Game Misconduct: A Baltimore Banners Hockey Romance (The Baltimore Banners Book 11)

by Lisa B. Kamps

  The center wasn’t the only cause Corbin had gotten behind. They had been out one night with several of his teammates. Lori had been returning from the bathroom when some guy bumped into her. She had chalked it up to the place being crowded until the guy had placed his hand on her hip and pulled him against her, asking if she wanted to go for a ride.

  She had turned, so stunned and humiliated she could only stare. Then Corbin had been there with his teammates, shielding her, protecting her, lecturing the guy with blunt warning until she was certain he’d pass out from fear. And the guy hadn’t known what he’d done was wrong, had seriously thought he was simply being funny.

  Several weeks later, an awareness program was started at the Hopewell League—a new program championed by the Banners, a program designed to educate and to empower.

  Was it enough?

  Lori glanced up at her husband, caught his gaze with hers, saw the same question in his eyes.

  Was it enough?

  It was too soon to tell. But as the director had said, it was a start.

  She leaned up, brushed her mouth against Corbin’s, felt a world of love in that brief contact.

  Love…and hope. And with that, anything was possible.

  # # #

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  PLAYING THE GAME

  The York Bombers Book 1

  Harland Day knows what it’s like to be on rock bottom: he was there once before, years ago when his mother walked out and left him behind. But he learned how to play the game and survived, crawling his way up with the help of a friend-turned-lover. This time is different: he has nobody to blame but himself for his trip to the bottom. His mouth, his attitude, his crappy play that landed him back in the minors instead of playing pro hockey with the Baltimore Banners. And this time, he doesn’t have anyone to help him out, not when his own selfishness killed the most important relationship he ever had.

  Courtney Williams’ life isn’t glamorous or full of fame and fortune but she doesn’t need those things to be happy. She of all people knows there are more important things in life. And, for the most part, she’s been able to forget what could have been—until Harland gets reassigned to the York Bombers and shows back up in town, full of attitude designed to hide the man underneath. But the arrogant hockey player can’t hide from her, the one person who knows him better than anyone else. They had been friends. They had been lovers. And then they had been torn apart by misunderstanding and betrayal.

  But some ties are hard to break. Can they look past what had been and move forward to what could be? Or will the sins of the past haunt them even now, all these years later?

  Turn the page for a preview of PLAYING THE GAME, the launch title of a brand-new hockey series, now available.

  The third drink was still in his hand, virtually untouched. He glanced down at it, briefly wondered if he should just put it down and walk away. It was still early, not even eleven yet. Maybe if he stuck it out for another hour; maybe if he finished this drink and let the whiskey loosen him up. Or maybe if he just paid attention to the girl draped along his side—

  Maybe.

  He swirled the glass in his hand and brought it to his mouth, taking a long sip of mostly melted ice. The girl next to him—what the fuck was her name?—pushed her body even closer, the swell of her barely-covered breast warm against the bare flesh of his arm.

  “So you’re a hockey player, right? One of Zach’s teammates?”

  Her breath held a hint of red wine, too sweet. Harland tried not to grimace, pushed the memories at bay as his stomach lurched. He tightened his grip on the glass—if he was too busy holding something, he couldn’t put his arm around her or push her away—and glanced down. The girl looked like she was barely old enough to be in this place. A sliver of fright shot through him. They did card here, right? He wasn’t about to be busted picking up someone underage, was he?

  She had a killer body, slim and lean with just enough muscle tone in her arms and legs to reassure him that she didn’t starve herself and probably worked out. Long tanned legs that went on for miles and dainty feet shoved into shoes that had to have heels at least five inches tall. He grimaced and briefly wondered how the hell she was even standing in them.

  Of course, she was leaning against him, her full breasts pushing against his arm and chest. Maybe that was because she couldn’t stand in those ridiculous heels. Heels like that weren’t meant for walking—they were fuck-me heels, meant for the bedroom.

  He looked closer, at her platinum-streaked hair carefully crafted in a fuck-me style and held in place by what had to be a full can of hairspray—or whatever the fuck women used nowadays. Thick mascara coated her lashes, or maybe they weren’t even her real lashes, now that he was actually looking. No, he doubted they were real. That was a shame because from what he could see, she had pretty eyes, kind of a smoky gray set off by the shimmery eyeshadow coloring her lids. Hell, maybe those eyes weren’t even real, maybe they were just colored contacts.

  Fuck. Wasn’t anything real anymore? Wasn’t anyone who they really claimed to be? And why the fuck was he even worried about it when all he had to do was nod and smile and take her by the hand and lead her out? Something told him he wouldn’t even have to bother with taking her home—or in his case, to a motel. No, he was pretty sure all he had to do was show her the backseat of his Expedition and that would be it.

  Her full lips turned down into a pout and Harland realized she was waiting for him to answer. Yeah, she had asked him a question. What the hell had she asked?

  Oh, yeah—

  “Uh, yeah. Yeah, I play hockey.” He took another sip of the watery drink and glanced around the crowded club. Several of his teammates were scattered around the bar, their faces alternately lit and shadowed by the colored lights pulsing in time to the music.

  Jason pulled his tongue from some girl’s throat long enough to motion to the mousy barmaid for a fresh drink. His gaze caught Harland’s and a wide grin split his face when he nodded.

  Harland got the message loud and clear. How could he miss it, when the nod was toward the girl hanging all over him? Jason was congratulating him on hooking up, encouraging him to take the next step.

  Harland took another sip and looked away. Tension ran through him, as solid and real as the hand running along his chest. He looked down again, watched as slender fingers worked their way into his shirt. Nails scraped across the bare flesh of his chest, teasing him.

  Annoying him.

  He put the drink on the bar and reached for her hand, his fingers closing around her wrist to stop her. The girl looked up, a frown on her face. But she didn’t move her hand away. No, she kept trying to reach for him instead.

  “What’d you say your name was?”

  “Does it matter?” Her lips tilted up into a seductive smile, full of heated promise as her fingers wiggled against his chest.

  Did it matter? It shouldn’t, not when all Harland had to do was smile back and release her hand and let her continue. Or take her hand and lead her outside. So why the fuck was he hesitating? Why didn’t he do just that? That was why he came here, wasn’t it? To let go. Loosen up. Hook up, get things out of his system.

  No. That may be why Jason and Zach and the others were here and why they brought him along—but that wasn’t why he was here. So yeah, her name mattered. Maybe not to him, not in that sense. He just wanted to
know she was interested in him and not what he did. That he wasn’t just a trophy for her, a conquest to be bragged about to her friends in the morning.

  He gently tightened his hand around her wrist and pulled her arm away, out of reach of his chest. “Yeah. It matters.”

  Something flashed in her eyes—surprise? Impatience? Hell if he knew. He watched her struggle with a frown, almost like she didn’t want him to see it. Then she pasted another bright smile on her face, this one a little too forced, and pulled her arm from his grasp.

  “It’s Shayla.” She stepped even closer, running her hand along his chest and down, her finger tracing the waistband of his jeans.

  He almost didn’t stop her. Temptation seized him, fisting his gut, searing his blood. It would be easy, so easy.

  Too easy.

  Then a memory of warm brown eyes, wide with innocence, came to mind. Clear, sharp and almost painful. Harland closed his eyes, his breath hitching in his chest as the picture in his mind grew, encompassing soft brown hair and perfect lips, curled in a trembling smile.

  “Fuck.” His eyes shot open. He grabbed the girl’s hand—Shayla’s—just as she started to stroke him through the worn denim. Her own eyes narrowed and she made no attempt to hide her frown this time.

  “What are you doing?” Her voice was sharp, biting.

  “I could ask you the same thing.”

  Her hand twisted in his grip. Once, twice. “Zach told me you needed to loosen up. That you were looking for a little fun.”

  Zach had put her up to this? Harland should have known. He narrowed his eyes, not surprised when the girl suddenly stiffened. Could she see his distaste? Sense his condemnation? He leaned forward, his mouth close to her ear, his voice flat and cold.

  “Maybe you want me to whip my cock out right here so you can get on your knees and suck me off? Have everyone watch? Will that do it for you?”

  She ripped her hand from his grasp and pushed him away, anger coloring her face. “You’re a fucking asshole.”

  Harland straightened and fixed her with a flat smile. “You’re right. I am.”

  She said something else, the words too low for him to hear, then spun around and walked away. Her steps were short, angry, and he had to bite back a smile when she teetered to the side and almost fell.

  Loathing filled him, leaving him cold and empty. Not loathing of the girl—no, the loathing was all directed at himself. What the fuck was his problem?

  The girl was right: he was a fucking asshole. A loathsome bastard.

  Harland yanked the wallet from his back pocket and pulled out several bills, enough to cover whatever he’d had to drink and then some. He tossed down the watered whiskey, barely feeling the slight burn as it worked its way down his throat. Then he turned and stormed toward the door, ignoring the sound of his name being called.

  He should have gone home, back to the three-bedroom condo he was now forced to share with the sorry excuse that passed for his father. But he wasn’t in the mood to deal with his father’s bullshit, not in the mood to deal with anything. So he drove, with no destination in mind, needing distance.

  Distance from the spectacle he had just made of himself.

  Distance from what he had become.

  Distance from who he was turning into.

  But how in the hell was he supposed to distance himself…from himself?

  Harland turned into a residential neighborhood, driving blindly, his mind on autopilot. He finally stopped, eased the SUV against the curb, and cut the engine.

  Silence greeted him. Heavy, almost accusing. He rested his head against the steering wheel and squeezed his eyes shut. He didn’t need to look around to know where he was, didn’t need to view the quiet street filled with small houses that showed years of wear. Years of life and happiness and grief and torment.

  “Fuck.” The word came out in a strangled whisper and he straightened in the seat, running one hand down his face. Why did he keep coming here? Why did he keep tormenting himself?

  She didn’t want to see him, would probably shove him off the small porch if he ever dared to knock on the door. He knew that, as sure as he knew his own name.

  As sure as he knew that she’d be sickened by what he had become. Three years had gone by. Three years where he’d never bothered to even contact her. Hell, maybe he was being generous. Maybe he was giving himself more importance than he deserved. Maybe she didn’t even remember him.

  He rubbed one hand across his eyes and took a ragged breath, then turned his head to the side. The house was dark, just like almost every other house on the block. But he didn’t need light to see it, not when it was so clear in his mind.

  A simple cottage style home, with plain white siding that was always one season away from needing a new coat of paint. Flowerbeds filled with exploding color that hid the age of the house. A small backyard filled with more flowers and a picnic table next to the old grill, where something was always being fixed during the warmer months.

  An image of each room filled his mind, one after the other, like a choppy movie playing on an old screen. Middle class, blue collar—but full of laughter and warm memories. He knew the house, better than his own.

  He should. He’d spent more time here growing up than he had at his own run-down house the next street over. He had come here to escape, stayed because it was an oasis in his own personal desert of despair.

  Until he had ruined even that.

  He closed his eyes against the memories, shutting them out with a small whimper of pain. Then he started the truck and pulled away, trying to put distance between him and the past.

  A past that was suddenly more real than the present.

  ONCE BURNED

  Firehouse Fourteen Book 1

  Michaela Donaldson had her whole life planned out: college, music, and a happy-ever-after with her first true love. One reckless night changed all that, setting Michaela on a new path. Gone are her dreams of pursuing music in college, replaced by what she thinks is a more rewarding life. She’s a firefighter now, getting down and dirty while doing her job. So what if she’s a little rough around the edges, a little too careless, a little too detached? She’s happy, living life on her own terms—until Nicky Lansing shows back up.

  Nick Lansing was the stereotypical leather-clad bad boy, needing nothing but his fast car, his guitar, his never-ending partying, and his long-time girlfriend—until one bad decision changed the course of two lives forever. He’s on the straight-and-narrow now, living life as a respected teacher and doing his best to be a positive role model. Yes, he still has his music. But gone are his days of partying. And gone is the one girl who always held his heart. Or is she?

  One freak accident brings these two opposites back together. Is ten years long enough to heal the physical and emotional wounds from the past? Can they reconcile who they were with who they’ve become—or will it be a case of Once Burned is enough?

  Turn the page for an exciting peek at ONCE BURNED, available now.

  “Oh shit,” Mike repeated under her breath, too horrified to do anything more than force herself to breathe. Not an easy task, considering she was literally frozen to the spot. The air was thick with heated tension and the buzzing in her ears made it impossible for her to hear anything. She willed herself to move, to do something.

  Shit, it’s Nicky. Shit, it’s Nicky. The phrase kept spinning through her mind until she thought she’d be sick with the dizziness of it. Her chest heaved with the effort to breathe and her pulse beat in a tap dancer’s rhythm.

  Did anyone else notice the sudden change in the room? Mike forced herself to look away from that face from her past and quickly glanced around. Four sets of eyes fixed on her with varying degrees of bewilderment. She could still feel his eyes on her, too, filled with stunned disbelief.

  Feeling like she was trapped in a nightmare where everything moved with the speed of molasses, Mike pushed away from the counter and walked across the room, straight past the frozen figure of Nic
ky Lansing and through the swinging door. She turned a corner and rushed through a second door that opened into the engine room, not stopping until she reached the engine on the far side, where she promptly collapsed on the back step.

  Heedless of the dirt and grime, she let her head drop against the back compartment door, ignoring the length of hose line in her way. Her breathing came in shallow gasps that did nothing to help the lightheadedness that caused black dots to dance across her closed lids.

  Hyperventilating. She was hyperventilating. The calm, rational part of her—she was surprised she still had one—told her to lean forward, to get a grip on herself and her breathing. Now bent over, sitting with her head between her knees, Mike grabbed the running board with both hands and concentrated on the feel of the diamond plate cutting into her palms.

  The spots faded away and her breathing slowed to something closer to normal. One last deep breath and she straightened, only to choke on a scream when she came face-to-face with Jay, his brows lowered in a frown as he studied her with concern.

  “Jesus! Don’t scare me like that!” She pushed him away then stood, only to sit back down when she realized how bad her knees were shaking.

  “Scare you? What is wrong with you? Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine. I couldn’t be better! Don’t I look fine?”

  “You look like you’re ready to pass out. What the hell is going on? Do you know that guy? He looks like he’s seen a ghost!”

  “He probably thinks he has.” Mike moved over and motioned for Jay to sit down, ignoring his scrutiny as he twisted sideways and continued staring at her.

  “Are you going to explain that?”

  “No.” She ran her hands through her hair, muttering when she pulled a thick hank of it loose from the pony tail. Sighing, she reached back and pulled the elastic band loose, then quickly rearranged her hair into a more secure hold. Jay watched her intently then nudged her leg with his when she continued to ignore him.

  “Well?”

  “Well nothing. He’s just somebody I used to know, that’s all.”