Free Defensive Zone (The Dartmouth Cobras #2) by Bianca Sommerland

this is
what you want . . . ."
    The whole paying insane amounts for players
had escaped her, but suddenly it kinda made sense. It was just like
casting parts for a movie. Big names brought extra exposure. And
this man was obviously a big name.
    "Go for it." She squared her shoulders and
took another gulp of coffee. Daddy had chosen her to take over for
a reason. Maybe this was it. Much as she loved Oriana, she couldn't
very well make unbiased decision with three of her men on the
roster.
    And Sloan was one of those three men.
The only reason she'd woken before dawn was because she'd dreamed
of him using the whip on her sister. But in the dream it was much
worse than at Oriana's wedding. So much blood—Sloan asking if
Oriana wanted more. And through lips bitten clean through, Oriana
had whispered 'Yes' .
    Oriana's not stupid. She won't let Sloan go
that far.
    Did it need to go that far? Dominik
and Max obviously wouldn't stop him.
    But maybe I can.
    Speaking of which . . . . "When you're done
with that, find Sloan Callahan's contract. I want to know how long
we're stuck with him."
    "Got it."
    While Asher made himself familiar with all
her daddy's files, Silver leaned back in her chair and finished her
coffee. Maybe this won't be so hard after all . People
want entertainment. Hot guys who can score. I can give them that.
And this is a family business. For once, it's me looking out for
them.
    Fifteen minutes later, a contract was drawn
out and placed before her for her signature.
    She signed at the bottom line with flourish,
enjoying the feeling of power.
    Damn, I love my job.
    * * * *
    "Sir?"
    Dean glanced over at Guy Bolleau, the
assistant general manager, and shook his head. "I've asked you not
to call me that, Bolleau."
    "Sorry, Mr. Richter." Bolleau quickly stepped
aside to let Dean pass. The approaching season left Dean with
little time for pencil pushing, so the ever practical man had
temporarily taken over Dean's office.
    He was probably the only person Dean would
let infringe on his territory. Even after spending the whole
morning hard at work, Bolleau managed to keep the place looking
undisturbed. The man was like a very efficient ghost, invisible
except for how smoothly he kept things running.
    After shedding his suit jacket and hanging it
in the small closet beside his desk, Dean settled into his large,
leather chair and gestured for Bolleau to take the seat across from
him. "What is it, Bolleau?"
    Bolleau approached the chair, fiddling with
the pen in his breast pocket as he eyed the papers on the desk.
"I'm not quite sure how to tell you—"
    "Spit it out, man!" Dean pressed his lips
together and immediately regretted snapping at the man. Bolleau
didn't do nervous. Whatever he had to say must be bad. "I
apologize. Training camp has revealed several . . . weaknesses in
the team I had not foreseen. Including my brother's tendency to
coddle rookies—which we have in excess. I may have to replace him
if he doesn't smarten up."
    "I see." Bolleau sat and fidgeted with his
tie. "Well, I'm afraid the coaching staff is the least of our
problems. The Dartmouth Cobras made an . . . inadvisable
acquisition this morning."
    Leaning back, ankle on his thigh, Dean folded
his hands over his raised knee. "Excuse me?"
    "Scott Demyan." Bolleau held his hand out
towards the papers on the desk. "His contract was faxed earlier
this morning. He should arrive sometime tomorrow."
    Icy calm flowed through Dean as he picked up
the contract and looked it over. A cursory glance at the signature
gave him the sensation of chewing tinfoil. He took his time going
over the small print. All in order. Already approved by the
commissioner.
    The bastard was likely on the green
somewhere, laughing his ass off at the joke the Cobras had become.
If the contract had been obscene, he would have been forced to
refuse it, but a one year deal at 2.5 million for a player of
Demyan's caliber didn't warrant his concern. That an ignorant,
twenty-two year old girl