Trophy Boyfriends Series by Sara Ney – Read Books Online Free Ebooks good best novels to read

Trophy Boyfriends Series by Sara Ney – Read Books Online Free Ebooks good best novels to read http://www.wownovels.com Mon, 29 Mar 2021 08:42:39 +0000 en-US hourly 1 https://wordpress.org/?v=6.9.4 http://www.wownovels.com/wp-content/uploads/2020/09/favicon.png Trophy Boyfriends Series by Sara Ney – Read Books Online Free Ebooks good best novels to read http://www.wownovels.com 32 32 Hard Luck (Trophy Boyfriends #4) Read Online Sara Ney http://www.wownovels.com/hard-luck-trophy-boyfriends-4-read-online-sara-ney Mon, 29 Mar 2021 07:32:37 +0000 http://www.booksnovels.com/hard-luck-trophy-boyfriends-4-read-online-sara-ney Genre: Contemporary, New Adult, Romance, Sports Authors: Sara Ney Series: Trophy Boyfriends Series by Sara Ney
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Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 89536 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 358(@250wpm)___ 298(@300wpm)

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Read Online Books/Novels:	Hard Luck (Trophy Boyfriends #4)
Author/Writer of Book/Novel:	Sara Ney
Language:	English
Book Information:
SOME GIRLS HAVE ALL THE LUCK Unfortunately, I am not one of those girls. Not when I lost my apartment because my roommate let the lease lapse while I was traveling for work. Not when my brothers keep finding love and my mother keeps reminding me I’m still single. Not after a one-night stand during my older brother’s wedding has me waking up pregnant. I have to keep it a secret—from him, and my family. I sure can’t tell my brother his teammate, Mateo Jose Espinoza, is the man I slept with. Confident, funny, Mateo… A GUY CAN’T CATCH A BREAK Just when I thought I’d found the girl of my dreams, she ghosts me. Worse? Her brother refuses to give me her number, and my calls to her office go straight to voicemail. I thought I was a catch; professional athlete, charming, raised with six sisters—I’m a guy who knows his way to a woman’s heart! What reason could she possibly have for avoiding me? When I finally catch up to True Wallace, I’m going to get the answer.
Books in Series:	Trophy Boyfriends Series by Sara Ney
Books by Author:	Sara Ney

One

True

I am nauseated.

As I kneel over my big brother’s toilet like a drunk girl at a college party, my gut clenches with the telltale sign that more bile is about to rise from my stomach.

I groan into the crook of my arm miserably.

Somewhere above me, a pair of hands gathers up my long hair and holds it back to keep the strands from falling into the toilet and getting soiled with puke, but it’s not in me to glance up to see who it is.

Instincts tell me it’s a girl based on the gentle way she’s holding my tresses and the gentle way she’s rubbing my back.

There’s something strangely familiar about having some random standing over me in a bathroom that feels oddly…nostalgic.

Comforting.

Soothing, even.

The girl is doing everything she can to soothe me as I rest here, except I’m too sick to raise my head and properly thank her.

I simply do not have the energy.

It’s so laughably reminiscent of my past, of the good ol’ days when I was in college, knocking back my second or third Sex on the Beach (a grotesque drink that’s sugary sweet) then barfing it all back up again in the bar bathroom toilet, any nameless, faceless collegiate holding back my hair so I don’t get barf in it.

Except this time, my hair isn’t long and wavy down to my ass. Now it hits my collarbone just past my shoulders and is flat-ironed into submission. Sleek. Clean. Blunt cut.

Professional.

I’m a grown woman with a career—not a naïve girl at university.

And I’m not puking into the toilet because I’m drunk.

I’m puking because I’m pregnant.

When the girl walked into the bathroom earlier, I think she was looking for my brother’s dog Chewy; I vaguely remember hearing her calling out for him. Sort of. Vaguely remember her cautiously approaching the kitchen, then the bathroom, as if something sinister lay in wait for her.

I’ve never met her, but Tripp talks about her all the time; I’m assuming it’s his neighbor girl soothing me and not an axe murderer who let himself into the house, me on my knees too weak to defend myself.

“Who are you?” I moan in her general direction. She’s pulled back and looms in the doorway next to a discarded baseball bat.

Huh. She must have thought I was a murderer, too.

“Who are you?” she asks, accusatory, the scowl hurting my head. “A psycho fan who broke into the house?”

I find the energy to roll my eyes. “And is using the toilet to barf in? Not likely.”

“Maybe you’re so worked up and nervous about meeting Tripp that you made yourself sick.”

That’s actually a great theory.

But it’s false.

“I’m True.”

The teenager crosses her arms, nonplussed. “Are you on drugs?”

That makes me push out a low chuckle. Drugs? “No, I’m not on drugs.”

“Then why are you on Mr. Wallace’s bathroom floor?”

Mr. Wallace? Is the kid talking about my dad or my brother? I can’t picture Tripp being referred to by the moniker Mr. Wallace, and it makes me groan out a chuckle.

“Who did you say you are?” As sick as I am, my voice is authoritative.

She straightens her spine. “Molly. I live next door.”

“Ahh, the dog walker.” My body goes slack as I hug the toilet bowl with both hands, basking in how cold it is against my burning skin.

So good.

“I’m not just the dog walker. I’m also the house-sitter.” Her foot taps the hardwood floor impatiently. “Who did you say you are? All you did was tell me your first name, which tells me nothing. You didn’t tell me what you’re doing here.”

I moan, resting my cheek on the white toilet seat cover. “Well, well, well, aren’t you just a little ray of Pit Bull Terrier. Does my brother know he has a guard dog living next door?”

Her brows go up and she ignores my comment. “What are you doing in Mr. Wallace’s house?”

“I’m his sister.”

Molly takes a few seconds to digest this new information, then nods as if confirming its validity.

Still, she’s not done cross-examining me. “Why are you puking?”

“I’m…” I swallow past the lump forming in my throat, willing the words to come out. “I’m…”

“Do you have the flu?”

No.

“And you’re not drugged up?”

No.

No.

Why on earth would she assume I was high or drugged up on something? Then again, what do I know about drugs or smoking pot or anything besides alcohol that would have me tossing my guts out?

“You swear you’re not some looney-toon, strung-out superfan?”

“No! I’m not some whacko lady fan who broke into Tripp Wallace’s house. Wouldn’t I like, crawl into his bed or something if I was obsessed with him? Isn’t that what those women do?”

Molly gives me another validating nod. “Fine. I believe you. But that explains nothing.” She pointedly eyes the toilet and my spot on the ground next to it with her brows raised as if to say, Well?

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Hard Love (Trophy Boyfriends #3) Read Online Sara Ney http://www.wownovels.com/hard-love-trophy-boyfriends-3-read-online-sara-ney Fri, 20 Nov 2020 21:22:48 +0000 http://www.booksnovels.com/hard-love-trophy-boyfriends-3-read-online-sara-ney Genre: Contemporary, Romance, Sports Authors: Sara Ney Series: Trophy Boyfriends Series by Sara Ney
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Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 91501 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 458(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)

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Read Online Books/Novels:	Hard Love (Trophy Boyfriends #3)
Author/Writer of Book/Novel:	Sara Ney
Language:	English
Book Information:
“HARD TO LOVE.” Hard head. Bad attitude. Terrible boyfriend. That’s what my exes have said about me—but I wasn’t serious about any of them, so what do I care what rumors they spread? What I need is to be left alone; by the press, by the paparazzi, and by women. Too bad I’m about to be surrounded by them for the weekend. My obnoxious, matchmaking brother is getting married, and he’s doing his damndest to find me a wedding date… “HARD TO FIND.” That’s what they say about good men—they’re hard to find. Not that when I find one, I’ll be the type he’s looking for; too nice, too ordinary, too boring. My cousin is getting married, and her fiancé insists on throwing me at his brother. Cold, uncaring professional football player Tripp Wallace would never look twice at a woman like me. Too bad for both of us, I was wrong…
Books in Series:	Trophy Boyfriends Series by Sara Ney
Books by Author:	Sara Ney

One

Tripp

My brother is getting married.

Married.

A grown man who calls himself Buzz.

Like seriously, what the fuck.

Oh, and get this—he’d only known the girl for three weeks before they got engaged.

Three.

Yeah, I didn’t stutter.

I can’t help the bitter taste rising in my throat; he didn’t even bother to deliver the news in person—he sent me a text. Well, my mother sent the text after Buzz and his fiancée told our mom and dad in person, at a dinner I wasn’t invited to.

Roast beef and potatoes with pecan pie.

Beef is my favorite and I didn’t even get any.

My fingers grip the steering wheel of my truck as I pull it into my garage, my gregarious bulldog, Chewy, hopping on his back feet at the sight of my arrival, pudgy face pressed against the screen door in the laundry room.

Chewy.

He’s the only buddy I can trust.

Unlike my backstabbing engaged brother, the dick.

I shove my truck into park, grabbing the iced coffee I stopped for on my way home from work, and shove open the driver’s side door. Hop out and tug at my jeans; they feel restrictive after having worn spandex compression shorts the past five hours. Should have gone with mesh, not denim.

Chewy continues hopping, and I’m shocked the little bastard hasn’t put a hole in the screen door because he sure as shit has dented it in about forty spots.

“Dude, chill,” I tell him, and he chills.

I’m not sure who wields more power in our relationship, myself or the dog. Probably Chewy since I hold the door open for His Majesty so he can prance out into the yard and do his business. Then I hold the door open for him again so he can prance back inside, where I’ll feed him and brush him and I am clearly his bitch.

The bag clenched in my fist gets tossed on the counter; it’s already past six in the evening and I have to arrive at my brother’s bachelor party by eight, which gives me almost two hours to eat, relax, shave, and get my ass back out the door.

I shoot Chewy an apologetic look. “Sorry bud, I have to leave again. Uncle Buzz is having a party, but Molly will swing by to play with you.”

Molly is a teenage neighbor girl I pay fifteen bucks an hour to hang with the dog. She scoops his poop and feeds him on days I’m running late or weekends I’m gone. Which, lately, is a lot.

Like my brother Buzz—who plays professional baseball when he’s not being a professional douche—I play a professional sport, too.

Football.

And right now it’s football season so I’m gone a lot; poor Chewy spends so much time with Molly I should just rehome him. I’m like the dog dad he never gets to see unless it’s summer break. Summer camps and spring training take far less of a toll than fall and winter.

“Yeah,” I inform the dog, “Uncle Buzz has his bachelor party tonight—do you believe that shit?”

Chewy stares up at me, drool hanging from his bottom jowls.

“Want to know what’s worse than a bachelor party on a Saturday night when I could be lying on the couch? A themed bachelor party.” I eyeball the bag on the counter through narrowed eyes and yank open the fridge. The cleaning lady slash housekeeper has left me some chicken patties and a side of potato salad so there’s nothing for me to prepare.

I grab and go.

Heat and eat.

The chicken goes in the microwave, the potato salad goes in my mouth.

“Get this.” I swallow. “We’re going axe throwing and he wants everyone to wear plaid.” That’s what’s in the bag—the plaid flannel shirt I had our mom buy for me. Who has time to hunt that shit down? Not me.

Yes, I could have ordered it online, but who knows what I like better than my own mother?

I peer inside. The shirt is lumberjack plaid—haha, funny Mom—a red and black checkered pattern. Khaki cargo pants.

I groan. Why must Buzz insist on making us look like complete imbeciles in public? As if axe throwing wasn’t bad enough. I’ve never done it, but how hard can it be? Obviously I’m going to dominate at it, but still, I’d rather be couch-surfing with the dog tonight.

My chicken comes out of the microwave, warm and steaming hot and loaded with cranberry stuffing (my favorite), and I prematurely cram a piece in my mouth.

It scalds my taste buds. “Dammit!”

Fuck I’m so hungry.

I barely taste it as I pack it down my gullet, trying to finish my meal so I can take another hot shower. When I’m finally upstairs in my bathroom, I study my reflection in the mirror.

Do I shave, or leave it?

If I don’t, I’m going to look even stupider and lumberjack-ier in that dumb plaid shirt—but it’s such a hassle getting out the razor and going through the whole process, and I’m not exactly in the mood to put in any effort.

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Hard Fall Read online Sara Ney (Trophy Boyfriends #2) http://www.wownovels.com/hard-fall-2-read-online-sara-ney Mon, 22 Jun 2020 13:57:33 +0000 http://www.test123.demo2.xyz/hard-fall-2-read-online-sara-ney Genre: Contemporary, Romance, Sports Authors: Sara Ney Series: Trophy Boyfriends Series by Sara Ney
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Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 76303 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 382(@200wpm)___ 305(@250wpm)___ 254(@300wpm)

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Read Online Books/Novels:	Hard Fall (Trophy Boyfriends #2)
Author/Writer of Book/Novel:	Sara Ney
Language:	English
ISBN/ ASIN:	B089P21XN6
Book Information:
"Hard Fall" That's what my mom is always saying: "The bigger you are, the harder you fall." She's talking about love—I've never been in it myself, but that doesn't stop me from secretly matchmaking for my friends. Who would suspect me, a world class athlete, of meddling in other people's love lives? I love Love, especially when it’s not me who’s doing the falling… "No Thanks." That's what Hollis Westbrooke said when I asked her on a date. Well, propositioned her, actually—but it was all a big joke; one she doesn't think is funny. My stomach is in knots since I might actually like this girl so the joke is on me. Hollis’s father is my boss—and she doesn't date players. The bigger they are, the harder they fall—especially when biggest player is me.
Books in Series:	Trophy Boyfriends Series by Sara Ney
Books by Author:	Sara Ney

1

Hollis

“Thanks for lunch, Dad.” I lean over and give my father a kiss on the cheek. It’s tan from time out on the golf course.

“I’m just glad I got to see you. You’re too busy for your old man these days.”

Old man? Hardly. My father is the epitome of youth and vitality, thanks to a few plastic surgeries, fillers, and some strategically placed Botox. He and my mother—whom he divorced ten years ago—can barely move their faces, but who am I to judge?

Dad smiles (or tries to).

“Kiddo, want to walk me to my office?”

I glance at the entrance to the baseball stadium, peering up at it through the window of my car—a college graduation gift—and inwardly groan. No, I actually don’t want to walk him inside; that will take another hour at least. I’ll have to say hello to every janitor, administrative assistant, lackey, coach, player, and staffer we walk past on the way to his office, located at the far ends of the earth, down the hall, and to the right.

Ugh! “Yeah, sure—of course I have time.”

No time, actually, but I cannot say no to my father.

No, I do not want to risk the chance that I’ll bump into Marlon Daymon, first baseman and ex-boyfriend. Boyfriend? Eh, it’s a stretch to call him that, considering “dating” him was emotionally exhausting, played into all my insecurities, and made me feel like shit in the end. Conveniently always forgot his wallet. Took hours to reply to messages. Was always late. The last straw? When he “borrowed” my car and was photographed soliciting a prostitute, though who even noticed? Oh, just the tabloids and their millions and millions of readers, that’s who! Luckily, no one knew it was my car, so my name wasn’t dragged through the mud—but it could have been.

Fortunately, Marlon is no longer my problem, no longer my boyfriend, and I have no desire to risk seeing him inside this building yesterday, today, or tomorrow.

Shit, shit, shit.

Dad unbuckles and slides out of my white SUV, motioning for security to come over and play valet while I gather up my purse, phone, and water bottle.

Holding the skirt of my dress down as I slide out, too, trailing behind Dad. A few people are gathered outside the gates—as usual—hoping to glimpse or meet whichever players happen to come outside. Several of them have posters, one or two of them t-shirts. All of them are wearing huge grins when they see Dad coming toward them, his expensive gray suit gleaming in the sun.

He shakes a few hands. Poses for a few photographs.

Puts his hand on the small of my back to lead me through security when we’re finally inside and I set my purse, water, and phone on the conveyor belt for scanning. Grabbing it at the other end, I follow Dad across the main floor.

We’re at the back of the building, the exact opposite side of the concessions, making our way toward the executive offices. The concrete beneath our feet has the sound of my heels clicking, echoing because the halls are virtually empty.

It’s a Friday and the Chicago Steam has a bye week. They might have been in the building to practice, but they certainly won’t be here for a game, so anyone who happens to be here should be clerical, office staff only. Maybe.

Here’s hoping.

I cross my fingers behind my back, and we arrive at the glass corridor that houses Dad’s office. Glass, glass, and more glass. He pulls the door open and holds it for me.

“Thanks, Daddy.” I call him that every so often, just to give the old man a thrill, like I’m a kid again and he’s actually taking care of me, though I’m an adult now, with a real grown-up job, paying my own grown-up bills—who just happens to enjoy a free lunch every now and again.

Do you blame me!

We’re greeted by anyone and everyone, mostly ass-kissers trying to remain on Dad’s good side, but little do they know, he doesn’t really have one. When his business blew up and the money followed, he became a real pompous windbag. When he worked his way through the ranks, and had pleased my grandfather enough, he was able to assume the position of general manager for the Chicago Steam, his ego inflated to epic proportions.

Lucky for me, I don’t live off my father; therefore, I don’t have to kiss his ass like everyone else. Like my sister, Fiona, or my brother, Lucian—both trapped under Dad’s thumb, both at the mercy of his pocketbook.

Not me.

I’m not rich or wealthy by any means—not even close—but I get by just fine; I have my own little apartment, pay my own bills, work for anyone other than my parents.

I step over the threshold and go to a plush seat opposite his desk. Plop down and glance around, then lean forward, fiddling with a metal paperweight on his desktop. Pull back one of the balls and watch it tick tick tick, back and forth like a pendulum.

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Hard Pass Read online Sara Ney (Trophy Boyfriends #1) http://www.wownovels.com/hard-pass-1-read-online-sara-ney Sat, 11 Jan 2020 01:57:33 +0000 http://www.test123.demo2.xyz/hard-pass-1-read-online-sara-ney Genre: Alpha Male, Contemporary, New Adult, Romance, Sports Authors: Sara Ney Series: Trophy Boyfriends Series by Sara Ney
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Total pages in book: 67
Estimated words: 67046 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 335(@200wpm)___ 268(@250wpm)___ 223(@300wpm)

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Read Online Books/Novels:	(Trophy Boyfriends #1) Hard Pass
Author/Writer of Book/Novel:	Sara Ney
Language:	English
Book Information:
My first day at college, and I made the biggest mistake of my life. It started with a silly dare-- join a frat house. Thanks to a loophole in the college rules, girls can do that here. But no one with good sense would willingly live with a bunch of dudes. One night in the frat, then I'd bail the next morning, ready for high-fives from the elite clique who put me up to the dare in the first place. But HE had other ideas. Malcolm Levar, the leader of Granite House. How do I describe him? Hot. Intense. Demanding. He's cold on the surface, but he stares at me like there's a fire in his belly that wants to jump out and consume every inch of my body. And I think he hates me. Probably because I broke an irreplaceable heirloom that belonged to his family. He says if I can't pay what it's worth—and I can't, I'm poor as heck—I have one other option. Stay at Granite House for the rest of the year. Not as a frat member, but as their personal pet. Do you know what that means? I don't. But I said yes. So I guess I'll find out.
Books in Series:	Trophy Boyfriends Series by Sara Ney
Books by Author:	Sara Ney

Prologue

Miranda

Please forgive me, Grandpa, for I am about to sin.

I’m so sorry.

Reading over my post again, I squeeze my eyes shut, peering at the computer screen through one narrowly cracked lid. I can’t do this; it feels so wrong.

You have no choice, Miranda, not if you want to start your own business.

It pains me to be selling this baseball card, truly. Hurts my heart, my brain and the memories of my grandfather, I hold so dear. Memories of us at the ballpark, which he’d take me to every spring for Opening Day, so he could cheer on his favorite team. I’d get a hot dog and a soda, he’d get a beer and peanuts, and that’s how we’d spend the summer.

Year after year.

Then, when I was a teenager and discovered boys, the ballpark became ground zero for my hormonal fantasizing. Instead of watching the game, I would watch teenage boys. Giggle if the players were close enough to the chain-link fence for me to ogle. I’d get embarrassed when Grandpa insisted we try to get autographed baseballs and eventually stopped bringing my glove to the park.

I was delusional enough to think one of the cute, athletic players would take one look at me and fall head over heels in love.

Foolish girl…

Over the years, Gramps shared with me the baseball card collection he’d been amassing since he was young. Back in the day, when boys hoarded them. Back when owning a rare card made you a child king. Back when players were gods and legends and their cards were worth something.

Do they even make them anymore?

Grandpa had all the greats: Hank Archer. Blaze Bosbee. Aaron Simpson, The Great Baseman.

Six years ago, when I was a junior in high school, he got diagnosed with Alzheimer’s. He was hospitalized a year after that, and everything went…devastatingly downhill from there.

Losing him broke me. It’s not that I don’t have a father of my own who loves and cherishes me, but there’s something about a grandfather’s love that’s entirely different; a precious and unique kind of affection. Every moment spent with Gramps was magic. I wanted to learn it all from him.

Losing him was a curse.

And also a blessing, because I am broke.

Okay, okay, maybe not broke in the traditional sense of the word—I do have some money in savings, a chunk of change in my checking account. My kind of broke is the “I want to start my own business and don’t have the startup capital” type.

I am at an impasse. I have inherited my grandfather’s cherished baseball card collection and it’s worth a small fortune.

A fortune I need part of if I’m going to invest in myself.

I hear my mom’s words repeating on a loop through my head as I crank out the copy for the advertisement I’m placing online. “Grandpa left those baseball cards to you for a reason, Randi Jane. He knew they were valuable and he didn’t have anything else of value to leave you. You were his only granddaughter and he loved you—he wanted you to be taken care of the way Dad and I can’t do. Those cards aren’t doing you any good collecting dust in the closet, baby girl. Sell them and follow your dreams. No regrets.”

No regrets.

Well…

A few regrets.

I am racked with guilt before I’ve even actually submitted my ad, stomach a knotted fist that won’t quit clenching.

I want to puke.

The plan is simple: sell them off one at a time to maximize profits rather than selling them as a lot and allowing someone to lowball me for the bundle. Another reason I don’t want to sell them in bulk? The astronomical price. I cannot wrap my brain around the cards’ total value, so I cannot wrap my brain around selling them for the six figures they would almost certainly fetch.

No fucking way.

Selling them may be intimidating, but that’s what I have to do if I’m going to follow my dreams, start my own business, and become a boss ass bitch. Well, a boss anyway, no one has ever accused me of being a bitch and I’d like to keep it that way. I need a small studio space, one or two employees, office furniture, and computers. That all takes money, money, and money I do not have.

I adjust the computer glasses perched on the bridge of my nose and bite my lip in concentration, furrow my brow. Whoever buys this card will have to have a lot of faith in the company I used to authenticate it. Most of the time, when a collection is this valuable, it gets put up for auction.

But I can’t wait around for the next sale at the auction house—three entire months from now is an eternity. I don’t want to put my goals on hold for another 9 days. I’ve waited long enough.

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Read Online Books/Novels:

Hard Luck (Trophy Boyfriends #4)

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English

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Hard Love (Trophy Boyfriends #3)

Author/Writer of Book/Novel:

English

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Hard Fall (Trophy Boyfriends #2)

Author/Writer of Book/Novel:

English

B089P21XN6

Read Online Books/Novels:

(Trophy Boyfriends #1) Hard Pass

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English