Iron Cross (The Dartmouth Cobras Book 6)

Early April

They were killing the fucking Leafs. Tyler Vanek propped his gloved hands on the butt of his stick as he chilled on his blades by the Cobras’ bench, watching the Leafs’ coach bitch to the officials about another penalty. Like it was the ref’s fault the boys from Toronto were a bunch of thugs. Getting bored, he started moving his lips every time the coach did, getting more into it when he noticed Luke Carter—the left winger on his line and one of his best friends—choking back laughter.

A few of the guys on the Cobras’ bench were snorting and chuckling. Tyler got some dirty looks when some of the Leafs caught him puffing out his cheeks to make his impersonation more realistic. He smirked at them and mimicked the coach’s stance, gesturing wildly with his hand just like the man was doing.

“Vanek!” Sloan Callahan, officially the Cobra’s assistant coach, but really, the one who ran the show, stepped over the bench and pressed his fists to the top of the boards. He didn’t look any less scary in a dark gray suit and tie than he had in the Cobra uniform with a big C on his chest. And his black gaze reminded Tyler of how the man looked wielding a whip. “Stop acting like a fucking idiot.”

Carter slid up to Tyler’s side, bumping their shoulders together and giving Callahan a charming half-smile. “Aww, come on, Coach. He’s just playing.”

“Play the game.” Callahan’s eyes narrowed when Carter opened his mouth. He nodded as Carter pressed his lips shut. “We need you both in one piece for the playoffs. Not gonna happen if you piss off the goons.”

Okay, Callahan was right, but this game was dragging on forever. The puck was finally dropped to the right of the Leafs’ goalie. Scott Demyan, the Cobras’ sniper and Tyler’s other partner in crime, won the face-off. Tyler’s stick connecting with the puck got his head back into the game where it belonged. He moved, tasting the icy air that flowed around him. Feeling the burn in his muscles as he raced across the ice, dodging the big guys trying to take him out. He was smaller than most players in the league, but he was fast. They couldn’t hurt him if they couldn’t catch him.

But if they did…yeah, Callahan was right to worry. They’d destroy him.

His pass was perfect, but Carter lost it after getting slammed into from the side. Together, they chased the Leafs to their blue line. He met Carter’s eyes and grinned when Carter nodded and picked up speed. They read the play perfectly and made a crushing Leaf sandwich. Checking the beefy forward winded Tyler, but it was so worth it to see the man go down from the impact. He crossed into the Leafs’ zone a step behind Carter, smoothly cupped the pass, then let the puck rip. The post dinged as the puck hit the inside. Then it dropped cleanly over the goalie’s shoulder.

Tyler didn’t get a chance to celebrate the goal. A stick blade came out of nowhere and slashed his mouth. Pain burst from his lips and he reared back, slamming into Carter who’d stopped mid-congrats to grab a Leaf player. Someone was pulling Tyler backward. He turned and saw nothing but white and blue sweaters. Swung blindly as blood filled his mouth.

Demyan shoved between him and the huge Leaf defenseman. Suddenly, the Cobras’ defensemen, Dominik Mason and Peter Kral, were muscling their way into the crowd. Mason, big and black and downright feral when he got riled up, pushed Tyler behind him and dropped his gloves.

Tyler took a second to bend over and swipe the blood and saliva from his lips. His blood dripped onto the ice in time with the pulsing pain. The sight made him dizzy. He had to get to the bench. Chicklet, his Mistress, the woman he fucking worshipped, had made him promise never to play hurt. But a cut wasn’t really being “hurt.” Was just messy and gross and he needed to get cleaned up. He’d get the doc to patch him up and then get back out here.

Before he could slide forward, there was a big man in a blue jersey blocking his path. His eyes widened when he realized it was the Leafs’ goalie, Andre Thomas.

What the fuck?

“Where do you think you’re going, you little shit—”

“It’s on, Thomas!” Landon Bower, the Cobras’ starting goalie, jetted across the ice like there were rockets attached to his skates. He threw himself at the other goalie. Both went down in a pile of loose pads and wild punches.

“Vanek!” Callahan shouted, grabbing a stick from Ian White and cracking it repeatedly against the boards. “Get over here!”

Tyler made himself move. Got off the ice and sat in front of the trainer on the bench.

The Leafs’ coach shouted from the other side of the suicide box that separated the team’s benches. “Your boy started all this. Put a fucking Band-Aid on him and send him home!”

“How about you teach your fucking gorillas to play the goddamn game?” Callahan strode up to the glass, looking like he wanted to go right through it and kill the other coach. “Just because they can’t use their sticks to score goals doesn’t mean they can use them as fucking weapons!”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. That was an accident!”

“Accident, my ass!” Callahan hit the glass with the stick. “I’ll show you a fucking accident!”

Tyler cringed as the trainer pressed a towel to his lip, then ducked to avoid getting hit by the stick Callahan was swinging. At least the penalties were even, so they’d play four on four for two minutes. No big deal except all it took was a little joke for both teams to lose their minds.

Nice going, Vanek.

The trainer glanced up at Tyler with a strained smile on his lips. “You need stitches. How about you head to the locker room, let the doc take care of it? Away from the insanity.”

“Can’t you just—” This time, both Tyler and the trainer had to duck to avoid getting clocked by the stick. “There’s still ten minutes left to the game!”

“Ty.” A player moved behind the benches, one Tyler had a really hard time being around without his heart beating like the drums from a heavy metal band. Raif Zovko, all dark and dangerous, a player fans called “Midas.” He just had to look at Tyler to turn him into the little boy who’d thought Raif was a hockey god. But he didn’t seem too happy with Tyler, which had Tyler staring at his skate laces. “The game is won. Go have your wounds seen to.”

Callahan was pulled back by the “real” coach and turned to Tyler, practically snarling. “You good?”

Tyler hesitated, looking from Raif to the trainer. The trainer shrugged and put a butterfly bandage above Tyler’s top lip. “This will hold for now. But you need to get this taken care of soon.”

“Ten—nine minutes soon enough?” Tyler glanced over to the ice, not thinking much beyond the game that continued no matter how messed up things got. A bit of blood was nothing. He was still alive and that’s all that mattered. So long as he was breathing, could hold a stick, and keep moving, he would play. “I’m good, Coach!”

Lips thin, eyes hard, Callahan studied Tyler as a few guys came in for a line change. He nodded and waved Tyler on. “Humiliate those fucking assholes.”

That was all Tyler needed to hear. He vaulted over the boards, jetting across the rink, tapping his stick on the ice when he saw Carter intercept a pass. A black blur and the puck hit his tape. He dodged, flew forward. Slapped the puck high stick side.

Goal! Fuckin’ right!

Before a single Leaf could get close to him, White had the biggest guy on the team in a choke hold. Tyler elbowed his way into the crowd as White was surrounded. Carter hauled Tyler back. The refs broke up the fight before it even got started. The game ended without the Leafs even getting another shot in. The score was 6-0.

In the locker room, the guys stripped off their gear, shouting over the punk rock music Pischlar blasted from his small stereo. Shawn “Easy” Pischlar was a third-line left winger, laid-back and fun to hang out with. But Callahan was giving Pischlar “the look” as Pischlar put the small black plug earring back in his ear. Didn’t seem to bother anyone that Pischlar seemed to have new ink every time he had more than a day off the ice, but the piercings were an issue. Two cartilage ones in each ear and the slightly bigger one in his right earlobe.

Best to keep clear if Callahan was in lecture-mode. Tyler headed to the stall with his gold name plate at the top of the wood structure about the width of a regular-sized player’s shoulders. He glanced over at Demyan when Callahan started on Pischlar about how he wasn’t supposed to wear the plug at the Forum.

Demyan rolled his eyes, patted Tyler’s shoulder, and went to stand beside Callahan. Arms crossed over his bare chest, Demyan studied Pischlar. “Long as he don’t start putting a puck in there, I don’t see the issue.”

“This is none of your business, Demyan.” Callahan’s lips thinned. “But since you’re so fucking interested, Pischlar’s been getting shit from PR. You know what that’s like, right?”

Aww, fuck. Last thing the team needed was more bad press. Tyler half expected Demyan to back down because he’d risked being traded when he’d gotten one too many bad headlines. But he wasn’t all that surprised when Demyan faced Callahan, speaking low, his muscles tightening like he was ready for a fight.

Tyler couldn’t make out what was said, but Callahan nodded, spoke quietly, then glanced around the room at the players, who’d all gone real quiet. “Hey, we won this fucking game! The press is gonna be on us in about ten minutes, so do all your stupid shit now!”

Now that sounded like a plan. Tyler stood, grunting as White rammed into him from the side. They both hit the floor and White barred an arm across Tyler’s neck. Tyler laughed, twisting to get free of the big brute’s hold. They wrestled for a bit, but winning a fight against White was about as likely as taking down a bear with your bare hands.

Tyler tapped out and rolled onto his back.

White’s eyes widened as he stared down at Tyler. “Fuck, I completely forgot about your mouth. Sorry, kid.”

Warmth spilled down his chin, dripping onto Tyler’s neck as he lifted his head. He let his head drop to the floor when he saw the doc hovering. White stood and gave him a hand up. Hovered as the doc made Tyler sit and started poking at his lip.

Ouch! The hot, dull throb had Tyler jerking back. Heat spread over his cheeks at White’s snort.

“He ain’t even pulled out the needle yet!”

Just the idea of Doc using a needle on him had Tyler all queasy. He didn’t usually get patched up in front of the guys because he didn’t want them to see what a wimp he could be.

The doctor ignored White as he cleaned Tyler’s wound. “Not too bad. Hasn’t swelled that much, and you won’t even have a pretty scar to show for it. A couple of stitches will stop the bleeding.”

“Great.” Tyler rubbed his sweaty palms on his thighs, doing his best to hold still as the syringe was pulled out.

When the doc injected a local anesthetic, White snorted again. Tough guy probably didn’t need anything to numb the pain. Maybe Tyler shouldn’t either, but…fuck, it hurt!

“Take it, boy. You know you want to take it.” Chicklet’s breath stirred the curls at the nape of Tyler’s neck as she ran her hands over the flaming flesh of his back. “For me.”

He inhaled roughly, letting his Mistress’s words get him past the needle piercing his flesh. But he didn’t like being watched. She was the only one who got to see him like this—taking whatever she told him to for her pleasure alone. Okay, so she wasn’t actually here, but knowing he’d been strong while he was stitched up would please her.

“Three stitches. It’s nothin’, buddy.” White slapped Tyler’s shoulder, probably trying to be supportive, but Doc glared at him. Which got him backing up and holding up his hands. “Sorry, I’ll go away.”

Thank you! Tyler inhaled as Doc finished up. He’d probably been making weird-ass faces and if White teased him about it, he wouldn’t like the man so much anymore.

Doc didn’t say anything after he was done with Tyler. The press had come in and the guys had calmed down for their interviews. Tyler stayed in uniform as mics were shoved in his face. Talked about the “team effort” and made sure not to comment about how Coach had lost his mind. He was pretty good at the typical, scripted answers, so reporters got bored of him quick.

Besides, what Pischlar was saying was a lot more interesting. Tyler stood behind Carter and Demyan as Pischlar straightened his shiny gray tie and nodded at the last question shouted at him.

“No, my last girlfriend didn’t ‘turn me gay.’ I’ve always been open to whatever.” Pischlar shrugged and slung his sport bag over his shoulder. “That’s why they call me ‘Easy.’”

The next question had every player in the room going still. “Did joining the Cobras make it feel more acceptable to be honest about being gay?”

Fuck, go right for the jugular, why don’t you? Tyler wanted to say something. Take some pressure off the other man. But what could he possibly say? He wasn’t as out there about his relationship as some of the guys were. Less than half the team was in ménage relationships, but the media painted them all with the same brush. They were all considered kinky. The guys who were happily married with 2.5 kids were asked if they cheated on their wives with their teammates. The team’s owner, Lorenzo Keane, had been trying to steer the focus away from the players’ sexuality. Without much success.

Pischlar cocked his head and gave the reporter an indulgent smile. “Who said I was gay? I’ve dated women. I’m dating a man. I’m up for anything.” He chuckled. “I’m in an open relationship, and I’m awesome in bed. If you want to know more, I’ll give you my number.”

A few of the reporters looked shocked, but tempted. The old man who’d asked the question seemed to have swallowed his tongue. Tyler was pretty sure he’d swallowed his own.

Damn, how could he just… I mean, wow. Not that Pischlar should hide it, but to just put it out there like he didn’t give a shit what people thought?

When the press left the room, Callahan went over and gave Pischlar one of his rough, manly hugs. So did a few of the other guys. One thing wouldn’t change with the team. They backed their own, no matter what.

But Tyler would have expected Callahan to tear Pischlar out for not being all politically correct with his interview. Maybe not in front of the team, but in his office at least. Instead, he seemed totally okay with everything.

“Hey, Demyan.” Tyler pulled Demyan off to the side, speaking low so no one else would hear him. “What did you say to Coach?”

Demyan shoved his hands into the pockets of the jeans he’d changed into. “I told him Easy was coming out—in a way. Room service took a few pictures of him and some random guy on the last road trip. There’s been stuff all over the ’net. Easy didn’t want people thinking he was ashamed or anything, but he had to face them as himself. Keane asked him to wear a suit for the interview, but he needed something that was…well, him. Callahan got it.”

“That’s good, I guess.” Tyler wasn’t sure why any of them had to share personal stuff. He remembered when reporters had come to his house to ask him about how soon he’d be back on the ice after his concussion. He’d always worn the team hat and one of his many Cobra T-shirts. Like that, the press wasn’t really questioning Tyler. They were questioning “Vanek.”

One of the team’s most promising rookies at the time. A player. Not the man he was off the ice.

“We can’t all do it, Tyler.” Demyan sat on the stool beside Tyler’s stall even as Tyler lowered to his own. He put his hand on Tyler’s forearm. “You can’t and that’s cool. I’m not allowed to. I gotta give ‘the right answers.’ But out there, beyond the game, we do whatever the fuck we want. We’ve just gotta be careful.”

Was kinda weird that Demyan was calling Tyler by his first name, but whatever. Guys did that when they were being all supportive. Not that he could figure out why Demyan needed to give that support. Chicklet liked things private. And her girlfriend, Laura, was a cop and needed things that way. A few of Laura’s close coworkers knew she was a sub and into BDSM. But nothing was public.

Demyan’s grip tightened on his arm. Tyler opened his mouth to tell the man to ease up, but then spotted Raif standing with Zach Pearce across the room. Pearce was the first Cobra—hell, the first professional hockey player—to “come out” to the media. He was involved with Demyan and Rebecca Bower, their goalie’s big sister. The three of them had some nice domestic thing going on. Becky’s kid was the center of their universe.

But Pearce had history with Raif. And Demyan got a little weird whenever Pearce and Raif hung out. Like they were doing now.

Pearce finished dressing and laughed at something Raif said, which had Demyan breaking fucking blood vessels in Tyler’s arm. Pearce flung his arm over Raif’s shoulders. “I don’t think anyone’s surprised a game against the Leafs ended in a few brawls.”

“You are not a fighter. Or did you forget?” Raif’s brow lifted at Pearce’s protests. “In a bar, yes, you can hold your own. On the ice? You embarrass yourself.”

“Thanks.” Pearce snorted. “You did pretty good out there, but you’re gonna fuck up your hands if you keep hitting guys with their helmets on.”

“I go for the body.” Raif gave Pearce a hooded look. “I’m sure you’ve noticed.”

“Yeah, I noticed.” Pearce went quiet as Raif took off his sweat-stained undershirt, baring his muscular chest. “You going to the bar after? I think a few of the guys are gonna hang out.”

Demyan pushed to his feet and glared at Pearce. “I thought we were going straight home, Zach. Becky said Casey stayed up to watch the game.”

Pearce frowned. “She wouldn’t let Casey stay up this late.”

“Hey, you know how our daughter is. Becky’s probably worn out. She’d have tried to get Casey to sleep on the sofa at least, but we both know she’ll be awake when we get home.” Demyan looked around the room, letting out a bitter laugh. “Maybe it’s just me, but the guys who have kids went home already. I’m getting up with my baby girl in the morning. You want to hang out, go for it.”

“Don’t start, Scott.” Pearce sighed and turned to Raif. “He’s right. My daughter probably isn’t asleep yet. But you should spend time with the guys. They know you’re an amazing player, but most don’t know you.”

“And you think they should?” Raif didn’t move. Didn’t even acknowledge Demyan. There was a sexual tension in the room Tyler couldn’t ignore, even though Raif wasn’t saying anything suggestive. “You need to be with your family, but I see no point in spending the night out when we have practice tomorrow.”

“We all have practice, Raif. You’ve pulled all-nighters before.”

“With reason.”

Pearce’s lips parted. His eyes darkened a little as he moved away from Raif. “Yeah. There was always a good reason.” He closed his eyes as Demyan strode out without a word. “But that’s in the past, Raif. I should go.”

Turning his back on them, Tyler changed quickly, glad to see Demyan and Pearce were gone when he turned around. Only Raif was left, so Tyler mumbled “Good-bye” and started for the door.

“Stay.” Raif’s sharp tone stopped him short. He crossed the room with slow, even strides, and it took all Tyler’s strength not to retreat when Raif stepped up to him. “How many stitches?”

Squaring his shoulders, Tyler met Raif’s eyes. “Three.”

“Not so bad then.” Raif’s lips quirked, like he was amused as he glanced down at the hands Tyler sporadically fisted and unfisted. “Why so nervous, Ty? You’re not my sub. I won’t punish you for disobeying me.”

“I know that.” Tyler made a shallow scoffing sound, but his gaze fixed on the center of Raif’s chest. His very wide chest, covered in a dusting of dark hair that went from his lower pecs down the center of his cut abs. “You know how it is, Raif. Wasn’t no big deal.”

“Look at me when you talk to me. We are friends, are we not?” Raif moved a little closer. Let out a soft chuckle as Tyler lifted his head to look at him. “I do know how it is.”

“Good.”

“Will you go to the bar with the others?”

“No. I’m going to the club.” The back of Tyler’s neck was getting hot. Thinking about the BDSM club had him thinking about how Raif was a Dom there. An experienced Dom. One who would treat Tyler very differently than he did in the locker room.

Kinda like a cute little puppy that belonged to someone else. And wasn’t very well trained.

“The club. I take it Chicklet will be there?” Raif asked like it didn’t matter one way or another.

“Why? You gonna tell on me?” They were still in the locker room, so no need to be all respectful.

Raif’s hand abruptly shot out to frame Tyler’s jaw and Tyler jumped. Stared into those dark brown eyes which seemed to dare Tyler to move a muscle.

Yeah. Not that stupid.

“No, Ty. I won’t need to tell her a thing.” Raif gave him a positively evil half-smile. “You will.”

“I will?”

“Yes. And you’ll relay a message for me.” Raif ran his thumb alongside the stitches on Tyler’s lip. Bent close to whisper in Tyler’s ear. “She needs to tighten your leash. You are sorely in need of discipline because as you are now…” He stepped back, shaking his head and clucking his tongue. “Let’s just say I’d be ashamed if you were my sub.”

Grinding his teeth, Tyler glared at Raif. “Fuck you.”

It didn’t come out as strong as Tyler had meant it, but he got the hell out of the locker room. Didn’t stop until he was in his brand-new black Maserati, a car Chicklet loved because of the way it growled. He’d tried to give it to her, but she’d just smiled and shook her head.

“I don’t need presents, my boy. And I happen to love my Jeep.” She raked her fingers through his hair. “Besides, I like seeing you behind the wheel, my spoiled little angel.”

He hated it when she called him that, but he knew better than to complain. Was okay to joke a little when she was in a good mood though, so he lifted his brows and stroked the steering wheel. “I earned this. How am I spoiled?”

Her red lips curved as she put her hand on his thigh, her nails sharp and long, as they only were on weekends they played, digging into his flesh through his jeans. “Because I let you buy it. You’d drive a rusty piece of shit if I told you to, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes.” The idea actually had his dick hardening, so close to her hand and those wicked nails. People would think he was crazy if he drove a wreck. They’d pity him. But he wouldn’t care because every time he got behind the wheel he’d know he was showing his devotion. “I’ll get rid of this car and—”

“Did I not speak clearly? I like seeing you behind the wheel. My beautiful boy deserves the very best.”

And Chicklet deserved everything he could give her. She didn’t care about the things money could buy. All that mattered to her was that she owned his body, his mind, and his heart.

He wouldn’t make her ashamed of him. He’d be the best goddamn sub at the club, crawl for her, and kiss the tips of her pointy leather boots if she wanted him to. He’d take the pain she dished out, forget about his limits, and trust her to bring him to the very edge without going too far.

And…and he’d tell her everything. Except for Raif’s message because after Tyler did everything in his power to be the perfect sub, to anticipate her every command and please her—

Raif could deliver the message himself. And she’d laugh at him.

* * * *

Well-worn leather, fitting her like a second skin, the metal tip of her boot stilettos clicking sharply on the wood floor, Chicklet made her way across the Blades & Ice BDSM club to relieve Ford Delgado from bartending duties. She laughed and shook her head as Ford distractedly offered her a shot of whiskey. He wasn’t paying any attention to who she was.

Bad boy. Thankfully she wasn’t a naughty sub or an inexperienced, careless Dom, sneaking a drink before a scene. She tapped his forearm with her long, gleaming, black nails. “I’m playing later tonight, Ford. Go check on your girl.” She smirked when Ford snapped his gaze from where Cort was learning the ropes—or, more accurately, the whip—from Sloan. Sloan was one of her best friends, but the sadist was a bit twisted. The way the muscles in Ford’s jaw ticked, you’d think Sloan was beating on his sweet little sub, Akira, but it was actually Cort getting a taste of the short hunting whip.

Not my type, but…yummy! Chicklet watched Sloan expertly wielding the whip, laying red stripes across Cort’s bare shoulders and back. Cort rested his forehead against the round beam he was bound to, only lifting it when Sloan stopped to check on him and give a few tips. Such a broad expanse of flesh to mark up above the faded black jeans riding low on Cort’s hips, and he didn’t struggle against the restraints. But he wasn’t enjoying the whipping, wouldn’t let himself sink into the drugging endorphins. He was a good-looking man, one she wouldn’t mind handling herself. If he was a sub.

Ford’s concern made a lot of sense. A brute of a baby Dom in training, who wouldn’t safeword if his life depended on it, was scary in the hands of a man who enjoyed dishing out pain as much as Sloan did. But Sloan had been working with Cort for a month. Wouldn’t have started this lesson unless he could read the big man well.