Mid-April…

Ugly and threadbare, the patchwork sofa had never really gone with anything in the apartment, but Sahara Dionne still missed the big old thing. Funny, because she’d once playfully complained about the comfy eyesore to one of her roommates, but she’d found a new love for the sofa when she’d learned about the sentiment attached to it. The new, pale blue loveseat taking its place didn’t have the same character.

Actually, the whole apartment felt empty.

You’re the last woman standing, Sahara.

She laughed at her own dry humor, but it was close enough to the truth. Akira had moved out months ago, but Jami had still considered this her home until yesterday. She was engaged, and there was no point to her staying here any longer.

Not that she’d been here often, but now the move was official. All her things were gone.

And Sahara was alone.

She walked around the apartment, all the rooms bright with their big windows, but one room was completely empty. She could set up an exercise room or something, but she simply closed the door so she wouldn’t have to think that far ahead yet. The kitchen looked the same; the girls hadn’t taken any dishes or furniture from there, so Sahara curled up on the window seat Scott Demyan, her closest male friend and one of the players for the Dartmouth Cobras, had made for them. The teddy bear he’d gotten her for Valentine’s day—because, as he pointed out, guys could get gifts for their fake girlfriends—sat on the gold cushion by the window. She hugged the bear and opened Facebook on her phone.

Putting up a status report that was all depressing wouldn’t be good; she had too many followers since she was the alternate captain for the Cobras’ Ice Girls, but people liked her being real. So she typed in a little happy face, choosing her words carefully.

Got the place all to myself! So happy for Akira and Jami, they deserve the best—I better get invites to the weddings! Lol! Being single is cool though. So many hot boys to play with. How does a girl decide…not that I’m in a rush! Did you see Pischlar’s new tattoo? She added the picture he’d let her take the last time she saw him at the Delgado Forum. A phoenix that looked like it was rising from melting flesh over his ribs. She could almost feel the heat of the fire even from the picture. In person the tattoo was…breathtaking.

She could say more, but she decided just to post the update. The likes came fast—her followers loved her posting stuff about the players. And making them happy gave her something to do. She grinned at the comments and replied as fast as she could. Chin resting on the head of the teddy bear, she read a longer post from a woman who was absolutely in love with Shawn Pischlar, one of the Cobras’ forwards. Apparently she’d gotten him to sign her arm and now the ink was permanent. She gave all the reasons why Pischlar was the ultimate fantasy boyfriend—and then suggested Sahara find someone else because Pischlar was hers.

I so have to get Pisch to look at this. He’ll find it funny. Sahara smiled as she checked her messages. Some from her cousins who wanted to know if she’d be in New York since the Cobras were playing the Islanders in the first round of the playoffs. Sahara told them she’d try, but the reminder of who the Cobras would be facing made it hard to keep up the happy front. Grant Higgins, her ex-boyfriend, played for the Islanders. The first game was tomorrow. In Dartmouth.

And there was a message from him. She clicked on it and held her breath as she read.

Grant: You doing okay, babe? You seem sad.

Sahara frowned and checked her status again. How had she seemed sad?

She shook her head and replied. I’m fine.

Grant: You’re not. I know things ended bad, and it’s my fault, but I still consider you a friend. Did you hear about my mom?

Sahara had liked Grant’s mother. The poor woman had died while volunteering overseas in Haiti as a teacher. When Sahara had first heard about her death, she’d been tempted to call Grant. But she was afraid. They were over, and she needed to make that clear.

She was careful as she typed her reply: I heard and I’m so sorry. She was a wonderful woman. But the team putting up a memorial for her was nice. It’s good that you have them.

No reply for a long time. She looked out the window, enjoying the view. This part of Nova Scotia, smack dab in the middle of Dartmouth, was nice. Not close to the ocean, but even looking out at the backyards with pools and freshly planted gardens was pleasant.

A ding and she glanced at her phone.

Grant: I miss you.

How to answer that without encouraging him? She bit the tip of her tongue. And wrote a quick response. We’re both doing better now, Grant.

Grant: I need to see you. Can I? I’m at the door, but I’ll go away if you want me to.

The knock at the door tripped up her heart. Her phone rang. Akira. She didn’t move and kept her voice low as she answered. “Hello?”

“Pischlar? Hell, your ‘fans’ might buy that, but we both know you’re not moving on with him. And if you’re even considering it, I’m going to kick your ass!”

Sahara let out a strained laugh. “I’ve had great scenes with him.” Another knock. She pressed her eyes shut. “Damn it, I don’t know what to do.”

“About what?” Akira let out a sharp “Hush!” to whoever was talking to her. “If the house is too quiet, come over here.”

“I have to get used to this. I’ll be okay, but…I think Grant’s at the door.”

“What? Grant—as in your ex? Damn it, Sahara, don’t you dare answer. I’m calling the cops—Cort, relax. I—”

“I’m fine, Akira!” Sahara rose off the window seat. Grant wasn’t banging hard or anything. She heard him speaking softly on the other side of the door, but she couldn’t make out what he was saying yet. “His mother just died. I can’t ignore him.”

“Yes, you can! Sahara, he hurt you!”

“I know that, but we had a messed-up relationship. You only know my side. And it’s not like I’m going to take him back.” Standing by the door, Sahara stared at the lock. She didn’t have to open the door. She really could ignore him. But she didn’t want to. She wasn’t that cruel. “Maybe we can be friends. Would be good since the Cobras are playing the Islanders. I can ask him to stop getting the boys riled up. Make it a clean game.”

“Fuck no. Sahara, listen to me.” Akira’s tone was soft. Gentle. Her words…not so much. “A man who hits a woman can never be a friend. Call the cops, or I will.”

“Don’t be dramatic. You don’t know why…” Sahara scowled as she put her hand on the lock. Her friends loved her, and she appreciated their concern, but she hated how easily they dismissed her responsibility for how the relationship had failed. “I have to let you go. I love you. And I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

Hanging up, Sahara made up her mind and unlocked the door. Grant stood there, and… She wasn’t sure what she’d expected, but he looked exactly the same as he had the day they’d met. That charming, boyish face, dirty blond hair badly in need of a trim only complementing his laid-back manner. He had a way of giving off the impression that he didn’t give a damn about anything, but you only had to check out his perfectly maintained body to know that wasn’t true. He was rugged and buff and so damn hot. He’d turned her head even though she’d grown up around enough hockey players for her to be used to big, muscular guys.

A dull ache in her chest made speaking difficult as he met her eyes with his dreamy, deep blue ones. How damn easy would it be to forget the horrible end of the relationship and just focus on the wonderful times they’d had? To forgive him for turning mean, then violent.

Don’t even fucking think about it, Sahara. Maybe she could forgive him, but she’d never forget what he’d done to her. She held the door just wide enough to talk to him, leaving no doubt that he wasn’t being welcomed inside.

“What are you doing here, Grant?” She bit down hard on her bottom lip, a lip he’d left swollen and bloody one too many times, and refused to feel bad as he shuffled his feet and dropped his gaze. “How did you find me?”

“Facebook.” He shoved his hands into the pockets of his faded blue jeans. “Your location was on the message, so I figured you weren’t trying to hide. I saw your car out back… One of your neighbors told me which door was yours.”

“Yeah, because that’s not creepy or stalkerish.” Sahara frowned when he shrugged. “This is a bad idea. You have a game tomorrow and you should focus on that. I don’t want any trouble—”

Grant shook his head and brought his hands up, fast enough that she almost jumped back and slammed the door in his face, but he simply held them up in an “I’m harmless” gesture. “No trouble—and damn it, Sahara, I hate that you’re afraid of me. I have a horrible temper and I’ve been working on controlling it. I love you, and I understand that you can’t love me back, but my mother would want me to make things right with you. She’d be so ashamed of me if she knew…”

Well, he was right about that. Mrs. Higgins was—had been—the gentlest, most caring person Sahara had ever met. Losing her must have forced Grant to face all the mistakes he’d made, because he hadn’t accepted any blame before. Sure, he’d said he was sorry when he hurt her, but he’d always accused her of pissing him off to get a reaction.

And she’d been so blinded by love for him that she’d taken responsibility for each and every time he’d lifted a hand to her.

Never again.

But she’d give him a chance to make things right. To prove he was the man she’d fallen in love with, rather than the monster he became. “Is that all you want, Grant? Seriously? You’re fine just being friends?”

“That’s all I want.” Grant backed away from the door. “You’re right, coming here was…creepy. I just wasn’t sure if you’d meet me anywhere, but maybe we can have coffee sometime before the teams head to New York for the third round?”

“I guess so…” She pursed her lips, knowing if she waited too long, one of her friends would talk her out of giving him so much as the time of day. He’d clearly made progress, and she didn’t want to ruin that by turning him down. “What are you doing now?”

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.”

“Excellent. Keep it clean and don’t forget we’ve got a game tomorrow. You get five minutes to knock each other around.” Shero stepped back and motioned them toward one another. “You may begin.”

Cheers from the players that gathered around Oriana and Silver distracted Sloan for a split second. Dominik swung his fist, clipping Sloan in the jaw just hard enough to get his attention. Dark eyes narrowed, Sloan brought his fist up to protect his face and shifted sideways, snapping out a right hook at Dominik’s ribs.

Smoothly blocking, Dominik drove an uppercut into Sloan’s chin. Sloan stumbled a few steps, then returned in full force, each punch solid, but none landing anywhere that could slow Dominik in the least. The man didn’t have the technique to catch Dominik off guard. He blocked fairly well, but he was tiring himself out with each ineffective swing.

Maybe Dominik had misjudged him. He snapped a jab into Sloan’s sternum, then a left hook to Sloan’s face. Kept swinging until Sloan’s back hit the ropes. A sharp command from Shero and Dominik retreated to let Sloan catch his breath. The satisfaction in overpowering the other man was shallow. Without the rules of the ring, Sloan might have had a chance, but he was playing Dominik’s game now.

Blood pumping, his whole body vibrating with energy, Dominik watched Sloan recover and turned as Sloan circled him. He braced when Sloan lunged forward, absorbing the impact and slamming both his fists into Sloan’s sides. He shoved Sloan off and cracked him in the jaw hard enough to end the fight. Sloan fell to the mat, snarled, and bounded to his feet.

Shero blew the whistle. Time was up. He grabbed Dominik’s arm. “Good match! The enforcer takes this round.” He glanced over at Sloan. “Gloves off and shake hands. Show the men how it’s done.”

After removing his gloves, Dominik pulled out his mouthpiece. He met Sloan’s eyes, not sure how he’d take the loss. He held out his hand.

Grinning, Sloan took Dominik’s hand. His grip was solid, not a display of strength, but a genuine handshake. He even laughed as Dominik’s brow furrowed and pulled him in for a rough, backslapping hug. “If I’d wanted to win, I wouldn’t have gotten in the ring with you.”

Dominik snorted. “Fair enough.”

Sloan lowered his voice. “This isn’t the end. We’ll pretend for the guys though. If they think we’ve gotten over our shit, they’ll do the same.”

Jaw hardening, Dominik released Sloan’s hand. He forced a smile as he got out of the ring, but he couldn’t shake the impact of Sloan’s words. There was no reason for them to hang on to the past. He’d moved on. Oriana was Sloan’s now. What more did the man want?

But as Sloan moved over to the refreshment table with Oriana at his side, Dominik hesitated. His mouth was dry and he wanted to grab a bottle of Gatorade, but seeing Oriana touch Sloan’s cheek with concern in her eyes brought a bitter taste to his mouth. He inhaled slowly and went to the pile of white towels on a bench against the wall at the other side of the room.

Something cold touched his back. He cursed and spun around, almost knocking Tyler Vanek, the team’s golden boy, right on his ass.

Vanek held out the bottle of water like a peace offering. Behind him, Raif Zovko, the team’s newest star acquisition, steadied Vanek with a hand on the young man’s shoulder. Zovko was Vanek’s Dom, and one of the few players Dominik considered a friend.

So Dominik took the bottle and grinned at Vanek. “Sorry, kid. Adrenaline has me all edgy.” He uncapped the bottle, gulped half, and then wiped his lips with the back of his hand. “You’re not here to fight, are you?”

“Hell no! No one I hate enough to try and punch them, and Chicklet would get pissed if I came home with my face all messed up. And Raif would do bad things to me that would be no fun before I even got home to her, so…” Vanek shrugged, then looked over at Sloan. “Did that really work for you guys? If Callahan hadn’t been there for me in the hospital, I might have considered getting in the ring with him.”

Zovko’s expression shifted from amusement to interest. “If you truly want to be beaten by Callahan, I’m sure it could be arranged, Ty.”

“Umm…no thanks.” Vanek chewed on his bottom lip. “Besides, Chicklet wouldn’t let you—”

“Would you care to make a wager on that?” Zovko smirked when Vanek quickly shook his head, then turned to Dominik. “We are here because Demyan has asked to meet me in the ring.”

“Awesome.” Dominik shook his head and looked over to where Scott Demyan, one of the trio—which included Vanek—that players, and now fans, referred to as the “trouble triplets.” Zovko had dated Demyan’s partner, Zachary Pearce, in the minors. When Zovko joined the team, many had believed he and Pearce were having an affair. The issue was resolved, but apparently Demyan wanted his pound of flesh for his troubles.

Done with his own match, Dominik had planned to go home and chill for the night, but he decided to stay and offer Zovko his support since the man had few friends on the team. Besides, several of the other pairings were worth watching. The reasons for the fights were laughable. Everything from hogging the puck to not paying the fair share on a dinner bill. But unlike Sloan and Dominik, most of the players seemed to be having fun in the ring. Men came out laughing and arranging to go out for a couple of beers.

The last fight was supposed to be Demyan and Zovko, but raised voices on the other side of the crowd cut off Coach Shero’s call to the ring. Ian White, who usually handled the fights on the ice when Dominik wasn’t out there, was staring down Hunt. Both appeared to be growling like two junkyard dogs off their chains. Hell, Dominik must have missed whatever drama had come between the two, but Shero didn’t seem surprised.

Hunt headed for the ring. “Come on, Bruiser. You think you can take me?”

White laughed and followed him. “I know it, kid. Let’s go.”

Climbing out of the ring, Shero cut them off and shook his head. “No. Matches are planned in advance. Yours wasn’t approved.”

“Come on, Coach. We’ve got shi—stuff to work out.” White looked past Hunt, a taunting smile on his lips. “If not, I’m out of here. Wanna go for a beer, Richards?”

Braxton Richards, the youngest player on the team, quickly shook his head. Hunt had taken to looking after the kid, so maybe he thought White was a bad influence? White’s interest in Richards seemed slightly off, though Dominik couldn’t quite put his finger on why. Either way, Richards clearly didn’t like the position he’d found himself in. His eyes were wide and he was pale. Poor boy.

Thankfully, Shawn Pischlar, a solid player and easygoing Dom, was right by his side. Speaking low as he flung his arm around Richards’s shoulders. Whatever he said had Richards ducking his head and laughing.

“Back off, Pisch.” Hunt changed direction and strode up to Richards’s side, looking ready to yank the rookie away from Pischlar. He didn’t seem at all comforted by the way Pischlar moved his arm and stepped back. But he appeared to have forgotten about fighting White.

The two young men walked out. White grunted something at Pischlar before trailing after them.

Pischlar went to the refreshment table to grab an apple.

“Consider this experiment a failure, Callahan.” Shero retrieved his suit jacket from a bench by the ring and shot Zovko and Demyan an apologetic look. “This may have worked for minor issues, but I am beginning to see how easily it could be taken advantage of. Boxing is excellent for conditioning, but I hope the two of you can find a peaceful resolution.”

“I see no reason why not.” Zovko turned to Demyan, holding out his hand. After a brief hesitation, Demyan shook it.

But he didn’t say anything. Simply joined the crowd leaving.

Dominik’s lips thinned as he took in the unease that had been left behind. He hated the idea that the “experiment” had been a complete waste of time. But maybe Sloan was right. Maybe, once the men saw them getting along, they’d be motivated to do the same. With the playoffs on the line, personal shit wasn’t all that important.

He approached the table where Sloan stood with Oriana, Silver, and Ford. Sloan had taken a peach from the fruit bowl. He pulled the large knife from the watermelon platter and used it to slice a small sliver of the peach.

Oriana pressed her teeth into her lush bottom lip, half her attention on her siblings, most on Sloan who licked the peach juice off the knife.

Silver didn’t appear to notice. “Landon will be between the pipes tomorrow. His leg is fine. He had a nasty bruise but no serious damage.”

“That’s good.” Oriana pressed her hand to her cheek, blushing as Sloan slid the blade carefully over the flesh of the peach.

“Oh, get a room. Damn it, Sloan, I think you’re getting Ford off.” Silver tossed her long blond hair over one shoulder and shoved her brother. “Gross.”

“Fuck off, Silver.” Ford folded his arms over his chest, but he was watching the knife as though hypnotized. “Sloan trains Cort. I’m…interested.”

“Mmm. Knife play involves a certain…finesse.” Sloan turned the peach, drawing the blade over it in a way that barely broke the skin. He’d obviously been practicing.

When he and Dominik had played with Oriana together, Sloan had kept to the mental aspect of knives in the bedroom. Dominik shouldn’t be surprised that he’d taken the play to the next level, but he hadn’t let himself think on the kinds of scenes Sloan would be doing with Oriana.

And he didn’t want to start now. Without drawing attention to himself, he moved out the door, prepared to leave. A small, soft hand touched his arm and he took a deep breath. He looked at the hand, long fingers tipped in perfect French-manicured nails, so pale against his dark skin. A large diamond in the engagement ring, not the small diamond in Oriana’s wedding ring.

He met Silver’s eyes.

She studied his face. “Maybe this should wait. Are you—?”

“I’m fine. What is it, Silver?”

“Hanes Brands and Champion have asked you to do a series of commercials. I don’t know if your manager spoke to you, since he told me he wasn’t interested because he thinks they just want a ‘token black man.’ His words.” Her pink-glossed lips thinned and she was all business. “I disagree. You’re the captain of a team about to make the playoffs. And you’re a good-looking man. I don’t appreciate your manager making issues where there are none and—”

“I’ll do it. And I’ll deal with him, don’t worry, sweetheart.” Dominik grinned and gave Silver a hug. He kissed her forehead before letting her go. He still considered her family even though he wasn’t with her sister. “He feeds on drama. Don’t let him get to you.”

“Ford told me to let him handle the man, but fuck that.” She wrinkled her nose. “Sorry, Dean’s asked me to practice speaking in a more ‘professional manner,’ but between dealing with your manager and my brother, I’m at my wits’ end.”

“I’ll let you know if I’m offended. You’re fine, Silver.” Dominik held the door open, pausing in the hall when Silver put her hand on his arm again. “Was there something else?”

“Are you okay? Really?” Silver eased the door shut. The hall was empty, which seemed to encourage her to drop the business persona and talk to him as the young woman who’d know him for years. “You won the fight, but what was the point? There’s no prize and nothing’s changed.”

“I think that was the point, little one. Not for the others, but for me and Sloan.” There was no use holding back and pretending with Silver. So he spoke plainly. “We will get through each and every game, deal with every situation in a way that’s best for the team, but at the end of the day, we aren’t friends. He will go home with your sister, and I’ve accepted that.”

“Have you?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, that’s good, I guess. But…” She sighed and looked down at her hand on his arm. “Where does that leave you? You aren’t training anyone at the club. You’re not moving on.”

“I’ve moved on. Don’t worry—just because I’m single doesn’t mean I’m pining over your sister. I’m focused on the game.” Not the full truth, but he didn’t need to bare his soul to Silver. “Enough meddling now, pet. How’s Amia doing?”

Silver’s eyes brightened at the mention of her daughter. She smiled, practically glowing with pride. “She’s taken her first steps, but she still crawls more than anything. She talks nonstop, but I have no idea what she’s saying most of the time. Dean said that’s normal. You should see her.”

“I’d like that.”

“Sahara offered to babysit while we go to Casey’s spring concert next Thursday. You could always—”

He chuckled and put his finger over Silver’s lips. “I don’t need you setting me up with Sahara. We are good friends. I’m not sure why people think there’s more going on.”

She snorted and folded her arms over her small breasts. “You’re full of shit. When you’re together, it’s obvious—”

“Careful, Silver.” Dominik didn’t bother lowering his voice as he spotted the team’s starting goalie, Landon Bower, ambling down the hall. Silver was his fiancée and the mother of his child, but Bower was a proficient Master who expected his sub to behave herself when addressing other Doms. Letting him handle Silver was the quickest way out of the conversation. Her smirk proved she hadn’t noticed Bower’s approach. There was some satisfaction in wiping it off her face with his next words. “I have no tolerance for rudeness. Your Masters are creative with their punishments. Don’t force me to request they give you one on my behalf.”

Her eyes widened and the color faded from her cheeks. “You wouldn’t—”

“He won’t have to.” Bower slid his hand under Silver’s hair and took a firm hold on the back of her neck. “Apologize and come with me. Dean had a special night planned for us, but I have a feeling we’ll have to address your behavior first.”

“But I…” Silver cut herself off at a dark look from Bower. She dropped her gaze to the tip of her pink high-heeled shoes as she did what she’d been told. “I’m sorry, Sir.”

“You’re forgiven, sweetheart.” Dominik met Bower’s eyes and inclined his head. The man wouldn’t be too hard on Silver, but she’d likely think twice before playing matchmaker again. He watched the couple walk down the hall, then headed in the other direction toward the gym’s locker room. After a quick shower, he changed into blue jeans and a plain white T-shirt. Pulled on his wool, khaki-colored jacket, and grabbed his sports bag. In the parking lot, he hesitated beside his pickup truck and pulled out his phone.

Despite her improper approach, Silver had a point. There’d been the potential of a relationship between him and Sahara. He wasn’t sure who’d decided to draw the line at friendship. She’d stopped approaching him at the club—actually, he couldn’t recall the last time she’d been at the BDSM club where he served as a Dungeon Monitor every weekend. Maybe she’d gotten over her attempts at being a sub to draw the attention of the team’s owner, Lorenzo Keane. Dominik found her beautiful and alluring, but he had no interest in a woman playing at being submissive.

But there was chemistry between them that he couldn’t deny. He’d pushed the possibilities aside to focus on the game, but there was more to life. He could tell everyone who asked that he was moving on from his failed relationship with Oriana, yet he hadn’t done a thing to prove it. Maybe he should.

He dialed Sahara’s number. No answer. So he left a message. “Hey, sweet lady. Been a while, so I thought we could catch up over dinner. My treat.”

Straightforward and simple, but as he hung up, he couldn’t decide whether or not he wanted her to call back. Training subs, putting his all out there on the ice, were things he knew how to do. But taking that first step into a future that didn’t involve Oriana was different.

He was fine with it. For the most part. But when he closed his eyes, he could still see himself growing old with her. Still remember how often he’d seen his children with her eyes. Her smile.

In his mind, he knew that would never happen. But he couldn’t lie to himself as easily as he lied to everyone else.

Oriana still had his heart. And he had a feeling she always would.