tone sharp. “Stop.”

  Carter pressed his lips together and nodded.

  Demyan, standing a few steps away from them, snorted and winked at Tyler. Tyler grinned at him, deciding Demyan was pretty decent after all. He didn’t have a Dom to make him behave. So long as he didn’t bring anything up in front of Zovko, Tyler could take it.

  “Pearce.” Zovko moved away from the other men, a broad smile on his lips as he crossed the room. He hugged Pearce, slapping his back in that manly way guys did, perfectly appropriate for the locker room. “It’s been a long time.”

  “It has. Good to have you with us, Raif.” Pearce laughed, leaving his hand on Zovko’s shoulder. “I’d heard rumors, but wasn’t sure I’d get to pla
y with you again.”

  Again? Tyler frowned, noticing how Demyan’s eyes narrowed as he watched the friendly exchange. He couldn’t recall Pearce and Zovko ever being on the same team. And he was pretty sure he knew everything there was to know about the man.

  Apparently the two knew each other pretty well. Pearce had called him Raif.

  “We had some good times in Hamilton, Zach,” Zovko said, his tone casual, but something more beneath it.

  Tyler wasn’t the only one who caught the shift. Demyan stiffened, and from the corner of his eye, Tyler noticed Tim straightening from where he’d been crouched in front of White, going over some plays on his laptop.

  Things could get nasty.

  But Demyan simply stepped up to Pearce’s side, holding out his hand to Zovko. “Scott Demyan. Zach’s boyfriend.”

  “A pleasure.” Zovko shook Demyan’s hand, his expression unreadable. “I’d heard Zach had come out. There was no mention of you, but I have seen your face in several papers. You have an . . . interesting reputation, Demyan.”

  “Yeah, but this man got me to clean up my act. Not much I wouldn’t do for him.” Demyan gave Zovko a tight smile. “Awesome to have you on the team, though. If you’re as good as everyone says, you’re a decent purchase.”

  “I’m worth every cent.”

  “Great that you think so.”

  “Scott.” Pearce put his hand on Demyan’s arm and pulled him aside. Tyler couldn’t hear what he was saying, but there was no mistaking the tension between Zovko and Demyan. They might as well be fucking growling at each other.

  All this drama wasn’t what Tyler had expected to happen if Zovko joined the team. He’d pictured everyone being excited. The team coming together and being a goddamn force to be reckoned with on the ice. Maybe . . . maybe getting up the nerve to ask Zovko to show him a few moves.

  Kinda hard to do when the man was all up on Pearce.

  He was glaring at his own stick, finished taping it, when a shadow fell over him. He jumped as a cool hand brushed his and gaped up as Zovko took his stick from him.

  “Not bad, but a little thick, no?” Zovko unwrapped a length of tape. Then he knelt and put Tyler’s stick between his knees. He held out his hand to Richards, who passed him the wax he’d been using to cover his stick blade. “Hope you don’t mind I use your stick to show the rookie?”

  Tyler shook his head.

  “Wax is good, but make sure it’s even, like this.” Zovko quickly waxed over the tape on both sides, then watched Richards tear the tape off his stick and redo it, finishing off with a much smoother coat. He stood and handed Tyler his stick. “Let me know if I can help, all right?” He gave Tyler a shrewd look. “I want to be a good part of this team. First impressions aren’t always the best.”

  Thinking of the first impression he must have given Zovko, Tyler nodded. “Yeah, I don’t usually stare at people. I was just . . . I watched you as a kid.”

  “No worries.” Zovko put his hand on Tyler’s shoulder, glancing back at the noisy locker room before leaning close and lowering his voice. “You should have seen me the first time I met ‘Le Gros Bill.’” He chuckled. “I forgot my own name. I think you and I will be good friends. Maybe have a beer sometime?”

  Despite swearing to himself just last week that he’d never drink again, Tyler quickly agreed. Out on the ice for warm up, he noticed that Zovko steered clear of Pearce. Actually, he spent a lot of time with Tyler and Richards, demonstrating shots while they helped Bower warm up. The goalie had gone from distractedly blocking to really putting it all out there after Zovko sailed a few easy shots past him.

  Bower snatched the last snapped puck out of the air, then tipped his mask off his face, really smiling for the first time since he’d returned from his injury. “All right, uncle! Keep that up and you’re gonna show the other team all my weak spots!”

  “You don’t have many.” Zovko saluted Bower with his stick blade, then skated off to the bench.

  The energy Zovko brought to the team did exactly what Tyler had hoped it would. Within the first period, Vancouver’s goalie was pulled in response to the five goals in eight shots. The backup goalie didn’t fare too much better. In the end, the Cobras completely destroyed the Canucks. And then headed off to LA without any more drama.

  First thing the next morning, Tyler found the headline online from the Dartmouth Herald reading “The Cobras got the ‘Midas’ Touch” and got the pretty receptionist at the hotel to print it out. He’d do like he’d told Richards and ask privately, but he needed to get Zovko to sign this.

  The man was still his freakin’ hero.

  * * * *

  “Where is he? No, I don’t need to talk to him instead of you. I just want to know what’s going on!”

  Max stood in the open doorway of the hotel room he was sharing with Bower and considered turning around and heading back down to the hotel lounge, but they had a game in just over an hour. He needed to get his things.

  And get that man calmed down some. He quietly shut the door behind him.

  “You probably should have talked to him before—no, I’m not saying he’s right. Goddamn it, Silver, don’t you—”

  A quick side step was the only thing that kept Max from getting hit by Bower’s phone. Bower kicked his bed, then pressed his hands to either side of his head and groaned.

  “Deep breath, Bower.” Max approached the other man as he dropped heavily onto the second bed. He shoved his hands in the pockets of his gray slacks, not sure what kind of comforting Bower needed. If any. He might just need to be left alone. “You want me to call Tim and—”

  “No. Fuck no.” Bower let out a gritty, agitated laugh as he pushed off the bed. “I play. That’s what I do. That’s what they want me to do.”

  “All right, then we better go.” Max inhaled slowly as Bower moved around the room at a dragging pace, looking like a man with his soul half in the grave. Tim had given Max the heads up that Bower had some nasty nightmares, but since the man hadn’t slept, that wasn’t an issue.

  The win had given Bower a brief spark of life, but that had faded after they’d gotten on the plane to LA. He put on a decent show in front of the team, but his brief talks with Richter and Silver seemed to drain the last of his spirit. He didn’t eat with the team. Had missed the morning practice.

  If Tim didn’t know what was up, it was about time he did.

  Bower grabbed Max’s arm with brutal force and gave him a sharp look as they started for the door. “Not a fucking word to anyone. Hear me?”

  “I hear you.” Max jerked his arm free, his jaw clenching as he faced the other man. “But you better cool it. No point ‘n gettin’ all bowed up wit’ me.” He gnashed his teeth when Bower frowned at him, likely confused. Max’s accent was getting thick as his tolerance frayed. He had all the patience in the world with his friends and teammates, but none when things got physical for nothing. He was usually the coolest head on the team, but he’d been raised to know when the civil line was crossed. “I ain’t the one you’re mad at.”

  “I’m not mad, I’m . . .” Bower shook his head and pressed his eyes shut. “I’m sorry. Fuck, I would have knocked you out if you’d grabbed me like that.”

  “I might’ve been tempted.” Max slapped Bower’s shoulder, more than ready to forget the slip. And get on the ice where he could burn off the adrenaline sizzling in his veins. “If I didn’t suspect you were hoping I would.”

  Stupid, but he did end up keeping his mouth shut. And it took about half of the first period for him to regret it. Bower’s head wasn’t in the game.

  Gasping in a lungful of ice-sweetened air, Max threw himself into a rapid glide across the ice, pinching in the offensive zone to retrieve a missed pass from the Kings’ defensemen. Playing defense, he knew to make sure one of the Cobra forwards read his play before going in so deep. He quickly snapped the puck to Zovko who buried it in the back of the net.

  3-2 for the Kings.

  Tim left the line o
n for the center ice face-off. Carter won, but his backward pass was too hard for their German defenseman, Kral, to stop. The Kings’ speedy forward dashed across the ice between Max and Kral, shooting right over Max as he dove to block the puck.

  4-3.

  Not a goalie’s game. It happened. But during the break, Bower disappeared with his phone into the bathroom and barely made it back in time to start the second period. As Max sat on the bench, cursing as two more goals went in, Tim came up behind him, one hand on his shoulder.

  “He’s done, isn’t he?”

  “He was done before he got out there.” Max sighed and glanced over his shoulder at the coach. “I should’ve told you.”

  “Yeah, well, I would’ve given him a chance if he’d asked for it, too.” Tim inclined his head to Max, letting him know he understood, then shifted over to speak to the assistant coach. He signaled to the ref. Then to Bower.

  Hunt stood, ready to take Bower’s place. Kudos to the kid for not looking too excited about it, but before he could step on to the ice, Bower skated up, his face slick with sweat and red with rage.

  “Don’t fucking pull me, Coach.” Bower shoved his mask off his face. “Twenty shots on net in the first period. How about giving me some goddamn defense?”

  “We’re not discussing this now.” Tim waved Hunt on. “Take a seat, Bower. Save whatever you have to say until after the game.”

  For a second, Max was sure Bower would storm off, head to the locker room rather than take a seat at the end of the bench. But then Bower nodded slowly and got off the ice. He spent the rest of the game staring at the play, but not like he really saw any of it. They lost, 5-4, and not a man felt like talking as they gathered in the locker room.

  Bower was already gone.

  Max found him in their room, halfway through a bottle of whiskey. Thankfully, they didn’t have a game the next day, but he gently eased the bottle out of Bower’s hand, sitting in front of him on the floor.