One-Timer (The Baltimore Banners Book 9)

by Lisa B. Kamps

  “Dillon.” Maggie placed her hand on his arm and squeezed. A smile teased the corners of her mouth. “You don’t have to beat him up.”

  “Well, that’s probably a good thing. I don’t think Coach would understand.”

  “But you can still make it up to me if you want.” There was a light in her eyes, something teasing and playful. A leap of excitement surged through him and he leaned forward, hoping he didn’t look as eager as he felt.

  “Yeah? What’s that?”

  “Get our order to go and take me back to my place. I, uh, I think you need to study some more.” Her gaze dropped to the table as a flush stained her cheeks. Dillon reached for hand, squeezing it, then slid from the bench. He hesitated then leaned forward and planted a quick kiss on her soft lips.

  “One to-go order coming up. And then one study session like you’ve never had before.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  “Great shot.”

  “Fan-fucking-tastic, man.”

  Dillon accepted the congratulations with a nod then sat back on the bench. He grabbed the water bottle someone held over his shoulder. Two squirts into the mouth, one over his face, followed by a quick swipe of the towel. His eyes darted to the Jumbo-Tron overhead as they replayed the last play.

  The stick work looked fancy, almost as fancy as the foot work, like he had planned on doing exactly that. He wished he had, because the move looked beautiful: a hit from behind as he was moving in with the puck. A sliding drop to his knees and a crazy reach with his stick that kept him from sprawling down the ice on his ass. One well-timed and crazy lucky swing of the stick. He still couldn’t believe the puck went in, even after watching it.

  Unbelievable.

  Now the Banners were up by two over Colorado and going into a power play, thanks to the hit he took.

  “Pure dumb luck, you stupid son of a bitch.” The low words hissed in his ear, an almost exact echo of his own thoughts. He wiped his face with the towel again and glared at Harland.

  “No thanks to you. Where the fuck were you at? You were supposed to be ready for that damn set-up.”

  Harland opened his mouth then snapped it shut, his gaze darting to something off to Dillon’s left. He turned his head and saw Coach LeBlanc watching them, his gray eyes flat and emotionless, the scar running down his cheek deepening to an angry red.

  Dillon turned away and focused on the action unfolding on the ice. Fuck. Coach wasn’t angry with him, was he? No, it had to be Harland.

  And Harland knew it, too. He dropped his head and spun the stick around, his shoulders sagging under the pads. Dillon should say something to him—but what? He’d tried, and so had a few of the other guys on the team. Even Justin Tome, who’d gone through a pretty rough patch last season. But Justin had fought through it and come out even stronger. Hell, if Harland wouldn’t listen to Justin, who would he listen to?

  Apparently nobody. He had it in his thick skull that everything was fine. Only it wasn’t. Something was going and it was sending Harland’s play into a tailspin. Their last shift had been Harland’s first this period and he had screwed that up big time. Dillon didn’t think he’d get much more ice time this game, not with them already halfway through the third period.

  He figured Harland knew that, too. Why else would he be sitting there, looking as dejected as a kid skipped over by Santa? Or maybe he was like that for another reason. Who knew with Harland?

  And that was the problem right there. Nobody knew, because he wasn’t talking.

  Dillon adjusted the strap on his helmet and put his mouthpiece back in place, getting ready for the line change. A few more seconds—

  Mat Herron raced to the bench and Dillon jumped the boards, taking his place on the ice just as the puck crossed into the offensive zone. They still had the man advantage, but for less than a minute. If they could get into position, cycle the puck, get the shots off…

  Dillon took the pass from Ethan Kincaid, cradling the puck against the blade of his stick. He eased it back and forth, moving forward then skating back, keeping everything in play as Justin got into position.

  A little more, just another second. There.

  Dillon pretended he was going to take a shot then spun around at the last minute, passing the puck to Ethan. Ethan moved forward then passed it back to Dillon. Once, twice, each of them moving closer, trying to draw attention away from Justin until he was in position.

  And now.

  Dillon slammed the puck in Ethan’s direction then skated toward the net, getting into position for the rebound. But there was no need to, not when the play went off with choreographed precision. Ethan passed the puck to Justin just as he came around the far side of the net.

  Justin moved in with a hard shot and sent it flying top shelf. Dillon heard the whoosh as rubber hit the back netting, saw the goal light flash red. No loud horn, no cheers, just some booing and jeers from the home crowd.

  It didn’t matter, not when they were cheering themselves. Ethan and Dillon hurried over to Justin, pounding him on the back and giving him fist bumps as they moved as a unit back to the bench. Justin skated along the boards, bumping gloves with everyone before moving onto the bench.

  Dillon looked up at the screen, his eyes focusing on the clock. Just under five minutes, and they were leading by three—not a bad place to be in the third period. But this was hockey, where things could change in fractions of a second. He’d relax when the final horn sounded.

  Ten minutes later, they were in the visiting team’s locker room, celebrating their win. Coach gave them their normal talk, congratulating them, telling them what they did right, what they needed to work on. They had two games left this road trip, they needed to keep up the momentum. Corbin was going to be in net the next two games to give Brad a break, all the more reason to keep their focus.

  Dillon’s gaze slid over to the new goalie, wondering how his nerves were holding up. He’d been called up from the Bombers a few weeks ago because the team’s primary goalie, Alec Kolchak, was out with a knee injury. The problem was, nobody knew for how long.

  Not exactly reassuring news for them, not when Alec had been such a strong presence in the locker room.

  But Corbin would be fine, Dillon was certain of it. He wasn’t sure why, just a hunch. Like his hunch that Harland wasn’t. But he wasn’t his babysitter. Hell, he didn’t even really know Harland that well, not like some of the other guys. And after Harland’s stunt the other night when he had made an ass of himself in front of Maggie, he wasn’t sure why he was so worried.

  But Maggie had been cool with it. Better than cool…especially after he made it up to her when they got back to his place. A grin spread across his face as he grabbed his kit and headed to the shower. And fuck, now was not the time to be thinking about their last study session, not unless he wanted to be the subject of more teasing than he’d ever be in the mood for.

  He pushed all thoughts of Maggie from his mind and stepped into the shower, turning the water to moderately cold, just in case. He finished up and dried off, wrapping a towel around his waist as he moved back to the main room to change. Mat stopped him on the way, trying to hide a grin.

  “Dude, you need to be more careful.”

  “What?”

  Mat leaned closer then nodded, his gaze dropping to the towel around Dillon’s waist. “I said you need to me more careful.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Hey, I get it. Really I do. Nicole gets the same way sometimes. But if it happens again, you need to be more discreet.”

  Dillon stepped back, staring at Mat as if he was speaking a different language. And maybe he was, because what he was saying made no sense. He was ready to ask him once more what he meant when Derek came up and clapped him on the back, a grin on his face as he said two words: “Claw marks.”

  “What?” But even as he asked, Dillon could feel heat flood his face.

  “Claw marks, dude. On your thigh. And your back. Nice souvenir.�
��

  Well fuck. How had he forgotten about them? His mouth opened and closed but he couldn’t get words through his clogged throat. Not that any words would make a difference. No matter what he said, nothing would make a difference.

  Derek and Mat both laughed, but in a friendly teasing way. Dillon looked around, wondering who else had seen. Fuck, probably everyone.

  “Don’t worry about it, dude. Not a big deal. But now you’re going to have to tell us all about her.”

  “No, I don’t—”

  “Oh yeah you do. I definitely want to know who she is.” Derek laughed then shook his head, his gaze darting between Mat and Dillon. “And then the two of you can explain to me why in the hell it’s always the quiet ones who turn out to be the wildest ones.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Dillon yanked on the tie, undoing the knotted mess then straightening the strip of silk. His fingers felt heavy, useless. A knot of tension sat low in his gut, silently threatening to grow.

  He hadn’t napped before the game, not like he usually did. He’d tossed and turned, any attempt at sleep thwarted by Harland’s pacing. Why the fuck had he been paired with Harland again? For the last two nights, he had roomed with Ethan Kincaid, one of the other young guys. That had changed this morning when they arrived in Chicago and checked into the hotel, and he learned he was rooming with Harland instead.

  Probably because everyone else was getting tired of his attitude. And his mouth.

  Or maybe Coach had it in for him for some reason. No, that didn’t make sense, not after Coach’s talk yesterday. Dillon’s play was steady. Focused. Intense. So no, Dillon wasn’t being punished.

  More than likely, the coaching staff thought that maybe he could have a positive influence on Harland. Yeah. Big fucking chance of that happening, especially after that fiasco earlier in the week when he and Maggie ran into Harland at the sports bar. Things had been tense since then and he’d barely spoken to Harland.

  At first he had tried, thinking that maybe Harland just needed someone to talk to. That maybe he was dealing with some shit. Yeah, no maybe about it. There was definitely something going on. But Harland wouldn’t talk. To anyone.

  And everyone was tired of trying.

  Not that it mattered, because he hadn’t even really seen Harland. He disappeared somewhere last night soon after they got here. Dillon had no idea where he went and no idea what time he got back.

  Harland had been a little too quiet at their practice earlier, uncharacteristically withdrawn. When they got back to the hotel after practice, it had been like a switch had been turned on and instead of being quiet and withdrawn, he’d been pacing, full of excessive energy. Nervous energy.

  And Dillon hadn’t been able to nap, not with Harland pacing around the room like he was. At least, not until he got that phone call and left the room. Dillon had finally been able to grab a quick nap, but it had been too quick and he felt more tired now than he had before.

  And now Harland was quiet again, lost deep in his own thoughts as he got ready for the game. Twice Dillon had asked him if everything was okay, and each time that switch had come on and Harland acted like his old normal self. Smart, funny, the straight-up hockey player he used to be until a few months ago. But as soon as Dillon turned his back, he returned to the surly, brooding guy he had become recently. The tension in the room increased by ten each time.

  Yeah, Harland was definitely going through something. But how could anyone help if he wasn’t willing to accept it? Or at least talk about it?

  Dillon muttered under his breath, trying to push all thoughts of his roommate from his mind. His fingers fumbled the knot in the tie once more and he swore. One last time. Hopefully.

  “You about done in there? I need to use the head.”

  “Yeah. Sure.” Dillon tightened the knot and gave it one last look in the mirror. There. Not too bad. Not perfect, but acceptable.

  He grabbed his shower kit and left the room, barely acknowledging Harland as the man pushed past him. Two minutes later, Dillon was packed and ready to go. He shrugged into the suit jacket, adjusted his collar, then grabbed his overnight bag just as Harland came out of the bathroom. His face was a little pale, tension pulling tight around his eyes. He jammed his phone into his pocket and pushed past Dillon.

  Dillon stopped, eyeing him, wondering if he was imagining the wall of desolation that seemed to surround the other man. “You okay?”

  And just like that, the switch came on again. Harland smiled, too bright, a little too forced. “Yeah, man. Fine. Perfect.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Absofuckinglutely. You about ready?”

  Dillon bit back a sigh and slung the overnight bag over his shoulder. “Yeah, all set.”

  They left the room, entering the hallway the same time as several of the other guys. Kenny was arguing with Mat about his phone while he tried to do up his tie. Randy Michaels, one of their defensemen, stopped him, teasing him about something as he fixed Kenny’s tie. Dillon blocked most of it out, trying to clear his mind in time for the game.

  And okay, maybe thinking a little about Maggie, too. Maybe more than a little. He hadn’t seen her all week, hadn’t had much time to talk to her. But they had plans for tomorrow afternoon and Dillon was already looking forward to it. Okay, so they were study plans. And yeah, she’d probably give him a stern lecture because he hadn’t had time to get much studying done on this road trip. But after that—yeah. He was definitely looking forward to the after part.

  Apparently Kenny had similar thoughts on his mind because he was obviously talking to his own girlfriend. Mat yanked on Kenny’s suit coat and pulled him into the elevator with everyone else when the door opened. And of course nobody talked, not when they were all trying to listen to Kenny’s conversation.

  Dillon made a mental note to remind himself never to have a phone conversation with Maggie if he was in an elevator with any of his teammates. Not even one, let alone six.

  Someone made soft kissing noises as Kenny talked, drawing muffled chuckles from everyone else. Had Kenny heard? It was hard to tell. And then the elevator doors were opening and everyone was pushing out, trying to hurry through the noisy lobby. The rest of the team was waiting, including the entire coaching staff. Dillon moved forward, trying to push the noise and chaos from his mind—until a shouting pushing match erupted right next to him.

  “Christ Haskell, just tell her you love her and hang up the damn phone. We need to leave.” Harland yelled the words, leaning close to Kenny—who was still on the phone with his girlfriend. Conversation stopped around them as everyone turned to look, some of them laughing and shaking their heads.

  But not Kenny. Kenny wasn’t laughing. He wasn’t even smiling. He looked furious. No, not looked. He was furious. He muttered something into the phone, his eyes still narrowed at Harland, then disconnected the call and dropped the phone into his jacket pocket. Then he dropped his bag and lunged at Harland, grabbing him by the lapels of his jacket and shaking him.

  “What the fuck were you thinking? Huh? Why the fuck do you always have to run your mouth—”

  Dillon jumped forward, along with a few of the other guys, and got between Kenny and Harland. Voices shouted, the noise echoing in the cavernous lobby. Dillon grabbed Harland and pulled him away as Randy grabbed Kenny.

  Kenny yelled something and stumbled, trying to brush Randy away. But Randy was slightly bigger and more determined and he grabbed Kenny again, pulling him back with Mat’s help. Anger and bewilderment colored Harland’s face as he stared at Kenny. Seriously? Harland really didn’t understand why Kenny was furious?

  “What the hell’s your problem?”

  “You are! You and your big fucking mouth, shooting off all the time.”

  “Christ, I was only joking.”

  “That’s your fucking problem. Joking around, never stopping to fucking think—”

  “Dude, knock it off. Come on, calm down.” Mat patted him on the chest, pushing him
back, away from Harland. Kenny shook his head and looked like he wanted to lunge at Harland again, but a warning look flashed in Mat’s green eyes. “Let it go.”

  “He shouldn’t have—”

  “I know. But not here. Not now.” Mat lowered his voice and nodded at something over Kenny’s shoulder. Dillon looked in the direction Mat had indicated and swallowed back a groan. The coaches were huddled together, watching them. The slash of Sonny’s scar burned bright red as a muscle ticked in his square jaw.

  “Not now,” Mat repeated. Kenny nodded, his body slowly relaxing. He glared at Harland, his eyes holding the other man in place. Randy stepped between them again, breaking the eye contact, then bent down and picked up Kenny’s bag.

  “Let it go, Haskell.”

  “But his big fucking mouth—”

  “I know.” Randy grabbed one of Kenny’s arms and, together with Mat, turned him around and led him toward the door. “There’s nothing you can do right now.”

  “Did you fucking hear what he said?”

  “Yeah, we all did.”

  “Which meant Lauren did, too. Fuck him.” Kenny skidded to a stop and looked over his shoulder. “Fuck you, Day. You need to grow the fuck up—”

  “Not. Now.” Mat pushed him as Randy pulled, dragging him outside to the bus.

  Dillon tightened his grip on Harland’s arm to keep him from following. The two of them—Harland and Kenny—needed space right now. And probably for the next week, at least. Probably longer. A few long seconds that felt like an eternity passed by before Harland yanked his arm free.

  “Get the fuck off me, Frayser.”

  Dillon spun around, his anger boiling over. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

  “Nothing. Get out of my face.”

  “Harland, come on man. What are you trying to do? Are you deliberately trying to sabotage your career?”

  “I said leave me the fuck alone.” Harland tried to push past him but he wasn’t fast enough. Dillon caught up to him, grabbing his arm again. His gaze darted to the coaching staff, coming to a rest on Coach LeBlanc. Yeah, the man was definitely furious, that scar of his shining like a red strobe in his granite-hewn face.