Game Misconduct (The Dartmouth Cobras Book 1)

Chapter 1-3

Oh, god! Whatever you want to do to me, the answer is yes!

Time to get her libido on a freaking leash. Maybe the granite cracking her skull would save her from embarrassing herself any further. She had the strangest urge to wrap her arms around his neck and press her body flush against his. Instead, she did her best to curve away from him.

Tray balanced on one big hand, the man set her on her feet. “That would have been a nasty spill.”

The room leveled out. Black and gold filled her vision. Another freakin’ Cobra’s jersey. Her eyes traveled up and locked on big, pouty lips, a shade darker than his skin, outlined by a trim black goatee.

There was only one black player on the Cobra’s roster. Dominik Mason. She’d watched a few of his interviews and knew he was the tough guy of the team, their enforcer. His smile usually meant someone would get hurt. A lot of people were scared of him.

But how could a man look scary with lips like that?

She blinked when the edges of his lips twitched and cleared her throat. “Um, thank you . . .”

He chuckled and handed her the tray. “Dominik Mason at your service, ma’am.”

The way he said “service” made all the tiny hairs on her flesh rise. Deep as cavern wind, with a hint of hidden danger, his voice made her tremble, and she wouldn’t pretend it was with fear. He wouldn’t have to talk dirty to get a girl worked up. He could just say her name.

Did he know her name?

Enough! What the hell is wrong with you?

That book had messed with her head. Time to find Paul before she threw herself at the next guy who smiled at her.

Yeah, ‘cause you’re acting just like that bunny. Pathetic.

Oriana met his warm, brown eyes and pulled on the poise she used with the press. A mask that never fit quite right but tended to serve the purpose of redirecting questions to her father or Paul with a nod and a smile. “Thank you, Mason.” She inhaled and gave him a stiff smile. “I really should get going . . .”

“As I said.” The guard approached them, a scowl bunching the wrinkles on his face. “You can’t be in here. We’re closed to the public.”

Mason crossed his arms and glanced at the little man. “You’re new, aren’t you?”

“Yes, but—”

“This is Oriana Delgado.” Mason jerked his chin at her. “I don’t think she qualifies as ‘the public’.”

He does know my name.

The guard’s scowl melted away. He still didn’t recognize her—no surprise there—but he wouldn’t question Mason. “Sorry, ma’am.” He tipped his hat and returned to his desk.

“Going up?” Mason pressed the button to the elevator at her nod.

Holding the tray with one hand, she used the other to adjust the strap of her book bag. “Are you?”

Please say no. Being alone with him in an elevator wouldn’t be good. The hint of something spicy on his breath made her mouth water. Six floors up would be plenty of time for a taste.

You’re projecting Silver again, Oriana. Stop before you do something stupid.

His lips curved like he’d caught the thought. “No. Unfortunately I’ve got a team meeting to get to. How about after . . . ?”

“I’ve got a date with my boyfriend.”

“You’re still with him?”

Could he sound any more disgusted? Of course, it wasn’t exactly a secret that the players weren’t fond of their coach. He was from Toronto, and a good half of the Cobras were from Montreal. There was bound to be some animosity.

That’s what she told herself anyway. Wouldn’t be loyal to admit her boyfriend was an asshole.

And the white picket fence you’re dreaming of might start looking more like a cage.

“Yeah. It’s been eight months.” She shifted the tray so the hot parts weren’t touching her skin. “It was really nice to meet you though.”

“My pleasure, Oriana.” He took her hand, gave it a little squeeze before retreating. “Don’t let anyone give you grief about being here. Okay?”

The elevator door skidded open. She stepped inside. “Okay.”

When the elevator doors clicked shut, she let out a breathy laugh. Keeping Delgado’s daughter happy was part of the job. Just not this daughter. Good thing neither Mason nor the guard knew better. Or the guard wouldn’t have let her in. And Mason would have ignored her, just like everyone did.

Self-pity now? You’re on a roll.

The elevator dinged.

“Put him on injury reserve. I don’t care if it means he can’t play for the rest of the season, we need to bring up a new forward.” Her father backed onto the elevator, the diamonds in his gold cufflinks flashing as he made a sharp motion with his hand in the assistant coach’s face to cut him off and directed his next words at the general manager. “We’re on a losing streak! We won’t sell any seats if we don’t get a win.”

Oriana ducked to avoid getting smacked by the last excited gesture. Her father hadn’t noticed her yet. And in this mood, she’d rather he not.

“We don’t have the cap for another player of Callahan’s caliber.” Dean Richter, the GM, a man whose demeanor brought on the urge to salute, stopped the door with his shoulder and spared Oriana a dismissive glance. “However, we have a couple of draft picks—including the one we’ve been using—that might be suitable. I’ll look into it.”

When her father nodded, the GM stepped back and the door slid shut.

Case closed. But apparently Tim Rowe, the assistant coach, didn’t see it that way.

“Sir, we have to consider the playoffs. And it was just an upper body injury.” Rowe hooked his finger to the collar of his starched white shirt and loosened his tie. A muscle in his jaw ticked, belying the calm in his eyes. “We can’t keep him on IR—the doctor cleared him to play. Give him a few games and he’ll be—”

The olive shade of her father’s faintly lined face turned blotchy red. “The playoffs mean s**t out here when it comes to the bottom line, Tim. No one expects this team to make it that far! Fans come to the games expecting to see some action. Big hits, fights, and scoring!”

“Callahan is capable of giving you all that,” Rowe said. “And he’s a fan favorite.”

“He was a fan favorite. Don’t you f*****g shake your head at me!” The veins in her father’s temples darkened to a frightening shade of purple. “That’s why Paul is the head coach! He gets that this is a business!”

She really, really didn’t want to draw his attention, but she figured she’d better before he had a stroke. “Where is Paul, Dad?”

Her father spun toward her and scowled. “What are you doing here?”

Rowe opened his mouth. Before he could insert his foot by defending her, she answered. “I figured—since your meeting was taking so long—that I’d bring you guys some coffee. Me and Paul were supposed to go out for dinner, but—”

“The team was called in for extra practice,” her father said. “You might as well go home.”

“I just saw a couple of the guys taking a break—is Paul down at the rink already?”

“He’s still in his office.” Rowe met her father’s glare with a shrug. “She deserves to know.”

“Know what?” Oriana shifted the tray to one hand and touched Rowe’s arm. “Is Paul okay?”

“He’s fine.” Her father cleared his throat. “He’s heading down to the rink soon, but—”

The elevator dinged again. Her stop. “Well, I’ll just drop this off with him and leave. I won’t keep him, I promise.”

“Oriana, he’s busy!”

Not too busy to explain why he didn’t have the decency to call and cancel their date. She strode across the hall, fingers denting the cardboard tray.

Rowe hastened to catch up with her. “Oriana, I should tell you . . . you don’t want to—”

Third door on the left. She turned the handle.

Wet, rhythmic slapping came through the slit of the door. She swung it wide. Paul was busy. With Chantelle, the director of media relations. On top of his desk, working real hard.

The tray slipped from her hands as her grip went slack.