Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 92972 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 465(@200wpm)___ 372(@250wpm)___ 310(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92972 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 465(@200wpm)___ 372(@250wpm)___ 310(@300wpm)
Pretend to be a couple. Obviously.
I was going to take the high road. I really was. But Nix needs image rehab before management benches him, and I need a plus-one who proves I’ve moved on to bigger and better things. (Especially the bigger part…)
Besides, we’re adults. We can pretend to be hot for each other without actually getting it on in the great outdoors.
Again. Right before one of my employees strolls through the garden gate and catches us on the back porch…
Oops.
Okay, so mistakes were made.
And made again. And again.
But it’s hard to remember why this is a bad idea when Nix is so…perfect. So funny, smart, and protective. So hot and hot for me in a way that makes a girl think she gave up on love a little too soon.
I’m two fake kisses away from asking him to be the real thing when a family emergency blows our plan to pieces. Suddenly, it isn’t just our hearts on the line.
His career hangs in the balance, my life is under a microscope, and one wrong step could mean we're both in the penalty box for good
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
One
Baylor Nix
Einstein once said, “Two things are infinite: the universe and human stupidity…and I’m not sure about the universe.”
And I’ve just proven him right.
By being stupid.
Really fucking stupid…
The conference room door closes behind me with a sharp click that might as well be the sound of my coffin lid snapping shut.
Why couldn’t I just apologize? Beg for forgiveness? Be a good “team player” and kiss whoever’s ass needed to be kissed to get my own ass out of trouble?
I don’t know.
I’m not built that way, I guess. I was built stubborn, determined, with a strong sense of justice, and an even stronger aversion to saying I was wrong when I know I’m right.
I stand in the hallway, breathing in the scent of industrial cleaner and the tang of ammonia from the rink down the hall. The air feels too thin, like I’ve just skated five overtime periods without a breather, and my dress shirt is sticking to my back.
Turns out being repeatedly reminded that I’m one more “incident” away from becoming a cautionary tale makes me sweat. A lot. But hey, at least I’m not out of a job.
No official suspension.
The words should be a relief, but they’re not.
I was also gifted/cursed with the ability to read between the lines and hear the subtext in every polite conversation. What they really said was—We’re watching you, bucko. One more slip, one more outburst, one more toe out of line, and you’re done.
Keely’s voice still echoes in my head, that careful PR tone she uses when delivering bad news wrapped in corporate speak, “I understand where you’re coming from, I really do. But the optics are problematic, Baylor. Regardless of intent.”
And then Coach Merwood chimed in, his dwarf-lord beard bristling as he rumbled, “Get your head on straight, son. We don’t live in a society that condones vigilante justice. You’re putting the entire team’s reputation at risk. Control your temper, or you won’t be here to defend anyone.”
The way they’d all looked at me, like I’m a liability instead of a player who’s logged more ice time than half the defensive roster.
My throat goes tight, and a low-grade nausea roils through my gut that has nothing to do with the stale coffee I slugged down at the start of the meeting.
Six days until the season opener. Six days to be invisible, angelic, the picture of restraint. Six days for the press to hopefully forget that I was the guy who put that wife-beater in the hospital because I couldn’t walk away from a woman getting her face rearranged behind a club on Bourbon Street…
Management made it abundantly clear that my “history” is a problem. Three fights in two seasons, the suspension I took last year for going after the enforcer who cheap-shotted Grammercy, and now…this.
Never mind that the bastard I beat deserved every bruise.
Never mind that his wife just sent me a thank-you email with a photo from her new apartment, where she feels free and safe for the first time in nearly a decade.
I’m still the problem.
Aristotle said a man should pursue virtue for virtue’s sake, but he never had to answer to team owners worried about their brand image.
I start down the hall, determined to be gone before management finishes their meeting.
The Voodoo’s side of the arena is clearing out fast, my teammates headed home for the weekend after a grueling final week of training camp. I can’t wait to join them…as soon as I change into something that doesn’t make me feel like I’m suffocating. Grammercy and Blue said slacks and a dress shirt would show management that I gave a shit about their lecture.
I give a shit, all right.
Just not in the way they want.
I want to do the right thing, not the politically correct thing—and not always the legal thing, if I’m being completely honest—and that’s…
Well, that’s my cross to bear, I guess.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I tug it out, glancing down to see a text from Parker—Had to head out early to meet Makena. Hope management didn’t bring down the hammer too hard. Text me later, okay? And don’t forget about the party tomorrow night. We’re going to have so much fucking food, dude. We need everyone to show up hungry and eat their share. You’ll be there, right? For sure?
I slide my cell back into my pocket with a sigh.
As if I could forget about his engagement party, even if I wanted to. No, his party has been top-of-mind since the day the invitation popped into my inbox.
Because his party is being thrown by none other than Charlotte Delaney.
Charlotte…
As I round the corner toward the locker room, the memories begin to flicker on my mental screen, the way they always do. It’s been three months since that night in June, and simply thinking her name is still enough to make my chest ache and my dick thicker.