Dominik Page 3

  He nods. “Look, I know it’s asking a lot—and I’m not even sure it’s possible—but I was hoping you could arrange a trade to the Cold Fury. I’m from Raleigh, and I’d like to get back to that area to spend…”

  His words choke off with fear and grief. “You realize if you’re were traded, you’re not eligible to participate in the playoffs? You really want to give that up?”

  Of course he does. Anyone in this league knows if a player is traded after the deadline, they lose eligibility.

  “No offense, Mr. Carlson,” Rafe says.

  I cut him off. “Dominik.”

  I get a curt nod. “No offense, Dominik. But there are some things that are more important than a Cup championship. I know that might be a letdown to you, but I’d take spending time with my dad for just a day versus a hundred Cups if I could.”

  Fuck… but I have to blink back a sheen of wetness in my eyes.

  Still, I have to remember I’m a businessman first with a board to answer to. “The logistics would be a nightmare, even if I were inclined to release you. Just who do you think the Cold Fury would trade—”

  “Rand Berkley,” he cuts in. “He’s got an injured ACL. He’s out for the rest of the season, but he’s a comparable player to me. He’ll be a good addition to the roster for next year.”

  I cock an eyebrow. “So, you want me to give up a star player for an injured player who will do me no good? I see why that will work for the Cold Fury as it’s pretty even, but as a businessman trying to have the best possible team to win the Cup, you want me to let you go for that?”

  Rafe flushes. “No, not at all. There are draft picks you can negotiate for as well. That’s something I’d figure you’d do. I’ll forfeit my salary to make it more appealing to the Cold Fury if that’s what it takes.”

  Christ. He’s dead serious.

  I consider his request, realizing I could get all the Cold Fury’s draft picks but it would still be a losing proposition for me. Rafe is playing hot right now. He effortlessly stepped into Tacker’s shoes, and he’s playing at the same caliber on the second line right now. Everyone tends to focus on the star players, but Rafe is someone who is probably more of a clutch player than any of the first line men because he has the ability to move back and forth between the two.

  “I need to think about it,” I say. It’s all I can offer right now because no matter how bad I feel for the dude, I have people I answer to.

  I answer to the other players on this team.

  To the board.

  More than anything, I answer to the fans.

  Rafe nods, and I’m grateful for the acceptance on his face. I know he didn’t expect an answer right this minute, which would have been impossible.

  “I’ll get you an answer soon,” I promise, casting a last glance at the treadmill.

  No time for a workout now. I have stuff to do.

  CHAPTER 4

  Dominik

  “Let me go make some phone calls.” I clap my hand on Rafe’s shoulder. Squeeze. “And again… I’m really sorry. Anything I can do for you personally?”

  “Got a cure for cancer?” he asks, his lips curving slightly.

  My return smile is regretful. “I’m afraid not. I’ll be praying for him, though.”

  “Thanks,” Rafe says with a nod.

  I give his shoulder another squeeze before turning away. As I walk through the facility, I catch Bishop’s eye. He lifts his chin in a way that isn’t a greeting but more of an “I need to talk to you”. I divert, head his way, and note the rest of the first line pulling in around him.

  Clearly, they all know what’s going on with Rafe.

  “What are you going to do?” Bishop asks as I join them.

  The rest of the men huddle into a circle. Tacker is to my left—the big, reclusive, and previously broken center who lost his fiancée in a plane crash. Until recently, he’d been emotionally and physically absent from the team, but he’s back now.

  On his other side is his best friend, Aaron Wylde. Preeminent defenseman we just acquired a month ago and the team’s man whore. I respect that.

  Beside Wylde is Erik, the other defenseman and the team’s former man whore. Not sure what it is about our defenders and the correlation to being “players,” but there it is. Erik’s settled down now, so apparently Wylde must carry on the tradition.

  Directly across from me is Bishop, the team’s captain and fiancé to the coach’s daughter, Brooke Perron. Beside him is Legend, the team’s goalie and the most recent player to fall into the marriage market. He married his former neighbor, Pepper, a few weeks ago in a no-frills ceremony at the courthouse. And finally, to complete the first line, Dax… star left-winger and brother to the incredibly gorgeous, frustratingly elusive Willow Monahan.

  I give my attention to Bishop to address his question. “Clearly you know what’s going on with Rafe.”

  “He called me this morning when he heard from his mom,” Bishop confirms. “I told my brothers.”

  I’ll never admit it aloud, but there’s a welling of pride within me that he calls his line mates his brothers. It’s why we’re going to win the Cup this year—because these men have something that’s not teachable or trainable. A bond that gives us that extra edge. In my humble opinion, at least.

  “Well, I’m on my way to my office to work on this,” I reassure them, meeting each of their eyes. “But I’d like your thoughts on the matter.”

  “Rafe has proved himself crucial to this team,” Tacker says. He knows this more than anyone since Rafe stepped in to fill his big shoes when he got suspended. “Frankly… I don’t think he’s replaceable.”

  “A trade isn’t going to yield anything,” I say, pointing out the obvious. They know anyone traded after the deadline that expired in February isn’t eligible to play.

  “We do have some good talent in the minors who can come close,” Legend states.

  With a sigh, I put on my owner’s hat and give it to them straight. “As owner of this team, I can tell you if I let him go, it would be a horrible business decision. It could change the course of our run at the Cup.”

  “But…” Bishop prods, because he’s probably got a fairly good idea I’m about more than the bottom-line dollars.

  “But…” I push on with a sigh. “How do I stand in the way of a guy and his dying father?”

  “You don’t,” Wylde says, and his tone raises the hairs on the nape of my neck. The normally happy-go-lucky, mischievous party animal wears a haunted expression. “Trust me when I say… he needs this time with his dad.”

  I nod at Wylde, a subtle acknowledgment that while I have no experience with a dying parent, I know what it’s like not to have a parent at all.

  “Let me ask you this.” I glance around at the group. “If you knew giving up Rafe would cause us to lose the Cup, would you let him go?”

  Without hesitation, they all answer in the affirmative. They’d let him go in a heartbeat.

  And fuck… that makes me proud, too. “You guys are all a bunch of pansies,” I mutter with a great deal of affection.

  I’ve got some work to do. Swiveling away from the men, my intention is to call Coach Perron and have him and my general manager, Christian Rutherford, meet me in my office. I catch Dax’s eyes, and it’s obvious he’s perplexed. There’s no doubt he wants to dislike me.

  But I can tell I’ve impressed him with my intent to try to help Rafe if I can.

  Whatever. It’s not my end goal, but I’m glad he’s realizing I might be more than just a suit when it comes to this team.

  ♦

  It’s not easy getting the general manager of a professional hockey team on the telephone without a preset appointment, but there is some clout in being a team owner. Normally, talks like this would work general manager to general manager, but, in this instance, I want to cut through the back and forth. Time is of the utmost essence.

  So when I called Gray Brannon’s secretary and told her who I was and it was urgent I
talk with her, the secretary wasted no time informing me that although she was in a board meeting, she would go get her immediately.

  Gray Brannon is the general manager for the Carolina Cold Fury. They are two-time Cup champions, and they have their sights set on a third.

  Of course, my team is going to be standing directly in their way if I have anything to do with it.

  Gray is a phenomenon in our industry. The only female general manager and the most successful—regardless of gender—in recent sports history. I’d only met her once when the Vengeance expansion team was approved by the league, but I’ve followed her career closely. She’s a shrewd manager with an intellect that frankly can’t be rivaled by anyone in this industry.

  “Gray Brannon.” Her voice is professional but husky. If the woman weren’t already happily married to Ryker Evans, former goalie and current coach for the Cold Fury, I’d consider making a play. She’s a stunning woman.

  “Gray… it’s Dominik Carlson.”

  It’s apparent her secretary already informed her who was on the other line as a prerequisite to get her to leave her meeting. She’s not surprised, nor affronted, by my interruption. Merely replies, “What can I do for you, Mr. Carlson?”

  “Dominik,” I say. “Everyone calls me Dominik.”

  “Okay, Dominik… shoot.”

  Efficient. I like that.

  “I have a player… Rafe Simmons.”

  She immediately regales me with his stats, all of which are stored in that pretty yet brilliant head of hers. “Second-line center. He was brought up from the minors in Denver. Regular season had thirty-six goals, twenty-seven assists. Sixty-three points in eighty-two games. Not bad.”

  Yeah… little freaky she knows that information about a player who isn’t on her team, but I’m glad I can cut to the chase.

  “He wants to be traded to the Cold Fury,” I say bluntly.

  “Come again?” This is an unheard-of request after the trade deadline since she knows full well it means this request comes with the understanding he could not actually participate in the playoffs.

  I inform her about Rafe’s situation and how this is a personal request to be near a dying family member.

  “That’s awful,” she murmurs, a relatively small peek into her empathetic side before I get the businesswoman again. “But he adds nothing to our team since he’s not eligible to play. And frankly, I’m surprised you’re letting him go. It will be to your detriment. I’m sure you know. However, I can’t in good conscience trade someone from my team to you knowing I’d be dooming them to the same fate of not being able to play.”

  She’s not telling me anything I don’t know and didn’t expect. Still, I can’t resist. “Come on, Gray. Have a heart here.”

  “Give me an option that lets me show some compassion, but that helps me as well,” she counters, which makes me laugh.

  I like her a lot.

  “Okay, I’ve got this idea, but it would be risky and it’s time critical.” I settle back in my chair, staring out at the Phoenix skyline. I spent the last hour ironing this out with Coach Perron and Christian, and we think it’s doable. “I’ll send Rafe down to the minors today on waiver. You do the same with Kane Bellan.”

  “He’s my second-line center,” she replies, surprised my sights are set on him right as the playoffs are starting.

  “It would be an even trade. My second-line center for yours, but I’d also like to point out my center is slightly better than yours. Bellan only ended up with sixty-six points in the regular season.”

  “We’d have to forfeit them for the waiting period,” she says. “Forty-eight hours without them, which means the first game of the playoffs.”

  “It’s a risk,” I agree. “But at least we’ll both have an even stake.”

  Gray mulls over my words. I can’t even imagine the thoughts churning through her brain right now.

  The rule is any player traded after the deadline in February is ineligible to play in the playoffs. But if we put our players on waivers and send them down to the minor leagues, they retain their eligibility. All we have to do is claim them after a forty-eight-hour wait period and boom… we can swap players who will be able to compete.

  “You do realize the rosters freeze at midnight EST, right?” she asks. “That’s in eight hours.”

  “Which is why this is going to be difficult.” The clock is ticking fast. We’d have to get legal involved, contracts drafted, and notifications to the league made. This stuff takes time, and we’d have to bust ass to get it done. “And it’s why you really don’t have a lot of time to think about this. I’ll need your answer, Gray. Think you and I can come together to do this so a man can go home and spend time with his dying father?”

  Finally, she sighs. “I can’t believe I’m even considering this. You do realize we have a good shot of playing each other, don’t you?”

  “That’s what the good bettin’ folks in Vegas seem to think at this point,” I reply with a laugh.

  “Better let me get with my attorneys on this.” Another sigh from her, but it doesn’t seem annoyed. More like regretful—probably over the fact I’ve ruined her evening plans because we’ve got a lot of work to do.

  Well, she does.

  And Christian Rutherford does… since I’ll be turning this over to him to complete.

  That’s what general managers do.

  “Thank you, Gray,” I say, putting my heart behind the words. “Rafe is a good guy. Despite what’s going on with him personally, he’ll give you two-hundred percent at all times.”

  “He better,” she replies, but I can hear the smile in her tone. “Or I’m going to come to Phoenix and kick your ass.”

  “Fair enough.”

  After we exchange a few more thoughts on the waiver process, I assure her that Christian will call her soon. Between them, I’ll trust the waivers will go through and this will get done.

  Rafe will be able to go home to his dad.

  When I hang up, I settle in my chair, a slight attack of conscience hitting me. I’m not acting like a good businessman. I built my wealth from the ground up by founding an internet radio company, then diversifying outward. Currently, my billions continue to grow from wise investments, real estate, and my two professional sports teams.

  None of my peers—the mega-wealthy who are self-made—would approve of what I’m doing. They’d tell me to keep feelings out of it. To make decisions based purely on the probability of success. I’d bet most of the owners in this league wouldn’t even consider it.

  Not with the playoffs getting ready to start.

  They’d make him play while wringing every bit out of him.

  But that’s not me. The value of family is incredibly important. I say that as someone who lost his early on in life, then was essentially raised in the foster system, bouncing from place to place without ever forming real attachments. I’d give up every bit of my considerable wealth to have a family.

  Just the way Rafe is ready to give up everything to spend what time his dad has left with him.

  I understand him more than anyone will ever know.

  This waiver deal will work. I’m sure of it.

  But I do have a backup plan.

  If we can’t pull it off, I’m still putting Rafe on a plane to Raleigh. He can stay a member of the Vengeance, collect his salary, and care for his father.

  It’s the right thing to do.

  CHAPTER 5

  Willow

  “He’s here,” I yell up the staircase, loud enough that Dax and Regan should hear me.

  I don’t wait around for a response, though. Like a high school girl who doesn’t want her dad to meet her new boyfriend, I grab my purse and jet out the door. Dax shouts something back, but I ignore it. He’s made how he feels about me seeing Dominik Carlson clear, and I don’t feel like hearing it again.

  He’s being an overprotective brother to the extreme and I can’t figure it out. Yes, he’s always looked out for me and our sis
ter, Meredith, but this is very, very different. Dax has moved beyond a protective interest in my love life to more of a hypervigilant worrier, and I’m not sure why.

  Regardless, I slam the door of my brother’s house and dash down the porch steps. Dominik rounds the front of his car—a Porsche—and surveys me in surprise. I can see he had expected to ring the doorbell like dates usually start.

  He gets over his shock, though. Instead, he focuses on me. His gaze travels down my body, taking in the one-shoulder dress in a creamy beige color. It’s versatile—can easily fit in at a pizza joint or somewhere fairly expensive and high class.

  Of course, it will also work well if we just want to hit a hotel and go at it. It’ll look just as good on the floor.

  “You’re a vision tonight,” Dominik praises, veering toward the passenger door to open it for me. I meet him there, tip my head back, and take him in.

  Mostly his face.

  It’s a great one—chiseled angles, expressive eyes, and a hard jawline that clenches right before he—

  I shake my head, lower my eyes, and mumble, “Thank you” as I slide into the supple leather seat.

  Only after the door is closed do I let myself scan him as he rounds the front of the Porsche, which smells brand spanking new. The sleek vehicle fits him. His outfit, too. In dark charcoal dress pants and a black button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled three-quarters of the way up, he looks good.

  Especially with his strong, powerful arms revealed.

  Hell, there’s not a part of his body that isn’t gorgeous.

  When he opens his door and drops into the bucket seat beside me, he asks, “Why the hasty escape from the house?”

  I’m not telling him anything he doesn’t already know. “Dax isn’t your biggest fan.”

  Smirking, Dominik closes his door, then cranks the engine. It roars before purring. “He’ll warm up to me.”

  Laughing, I shake my head. “I’m not even sure I’ll warm up to you.”

  “You’re in my car right now,” he murmurs huskily, sending a shiver up my spine. “I’d say you’ve warmed up plenty.”