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Romance
Jami Davenport presents Game on in Seattle, a new
series featuring Seattle sports teams, hot men, and strong women.
He trusts his gut, she trusts her numbers, and neither trusts the other, as a billionaire's mission to bring hockey to Seattle clashes with his passion for the woman who holds his heart.
Ethan Parker, a billionaire determined to bring a professional hockey to Seattle, will stop at nothing to realize his dream. After signing an agreement to purchase another city's team, Ethan is anxious to make the move to Seattle, but a gag order by the League forces him to keep the sale a secret until the season ends, leaving him no choice but to go undercover as a consultant to study his team during the playoffs.
Lauren Schneider, Assistant Director of Player Personnel for the Giants hockey team, gets no respect from the team's testosterone-loaded staff. When Ethan bursts onto the scene, full of charm and genuinely interested in her opinions, she shares the team's weaknesses and discovers a weakness of her own--for Ethan. But when his true identity is revealed, and he starts cleaning house based on her unwitting input, his betrayal cuts deeply on both a professional and personal level. Bound by an employment contract, Lauren reluctantly moves to Seattle to work for the newly christened Seattle Sockeyes and her sexy, infuriating boss.
Lauren and Ethan must come to terms with their passions--for the team, for hockey, and for each other. Will their situation build a frozen wall between them, or will their love burn hot enough to melt the ice shielding their hearts?
Ethan Parker came into this
world with a silver spoon in his mouth. He would’ve preferred a hockey stick in
his hands, but sometimes those were the breaks.
He’d never skate in the pros
or hoist the Stanley Cup in victory, but that didn’t squelch his enthusiasm for
everything hockey. Two to three times a week, he played for an adult league in
a rink minutes south of Seattle, while he dreamed of one day bringing
professional hockey to the Emerald City.
And maybe, just maybe, he’d
realize that dream in the near future.
Months ago the Sleezer
brothers—yes, seriously that was their name—contacted the Puget Sound Hockey
Alliance through Ethan’s attorney, Cyrus North, with an offer Ethan couldn’t
refuse, so he did what any billionaire with a hockey obsession would do—he
wrote them a big check and waited.
And waited.
And waited.
Increasingly impatient, he
slid a blank check for expansion fees under the table to the league and waited
some more. Nothing happened. Not a damn, fucking thing. So much for money
talking. His considerable bankroll wasn’t even whispering to the hockey powers
that be.
It’d been months since he’d
heard even a peep. While a day didn’t go by that he didn’t wonder what the hell
was or wasn’t happening, tonight wasn’t about his frustrations with
professional hockey. Tonight was all about immersing himself at the game’s most
basic level while getting down and dirty with his amateur teammates. Tonight
was about playing the game he loved with a bunch of guys equally as rabid. And
tonight reminded him of all the reasons why he couldn’t give up until Seattle
had a big-league hockey franchise.
Hockey fans like these
deserved a team. The city deserved a team. And the effing Canucks deserved an
effing rival. Oh, yeah, he could picture it now. Ethan grinned at the thought
of trading trash-talk with some of his Canadian business associates.
Regardless, he forced himself
back to the here and now. His team, the Mercer Mets, were playing for the adult
league trophy, against the too-many-fucking-time champion Bothell Bombers. He’d
looked forward to this game all day long—hell, all week long—and had arrived
early to take practice shots at the net until he was cross-eyed.
Both teams traded scores in
the first two periods until the Bombers took the lead with three minutes
remaining in the third. Ethan skated down the ice after a runaway puck only to
have Hal Johnson, a dirty player who’d had it out for Ethan all season, slam an
elbow into his face. Skidding on his shoulder, Ethan hit the boards head first,
sending waves of pain through his neck and back to all parts of his body. Even
his dick hurt. Gathering his bruised wits about him and angrier than hell, he
shot to his feet, head down, and rammed into Johnson, lifting the asshole off
his skates and catapulting him across the ice.
Whistles blew and striped
shirts stepped between them before they could do real damage to each other.
Ethan attempted to lunge at the asshole but his teammates held him back.
Fighting didn’t go over very well in this amateur league, but that’d never
stopped Johnson before, and Ethan had been known to drop the gloves a time or
two when absolutely necessary. He deemed this necessary. Obviously, the referee
didn’t agree. Within seconds Ethan cooled his ass in the penalty box.
Fine. Whatever. Fuck this.
He pounded his hockey stick
against the boards in a futile effort to spur his team on to winning the
trophy.
The Mercer Mets’ goalie, a
convenience store clerk who spent every spare penny on hockey equipment and
fees, pushed up his mask to wipe away the sweat then hunkered down again as
Bothell Bombers skated toward his net. Nat, the Mets’ best defenseman and a
laid-off Boeing machinist, cut off the Bombers’ center and took a hack at the
puck. Not pretty, but it shot down the ice away from the net where Syd, their
top scorer and a city cop, sped after it and a hit slap shot toward the net. It
missed by a fraction.
Ethan glanced at the
scoreboard. Seconds left. Leaping to his feet, he shouted encouragement, but it
was too late. The final buzzer sounded. With a heavy sigh, Ethan skated back
onto the ice to shake hands with the opposing team like the good sport he
really wasn’t. Except for Johnson. Instead he trash-talked the jerk as he
walked by and engaged in a pushing match until their respective teammates pried
them apart once more. Since he wasn’t going to get any satisfaction, Ethan
headed for the locker room, sad to see the season end. It’d been damn fun while
it lasted, but there was always next year.
“Ethan.” Cyrus, his attorney,
stopped him short as he stepped off the ice.
“Come to watch me skate like
crap and blow the game for the guys, Cy?” Ethan managed a grin despite how
pissed he was at himself. Sure it was just a game in an adult league, but he
hated losing. Hell, it could’ve been a pickup game of basketball in the parking
lot and he’d treat it like the NBA finals.
Only Cy was grinning, and
Ethan doubted it was because he enjoyed Ethan’s pain—which the bastard usually
did.
“They’re ready, E.” He kept
grinning, and Ethan could not for the life of him understand what the fuck they
were ready for.
“Ready?” Ethan halted and
squinted at his friend, not making sense of the words. That blow he’d taken to
the head earlier must’ve have done more damage than he’d originally thought.
“All our hard work is about
to pay off.” Cy looked ready to pee his pants from excitement.
Ethan went still inside, as
Cy’s words sank into his thick skull. His heart stopped beating. His lungs
stopped heaving. Nothing moved. Not an eyelash. Cy waited patiently, still
grinning.
“What did you say?” Ethan
pushed his dark hair off his forehead and wiped his face with a towel Nat
tossed his way.
“They want to sell. The
league is on board. Everything’s in place but with the stipulation that the
sale be kept absolutely quiet as long as the Giants are in the playoffs.”
Cyrus, a hockey fan in his own right, hopped from one foot to the other as if
he were walking over hot coals. His hips swayed, and he danced to the disco
music constantly playing in his head. He wouldn’t win Dancing with the Stars,
but Ethan gave him points for enthusiasm.
“Playoffs?” Ethan said.
“Yeah, the Giants made the
playoffs tonight by a thread.”
Ethan sat down hard on one of
the bleacher seats, looking up at Cyrus. “As late as last week, the Sleezers
swore they’d go down with their sinking ship.”
“That was before they lost a
harassment lawsuit to a few former employees. Now a couple hundred million in
their pockets is looking damn good.” Cyrus checked his watch. “I have the
private jet idling on the tarmac at Boeing Field before the flakes change their
minds. Again.”
“Did you call Reynolds?”
Brad Reynolds had been
Ethan’s best friend since junior high football. The Reynolds family represented
old Seattle money. Even if their fortune might be somewhat diminished of late,
they still commanded instant respect and brandished major political clout. That
political clout was proving to be more valuable than the cash when it came to
getting permits approved for the new ice arena. Brad, the middle Reynolds
brother, had jumped on board immediately as the family representative, while
his two brothers, parents, and a sister came along for the ride as somewhat silent
partners. None of them knew a damn thing about hockey, but they loved sports
and were more than willing to learn.
“Yeah, Brad’s on his way.
He’ll meet us at Boeing Field.”
Ethan checked his watch.
Six-thirty on a Saturday. It was going to be a long but profitable night.
“Crap. Let me shower, and I’ll be out in fifteen.”
Ethan made it out in nine
minutes. The only reason he wasn’t quicker was because of the required
commiserating with his teammates over the abrupt end of their season.
Several hours later, Ethan
and Brad signed on the dotted line as majority shareholders and main
representatives of the Puget Sound Hockey Alliance.
Seattle had a professional
hockey team.
Only no one could know it.
Not yet.
An advocate
of happy endings, Jami Davenport writes sexy contemporary and sports romances,
including her two new indie endeavors: the Game On in Seattle Series and the
Madrona Island Series. Jami lives on a
small farm near Puget Sound with her Green Beret-turned-plumber husband, a
Newfoundland cross with a tennis ball fetish, a prince disguised as an orange
tabby cat, and an opinionated Hanoverian mare. She works in computer support in
her day job and juggles too many balls, but she wouldn't have it any other
way.
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