2

He ducked his head. “Trying to convince myself this is for real? I imagined all the things I would say to you, but every time your only reply was ‘fuck off.’”

She laughed and rolled her eyes. “Would probably be the smartest response. Wait here, let me grab my shoes.”

“You won’t regret this, babe. I promise.”

Those words were hauntingly familiar, but she shook off her misgivings as she grabbed her running shoes from beside the door. She pulled them on, wondering for a second if she should change out of her black yoga pants and baggy white sweater, but decided, if he wanted to hang out, he’d take her as she was.

Grabbing her keys from the entry table, she joined him in the hall, locked her door, then led the way out to the parking lot behind the apartment. “We’re taking separate cars. And I’m warning you, any funny business—”

His fingers were suddenly at her ribs, tickling her as he laughed. “Like this?”

“Grant!” She squealed and smacked his hands away. “Stop!”

A huge body shoved between her and Grant, knocking Grant onto the pavement while tugging Sahara back. Cortland Nash, Akira’s boyfriend and the head of the Cobras’ security team, pulled off his leather jacket and handed it to Sahara as he held Grant down with a boot on his throat. “Go wait in my car, Sahara. I’ll make sure this bastard never comes near you again.”

Eyes wide, Sahara dropped the jacket and quickly latched on to Cort’s arm as he jerked Grant to his knees by the front of his shirt. “Cort, don’t! You don’t understand—”

“You were screaming for him to stop.” Cort glanced over at her, speaking like he thought she was a little slow. “What’s to understand?”

“He was tickling me. We’re going for coffee. I’m fine!” She slapped Cort’s arm when he hauled back like he was going to hit Grant no matter what she said. “Let him go! Damn it, Cort, he’s playing tomorrow.”

This time Cort released Grant. And turned to her, drawing her aside and keeping his voice low. “I get that he’s with your old team, but they have other players. There’s no need to protect him. Go inside if you won’t get in my car. I won’t give you details.”

The man was insane. She grabbed his arm again before he could resume his attack on Grant—who, for some reason, hadn’t moved. “I’m not going inside. You are going to leave him alone.”

“And why is that, exactly?” He glared at Grant, which got Grant out of his stupor and scrambling to his feet, closer to his car. “Did he threaten you?”

“No. And I think you should go home before someone calls the cops. My house is not on the list of places you’re supposed to be with that ankle monitor.”

“I don’t give a fuck.” Cort groaned as his phone went off. He held up a finger, then answered. “Yeah, I know. Like I give a shit? One minute.” He looked at Grant. “I’ll give you ten fucking seconds to get the hell out of here. After that, the only question is where you want me to send your body.”

Someone was shouting on the phone. Cort lifted his hand and started folding fingers down as he stared down at Grant.

And continued his conversation with the caller, sounding much calmer. “No, ma’am. I think you heard wrong.”

He continued counting down with his fingers. Started on the last five.

Grant shot her an apologetic look and got in his car, swerving out of the parking lot before Cort reached one.

After ending the call, Cort faced Sahara with his hands on her shoulders. “Give me one good reason not to make sure the man can’t walk, never mind play.”

Sahara planted her hands in the center of Cort’s chest and shoved him away from her, so angry she couldn’t find words at first. Then she found plenty. “His mother just died and he needs a friend! I can’t believe you just did that! You’re nothing but a…a thug! You’re protecting me from him with violence? Do you really think you’re better than him?”

Cort blinked, jerking back like she’d slapped him. “I’ve never hurt a woman, Sahara. Akira told me not to come, but she was crying—she’s afraid for you. The man left bruises on you. I thought you were smarter than this.”

“I’m smart enough to handle my own affairs. I’ll explain things to Akira, but I don’t have to explain myself to you!” Tears blurred her vision as she spun away from him and ran back into the apartment. Grant had reached out to her and now he probably thought he couldn’t come near her if he wanted to live. She slammed her door and checked her phone. He hadn’t called. Not that she blamed him. Apparently being around her wasn’t safe.

Groaning, she slumped onto her stiff new loveseat and buried her face in her hands. The one chance she’d had to tear out a dark page of her past was ruined.

Her phone rang. She snatched it up and let out a sob of relief when she saw Grant’s number. She answered. “I’m so sorry about that. Are you okay?”

“I’m all right.” Grant laughed nervously. “That dude was nuts! Who is he?”

“One of my best friends’ boyfriends. I talked to her just before I answered the door.”

“Ah…well, then I can’t really blame her for sending him.”

Sahara blinked. “What?”

“Sweetie, all she knows is who I was. She’s right to worry, and I’m happy you have people who care about you.” He sighed. “Maybe, one day, I’ll earn their trust. And yours. But that won’t happen overnight.”

She rubbed her eyes and smiled. If Akira could hear Grant now, she’d understand why Sahara couldn’t turn her back on him. He needed someone to believe in him. She could be that person. Reclining on the sofa, she let out a rough exhale. “Well, you’re off to an awesome start.”

* * *

With the first playoff game starting tomorrow, Dominik Mason knew he should rest. Instead, he ditched his white tank top, pulled on boxing gloves, and prepared to face off against the Dartmouth Cobras’ assistant coach. A man he’d once considered a good friend. Maybe would again someday.

Today wasn’t about being friendly. Assistant Coach Sloan Callahan had invited the players for optional physical training in the semiprivate boxing club the Cobras’ owner had recently drawn up a contract with. Other hockey teams had their players take boxing for conditioning and discipline, and the owner had decided the Cobras were badly in need of both. With professionals carefully supervising, any risk was negligible. A fight on the ice would do more damage, but most of the players weren’t brawlers anyway. They’d pull their punches and each match would be short. Not a single man wanted to do real harm.

As the team’s captain, Dominik was expected to set a good example. But he was more than willing to get into the ring with Sloan and work off some steam. He let the trainer put in his mouthguard and glanced around the large, dimly lit room. All the men were dressed similarly to him and Sloan, in white tank tops or T-shirts and black and gold Cobra gym shorts. Several players had teamed up at the hanging punching bags. Scott Demyan, reformed playboy and one of their team’s top snipers, secured a bag for their rookie backup goalie, Dave Hunt. The youngster was a large mammal with a shorter fuse than Dominik had on his worst day. The way he hit the bag, with precise jabs and powerful swings, made it clear he’d done this before.

Doesn’t look like training helped the kid control his temper much. Dominik grinned when Demyan released the bag and stumbled backward when it swung and hit him. Demyan’s lack of experience was pretty obvious, but with hands like his, the last thing they wanted was for him to be fighting on the ice.

Sloan was the prime example of why. He’d had a hell of a shot when he’d played for them, but he’d broken his hand on a helmet during a fight, trying to prove himself an asset when the old team management had attempted to turn the Cobras into a more “physical” team. His bones hadn’t set right, and after surgery, his stickhandling and shot had never returned to his former elite level, so he’d retired young. But he was still a damn good leader and he’d be a decent match for Dominik in a fight.

Bouncing in place to warm up, Dominik glanced over at the boxing trainer who gestured for him and Sloan to meet in the center of the ring. A feminine cheer drew his attention to the side, and he had to bite down on his mouthpiece to keep from groaning when he saw the Delgado girls. Or, more specifically, Oriana.

He’d been in love with Oriana once, had shared her with Sloan and Max Perron, a man the team and fans called The Catalyst. Oriana was married to Max and collared by Sloan. She’d once been collared by Dominik, but he knew now he’d never really meshed with the other two men. They were Oriana’s future. Together, they made her happy. He’d only stood in their way.

Enough time had passed for him to make peace with letting her go, but he wasn’t comfortable with her cheering on Sloan from the sidelines. Not that he could tell her to go away. Her family might not own the team anymore, but they were still deeply involved in management. With Silver here and… Yeah, there he was, their brother, Ford, standing near the door observing all the players with detached interest. The siblings had a right to see how well prepared the players were for tomorrow’s game. Maybe, if he could just be professional about the whole thing, her being here wouldn’t matter.

Her being here doesn’t matter, Mason. Dominik nodded to himself and bumped his gloves against Sloan’s. The other man didn’t seem at all affected by his woman’s presence. Dominik tensed and relaxed his muscles. Rolled his neck and backed a few paces, giving Sloan the opening to make the first move. He didn’t really want to hurt the other man, but the sadistic fuck would get off on hurting him. Best to end this as quickly as possible.

Sloan’s dark green eyes fixed on Dominik’s face and his lips quirked at the edges. He inched forward, fists raised.

A whistle blew and they both looked over to the left where the head coach, Roger Shero, was climbing into the ring. Gray and white streaked his dark auburn hair and the beard he’d started to grow. He reminded Dominik of someone’s grandfather, soft enough for a kid to sit in his lap for story-time. But he was a damn good coach, tailoring his approach to each player, not missing so much as a dirty look or a grumble in the locker room. No doubt he knew every detail of Dominik and Sloan’s past conflict.

The older man took off his black suit jacket and handed it to the trainer before waving him away. He straightened his black-and-white striped tie, his brown eyes twinkling with amusement as he looked from Dominik to Sloan.

“I’d hoped the two of you would get us started.” Shero patted Sloan’s bare shoulder. “New whiteboard rule proposed by Callahan. You boys have a problem, it gets resolved in the ring. No more fighting in the locker room.” He laughed and shook his head. “For the two of you, perhaps I should add the hallway as well.”

Not much fazed Sloan, but his cheeks reddened slightly at the reminder of their scuffle weeks ago. The fight hadn’t started with them, but it had escalated with their lingering animosity. He jerked his chin in a sharp nod. “You got it, Coach.”

Dominik inclined his head. “I’m good with that, Coach Shero.”