Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 83358 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 417(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83358 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 417(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
They call me Lucky for a reason. My grandmother swears I was cursed at birth—yet somehow, I’ve been kissed by fate every day since. I’ve got my rabbit’s foot, a shamrock tattoo, and quirky rituals by the dozen—and it’s all worked so far. Life’s been smooth. Hockey, clout, fun... I’m skating through.
Until I meet Winifred Shaw. Winnie. She’s smart, bold, and laugh-out-loud funny, with a TikTok following that rivals mine and a dating challenge that’s going viral. The premise? Thirty days of dating to prove an average woman can still land a decent guy. I’m the first to accept the challenge—one night, one chance, and then she moves on. But the moment she rolls her eyes at me, I’m hooked.
She thinks I’m just another overhyped athlete with a pretty face and a lucky streak. But I see her—confident, curvy, electric—and I don’t just want a second date. I want every single one after that.
I’ve always trusted luck to get me where I need to be. But this time? I’m ready to fight for it
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
CHAPTER 1
Lucky
If I’ve said it once, I’ve said it a thousand times—lighting is everything.
I angle my phone slightly toward the brass-framed mirror in the men’s room of Lux, a swanky Pittsburgh steakhouse that caters to professional athletes, hedge fund managers, and women in dresses that are practically sprayed on.
Not that I’m complaining.
I adjust my position slightly so viewers can better see my reflection from the side—my profile is always the best—and hit the record button.
“This is a get-ready-with-me for another night of being emotionally unavailable but devastatingly hot,” I say into the front-facing camera. I smooth a hand over my hair, tilt my head dramatically, and wink. “Step one—deodorant. But just on the left side. Gotta keep ’em guessing.”
I hit stop, throw a filter on it, and post it with the caption: “Still a better love story than my last situationship.”
Within seconds, comments start rolling in.
Fire emojis.
“Marry me.”
One user writes, “Daddy?” which, honestly, feels a little aggressive before appetizers.
And there’s always a critic. “Bet you’re a 10 until you open your mouth.”
I snort. Fair enough. People either love my egocentric posts or they hate ’em. But if you put yourself out there, you have to take the good with the bad. My true social media fans know that I can go over the top, but when it boils down to it, I’m really very charming.
At least, that’s what I keep telling myself, and I haven’t been sued yet.
I tuck my phone into my pocket and head back out to the private dining room where the guys are waiting. The energy in the room is easy, loud and a little reckless—the kind that always follows a win on the road or a week with too much travel. We’re home for a bit, and we’re celebrating like we mean it. A handful of times a month, the entire team—players only and no SO’s—get together to have a nice meal in an expensive restaurant.
Foster’s at the head of the table I’m sitting at, already halfway through a whiskey neat. North and King are arguing about whether the bartender is flirting with one of them or both, but both agree they really don’t care since their girls are perfect in every way. Rafferty’s shoving truffle fries into his mouth like he hasn’t seen food in days, and Atlas is hunched over his phone, grinning like a jackass.
“There he is,” Foster says when I slide into the empty seat beside him. “Took you long enough. What were you doing, filming another thirst trap?”
“Gotta keep the internet hydrated.” I gesture to my jaw. “I mean… have you really looked at this thing?”
“Your narcissism is getting out of control,” King says, shaking his head, but his lips twitch to reveal his amusement.
“That’s rich coming from a man who’s googled himself in front of me.”
“Once,” he grumbles.
Penn strolls in then, looking smug and suspiciously well sexed. He drops into a chair across from me and steals a fry from Rafferty, who grunts in protest.
“You’re late,” North says.
Penn shrugs. “Blame Mila. She—”
“Nope,” Foster cuts in, raising his glass. “Whatever you’re about to say, we don’t want it.”
We laugh. It’s good to see Penn like this—carefree, happy, in a relationship that clearly suits him. And more importantly, fitting in with a comfort level that I didn’t think possible from a man like him. I credit Mila with teaching him about loyalty and love. They’ve been dating for a little over a month and it’s been a game changer for my man.
We order our entrees, settle in, and somewhere between my steak tartare and Foster’s third drink, he taps his spoon against his highball glass lightly enough to quiet the guys at our table. “I bought the ring.”
I blink. “For Mazzy?”
“No, for the hot hostess,” he says. Then he grins. “Yeah, for Mazzy.”
Atlas slaps the table. “About fucking time.”
The congratulations roll out in a wave. Penn throws a crumpled napkin at him. King mimes a prayer. North raises his glass.
“Any plans for the proposal?” I ask. “I could film it for you.”
Foster rolls his eyes. “No thank you. I don’t want to end up a trending video.” He sips his drink. “Thinking something low-key but meaningful. I want her to be surprised.”
“Fake a fight,” Rafferty offers. “Then drop to your knee mid-argument.”
“Romantic,” I reply sarcastically. “May I suggest—Mazzy, even though I’m wrong about everything, will you marry me anyway?”
Foster guffaws. “You joke, but that will probably induce a yes.”
“Is Bowie Jane in on this?” North asks. That’s Foster’s irrepressibly adorable daughter, who he has full custody of. Mazzy started out as her nanny and then, well… they became a cliché.
“I haven’t shown her the ring because she can’t keep a secret to save her life. But she’s been begging me to propose to Mazzy for months. I’ll bring her in on the proposal, but it will be a last-minute thing.”