Ford made a face, as though he’d tasted something disgusting. “Damn it, if I’d known sooner . . . Kingsley still wants to use the team to make the dirty fucking money he makes look clean. He couldn’t get me to do it, but he found ways to use Cort. Don’t hold this against him, but the whole thing with Dave Hunt—”
Poor kid. Akira frowned. She hadn’t liked Hunt, but most of that was from her own issues. “Cort got Angel to—”
“Yeah.”
“But that has nothing to do with what happened to Tim.” She chewed at her bottom lip when Ford refused to meet her eyes. “What aren’t you telling me?”
Pressing his eyes shut, Ford tipped his head up to the ceiling. “I don’t think my father would have gone after Tim unless his name was mentioned.”
“Cort—” She was going to be sick. Madeline and Tim were dead because of Cort? She bent over, arms crossed over her bare stomach. “I can’t—if he—”
Shoulders squared, Ford looked down at her, his jaw hard. “Don’t do that. There was no way Cort could have known what my father would do. Cort was trying to keep me alive, and my father would have killed me to make a point. And then he would have found someone else to pressure. Tim was the head coach. My father might not have considered him on his own, but anyone involved with the team would have put Tim in the line of fire. And Tim would never have gone against the team.”
“It wasn’t ‘anyone,’ though.” Akira swallowed back the bile in her throat. “It was Cort.”
“No. It was my father.” Ford grabbed her arms and pulled her against his chest. “You hated me for so long because of what happened to Jami. And I get that. But don’t do that to Cort. He’s gonna need us. Remember how much you love him. Remember why. He didn’t think twice before stopping Lee, even though he knew he could end up back in jail. That’s who he is.”
“There had to be another way. Not with Lee, but with Kingsley—”
“He didn’t see it. But I’m doing what I can to get enough on Kingsley to put him away for a very long time. Just please—” Ford kissed her hair, her cheeks, massaging her arms as though his touch could somehow make her understand “—please don’t mistake who the monster is here. It’s not Cort.”
Right. Ford was right. She still felt nauseous, but pinning Tim’s death on Cort didn’t sit right. It was horrible enough that Cort would take the blame on himself. Despite her immediate reaction, she knew there was only one person responsible for taking Tim and Madeline away from those who loved them.
Kingsley.
A deep, sizzling rage had her wondering if she could go after Kingsley herself. Get a gun and just . . . but no, that would be stupid. Ford—of all people—was trying to deal with the man legally. Which was good. But it scared her. She fisted her hands in Ford’s shirt. “I get it. This isn’t Cort’s fault, and I’ll help him see that. But what about you? When Kingsley finds out you’re—”
“He won’t. The detective I talked to wants me to be a ‘confidential informant.’”
“Should you be saying that in here?” She held her breath. Damn it, they’d already said too much. “What if—”
“Laura met up with Cam earlier today. Gave him some easy, hi-tech way to check the room.” Ford’s lips curved slightly. “Security is pretty tight here. Kingsley would have had a hard time bugging the place. My bar, my house, my phone . . . different story.”
“But your office is safe.” Something occurred to her. “I didn’t even—I mean, what we did . . . I didn’t even think about being in an office. And that’s where . . .”
Ford cupped her cheeks in his hands, a broad smile on his lips. “That is amazing. I can’t do much for you, but at least I did something right.”
She closed her eyes as he kissed her, feeling a moment of peace. A bit of the submissive mentality, maybe, but knowing what she’d said, what she’d done, made him happy, was wonderful. “You’ve done a lot of things right, Ford.”
“Thank you, shorty.” He groaned at a soft tap at the door. “All right, the rest of the world wants us back. I don’t know how long it’ll be before I can steal you away again, but this will be over soon, and then me, you, and Cort—”
“We’ll have the rest of our lives.” Or was that expecting too much? It was what she wanted, but . . . She wrinkled her nose. “I mean, we’ll have time to—”
“You were right the first time.” Ford led her to the door, one hand on the small of her back, and pressed his lips to the side of her neck. “Anything worth having is worth fighting for, right? We’ve all fought hard. So we’ve earned forever.”
“Forever.” She took a deep breath and nodded. “That sounds right. That will get me through the next few days.”
Or longer. Her chest was tight as she left Ford’s office and let Cam walk her to the elevator. It might take longer. But it will be worth it in the end.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Deafening, eerie silence fell over the Delgado Forum. Filled to capacity, but the emptiness Max had sensed around him when he’d stepped on to the ice earlier, before all the lights were on, before any of the staff, or players, or fans had arrived, seemed to linger. Listening closely enough, whispers could be heard in the crowd, but the sound couldn’t penetrate the loss of a voice gone forever.
The tribute for Coach was about to begin. A thickness in Max’s throat made him swallow hard as he glanced over at the men along the bench. Dominik met his gaze and gave him a subtle nod. Sloan, taking his place behind the Cobra bench for the first time in a suit instead of a jersey, cleared his throat quietly behind Max, putting a hand on Max’s shoulder as Max stood to join the rest of the first line on the ice.
Keane’s voice came through the speakers, deep and steady as he spoke about Tim’s tragic death. He brought everyone’s attention to the Jumbotron to “Celebrate the life of the Dartmouth Cobras’ beloved coach, Tim Rowe.”
“Hear You Me” by Jimmy Eat World played as the screen showed a picture of Tim as a young boy, in his Halifax Hawks jersey, a big smile to proudly show off lost baby teeth. More pictures of him through his years in the minors. Then video clips of him as the Cobras’ assistant coach.
Max’s eyes moistened at a clip of Tim standing before him and Sloan, tearing them out for a sloppy play, then laughing abruptly at some stupid comment Max had made. Max couldn’t remember what he’d said, but he remembered how Tim could get him feeling like nothing he’d done couldn’t be fixed. He always believed each and every one of his men could do better. Would do better.
And they had. For Tim, every single player had worked their butts off to reach their potential because Tim accepted no less. He fought with them to keep the fire burning, the love of the game, the passion. He fought for them on the ice, picking his battles, but downright feral when he thought someone had done them wrong. Even now a scene played out where it looked like Tim wanted to strangle a ref.
That had Max grinning. Hell, the refs respected Tim because he was usually so level-headed. But when he got that look in his eyes, half of them would prefer dealing with Sloan while he’d been captain. Or Dominik once he’d gotten the position. The ref on screen looked embarrassed as Tim stood on the bench, shouting and making a slashing motion, pointing to Carter’s bloody lip.
Off to Max’s side, Carter made a rough sound, bowing his head and rubbing his gloved hand across his face. A few of the other men had tears streaming down their cheeks. The cameras showed the players standing at the bench, all staring up at the Jumbotron, all looking a little lost. A little broken.
As a clip played of Tim hugging Tyler after a game winning goal, Max glanced over and saw Tyler bend over, his shoulders hunched, head down. Zovko placed a hand on Tyler’s back and said something to him that had Tyler nodding and lifting his head. He stopped trying to hide his tears. And smiled a little at the scene playing where Tim came into the hotel room and dumped ice water over a young, very hungover Sloan.
Arms crossed over his chest, Sloan seemed to inhale slowly, but he h
ad a broad smile on his face. The tightness eased from Max’s chest. It was gonna hurt them all for a long time, carrying on without Tim, but they still had what he’d given them. They’d always have that.
The tribute finished with a picture of Tim in his coach’s uniform at a practice, pride in his smile as he looked over them all taking a knee in a circle around him. His minor league #38 with the Hawks’ logo on one side, and the Cobras’ on the other, showed at the base of the image and was worn as a patch on each player’s jersey. The jerseys would be auctioned off, proceeds going to Tim’s charities.
Cheers and applause from the crowd. Players from both teams rapped their sticks on the boards. Max and those on the ice lifted their sticks one-handed, pointing straight up, in a gesture of thanks to their coach. Keane went over the charities the team would donate to in Tim’s name. The charity Tim’s family had started for him and Madeline.
After Max and the first line returned to the bench, a large carpet was set up in the center of the ice for the Ice Girls’ dance. Some of the fans grumbled, probably having expected Tim’s family to come out to accept condolences, but it was just too damn soon for that. Tim and Madeline’s funeral had been that very morning, small and private, with only family and the team.
This, the tribute, the dance, was for the fans. As a remix of Jimmy Eat World’s “The Middle” played, the energy in the Forum changed. Akira led her girls in a powerful, blood-pumping performance that seemed to remind everyone why they were here. The heavy weight of sadness lifted. The air seemed a little easier to breathe.
By the time the puck dropped, the atmosphere around the ice was no different than at any other game. The Islander players had taken a moment to show their respects, but now they were simply opponents.
There was a game to win. Instructions Sloan had given in the locker room that every man carried in the forefront of his mind. No one asked “how” or “why.” They needed direction. “Start easy and stay out of the box” was simple enough. Max knew the reasons, but few did. The odds leaned toward the Cobras losing this game. The team was an emotional wreck. Some might figure they could “do it for Tim” . . .
Easier said than done. In the end though, they had to come out ahead. With Hunt between the pipes. With half the team still uncertain whether the game really mattered anymore because, despite the rousing tribute, they hadn’t had a chance to get past the sight of Tim’s name carved in stone and the scent of damp earth on his grave.
Losing wasn’t an option. Not with Kingsley still out there, held at bay only because Ford had convinced him that he didn’t need to make another move to get what he wanted from the team.
If that changed, the next face up on that screen could be any one of them. Tyler, whose red-rimmed eyes were hard with determination. Carter, whose pale face made his game-earned scars stand out against the stone set of his jaw. Demyan, Pearce, Dominik, or any player who made an impact could find themselves in Kingsley’s line of fire.
Max would be damned if he’d let that happen. But that proved a distraction in itself, because he couldn’t stop watching the other men. Trying to see them as Kingsley would, wondering who stood out. Who might be vulnerable.
“I hear you’ve got my leftovers now, Mason,” Grant Higgins said under his breath as he shoved against Dominik, off to Max’s left at the face-off. “Knew she’d be the Cobras’ little fucktoy soon as she came down here.”
Shit! Max skidded up to Dominik as the puck hit the ice, blocking him before he could go after Higgins. Higgins laughed, spinning around to follow the play.
And flew backward when Demyan cracked him in the jaw with his fist.
The Islanders crowded around their fallen teammate. The Cobras converged behind Demyan, Ramos quickly hauling him back before Demyan could answer Higgins’s teammates’ invitations to drop the gloves. Behind the bench, Sloan called for a time-out. One hard look from him was all it took to get Demyan to head to the locker room when the ref threw him out for game misconduct.
But Max hardly noticed that. He hardly heard a word Sloan said to them. He couldn’t stop himself from trying to get in Kingsley’s twisted mind and see who the next target would be.
There was only one logical choice. Max stared at his best friend, his pulse thrumming in his head as Sloan got the men to calm down. As Sloan made it way too obvious that the new “head coach” wasn’t really in charge.
Sloan caught Max’s arm seconds before time-out ended, leaning over the boards, his tone low. “Talk to me, Max. Why are you looking at me like that? What’s wrong?”
How the fuck was he supposed to answer that? “I’m afraid that you’re next. I wish you’d sit back and not make it so goddamn clear that you’re running the show.” When the hell was this going to end?
He couldn’t lie to Sloan. So he gritted his teeth and faced him. “I wish you’d stayed in Calgary.”
“You’re full of shit.” Sloan gave Max a hard shake. “You know what we’ve gotta do. Go do it. Don’t worry about me.”
“Tell me how I’m supposed to do that?”
“Stick on the ice. Head up. You know how to play the fucking game.”
Guts churning, Max put his hand over the #38 patch on his chest. “I’m not gonna let your number be the next one we’re wearing.”
“Right back at you, Mr.-Fucking-Catalyst. And by the way, you might wanna keep your mouth shut. Knowing too much might be an issue.” Sloan’s grip tightened on Max’s arm. “You hearing me?”
“Yeah.” A sharp inhale and a nod and Max was able to get his head back where it belonged. To put his stick on the ice. Keep his head up.
And play the fucking game.
* * * *
Tied at one. Third period. Tyler wasn’t sure why Callahan looked so agitated, or why Perron couldn’t seem to stop pacing every time they went in the locker room. He was pretty sure he was missing something, but all he could think about was the promise he’d made to Chicklet.
The same one he’d made to Raif.
Play for Tim. Tyler was doing his best, but sometimes it felt like he was alone out there. Fuck, some of the guys were playing like they’d forgotten how. If Hunt hadn’t turned into a freakin’ wall during the second, they’d be trailing by at least six. Raif had their only goal on a sweet breakaway. The Islanders were playing real good, so they weren’t giving away many chances like that.
He wouldn’t worry, though. Dragging in a lungful of crisp air, Tyler took the face-off at center ice. Ignored the chirping from the man in front of him. Scooped up the puck and tucked it back to Pearce. The sharp slice of his blades carried him across the rink. He knew without having to look that the puck was coming back to him. Perron made a solid pass. Tyler dodged a hefty center. Deftly circled two defensemen. Feigned a high shot.
And cut the puck cleanly between the goalie’s pads.
Ramos hugged him. Perron and Pearce slammed into his sides. He was surrounded by a team that seemed to suddenly come alive. But it wasn’t until he was on the bench that it hit him that what he’d done mattered. And not by just putting them ahead by one.
Raif put an arm over his shoulders and kissed the top of his helmet. “Dobar posao, Ty. Well done.”
“For Tim.” Smiling kinda hurt, like his face wasn’t used to it anymore. But as he glanced across the bench to where Callahan stood, he could picture Tim, standing there like Raif said he would be. Watching Tyler with that look in his eyes saying he’d expected no less. Tyler’s smile grew even bigger. He whispered, “Thanks, Coach.”
And Tim smiled back.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Worn jeans held up by a thick belt, a beaten-up leather jacket, and a white wifebeater. Ford knew he was pushing it with the outfit, but Kingsley would expect as much. The man didn’t know the “new and improved” Ford. He’d never believe in the man who wore a suit to the office. Who took paperwork seriously. Who had responsibilities. Who’d come to love the goddamn fucking team.
Kingsley would want the Ford he
could look down on. The punk who came home reeking of weed, a cigarette hanging from his slanted lips. A wad of crumpled bills in his pocket from strippers desperate for whatever he had to sell. Cheap perfume and lipstick on his clothes. Beer, smoke, and attitude.
He’d grown up a little, so he didn’t have to go to the extreme of stumbling into Kingsley’s house drunk, but dressing respectably wouldn’t seem normal. Better he looked like he’d come straight from the bar. And only because Kingsley’s last text involved the possibility of losing limbs if he was ignored again.
Ford didn’t really believe Kingsley would do anything drastic. This wasn’t the fucking movies. No hands held on the table to be broken with hammers . . . well, okay, it had been done. But Kingsley didn’t get that messy himself.
I’m still his son.
Not for real, but he’d been portrayed that way too long for Kingsley’s partners to care about the technicalities. If Kingsley couldn’t control the man he’d raised, he had no power at all. So his form of discipline would be swift. No visible marks that he could avoid. He’d given Ford black eyes only twice in his life. A bloody lip once.
Sending thugs to get Ford in line was a great big neon sign that Kingsley wasn’t quite stable. Because he’d dealt with everything from Ford getting in trouble at school to teenage defiance in one of two ways. Threats based on violent acts he’d let Ford witness from the age of seven, or lashing out quickly with a slap or a punch to the gut, followed by a carefully-worded warning. One that wouldn’t be given again.
And Ford had seen enough to know what those meant. Men who were there every day, Kingsley’s favorites, would suddenly disappear. A misstep and they were just gone. This life was a balancing act, and Ford knew what happened when you fell.
You never got back up.
Laura was staring at him as he tried to explain why he’d ignored Kingsley’s phone calls. Tried to make her understand how doing something that might seem stupid to most made sense. If he didn’t want Kingsley getting suspicious, he had to be the man Kingsley knew. Push as far as he could without passing the hard limits.
Delayed Penalty (The Dartmouth Cobras #5) Page 43
