Sunday, September 28, 2014

Reality Check Excerpt!

Here you go Wildcats fans!

I hope this taste will be enough to tide you over until October 8th when Reality Check hits the ice with skates flashing. You may wish to keep a sharp eye peeled on updates about preorder status on the Secret Cravings website, as well as on Amazon!

Just as an extra warning in case the mature content page didn`t get the point across: this excerpt is loaded with mature content such as explicit sexual content and dirty words. If this offends then read no further. You have been duly warned.



Now let`s get to the good stuff! Let`s see how our lovely owner handles not only her star players but her rapidly growing attraction to her head coach.






“And I thought coaching would be less physical than playing,” I heard Derrick say as I jogged past him and Petro. I caught up to Philip just as he was about to slam his office door closed. Seeing me in the doorway he jerked back on the door. I stepped inside, closing the door behind me.

“Philip, that was…”

He began circling the room like a freshly caged Bengal tiger. He flexed his right hand as he loped around the office. I stayed by the door, my ass on the doorframe. It struck me how cowardly I looked, so I threw my head upward and stepped into his path. We nearly went breast to chest. That damned nautical cologne of his wrapped its masculine fingers around my senses.

“If you’re here to bitch at me, I suggest you go back to that goon you brought back from Russia.” Philip snapped down at me.

“I was going to say that your actions were quite chivalrous. Thank you for defending my honor.”

His blue eyes narrowed momentarily. I raised one freshly plucked eyebrow.

“You’re welcome,” the man coughed, and then grabbed the back of my neck to pull me closer to him. Curse my stupid self all to hell. I should have pulled back, or mewled a weak ‘Stop…please’, but I didn’t. He pulled. I went willingly. His mouth captured mine. Sizzling tendrils of electricity raced from my epicenter to my extremities when his tongue slid between my lips. Grasping at him, I tugged until my breasts were smashed against his chest. 

His hands were on my ass, fondling the round orbs. Slick with want, I began searching for his cock, which was plastered between us. My fingers were millimeters from the prize when several sharp knocks on the door sent us flying apart. Panting, disheveled, and staggered from the draw he had on me, I hurried to get my skirt down over my backside while Philip cursed vehemently. His problem was obvious. He took a seat at his desk then called for whoever was outside to enter.

Petro stuck his sweaty head in the door. His eyes roamed over me knowingly. My chin came up swiftly. He told us something. We both looked at him blankly. Alain Lessard shoved around the Russian in the doorway, his shoulder making solid contact with Shevenko’s. The Russian took offense instantly. Lessard and Shevenko then tumbled into a heated exchange that escalated rapidly into a pushing match. Philip flew from his seat, previous manly discomfort forgotten, to slide between the two powerhouses.

“Go!” Philip shouted at Petro, spinning him around. Lessard peppered Petro with French expletives until the head coach closed the door. Then the anger was thrown at me. Alain Lessard, who is most generally a very congenial young man, was irate. His knowledge of the English language had fled him, it seemed. The handsome defenseman’s hazel eyes were alive with ire. His hands flew around in wild circles as he mouthed off vibrantly.

“If you would simply calm down and tell me in English what your issue is…”

The Quebecer drove both hands into his thick, black curls, his jaw working to chew down his anger. Moore was seated on the edge of his desk, his arms folded over his chest, his blue eyes locked on me. He seemed far from ruffled now. I was still queasy, flustered, and warm in intimate places.

“That imbecile is not playing on my line!” Lessard blurted out, his accent so thick I struggled to understand him. “He is a menace. A drunk. A whore-man who will bring shame to my line. No!” Alain shook his head strongly, slicing the air between us with a hand like a machete. “I will not have that goon on my line.”

“That is not your decision to make, Mister Lessard,” I calmly informed my top player. Alain’s blue-green eyes widened. “Petro Shevenko will play on whatever line Coach Moore and I feel he is best suited for. If you do not wish to remain on the first line if Petro is placed there, please let me know and I will gladly find you a slot on the fourth line. They need some speed.”

“The first line is my line!” he argued. God, we Canadians do love a good spat.

“No, the first line is my line. As are all the lines. I own the team. Now, if you’re done acting like an immature little brat, I suggest you go home, curl up with your girlfriend, and plan what you’re going to do when it’s your day to have Lord Stanley’s cup.”

Lessard threw a look at Moore. I did the same. The air was so thick with frustration it nearly clogged my nostrils.

“Alain, Mrs. Lancourt has a point,” Philip said. It looked like it pained him to throw his backing to me. “Decisions about player placement are not up to the players, it’s a managerial call. Thanks for your input. Now go find Viviana in the PR department, ask her to join you for some coffee, and let the coaching staff worry about what line Shevenko is skating on.”

Lessard was fit to be tied. He muttered under his breath as Philip held his office door open. Out our star player went, leaving a thick cloud of dislike behind.

“We need to talk about this,” Philip said, his eyes on the backside of his door.

“There’s nothing to talk about right now. We’ll see how we do in the draft. If we can grab a free agent to…” Philip turned to face me, his Adam’s apple bobbing. I reached up to fiddle with my earring. “We can’t discuss player placement until—”


“I don’t give two shits about whose taking Andersson’s spot on the fucking first line!” he shouted. My hand slid down my neck to rest on my throat. My eyes grew round. He calmed when he saw my reaction to his profanity. “We need to figure out what the hell we’re going to do about us, Isabelle.”

2 comments:

Cathy Brockman said...

Yummy!! I think I am going to love this

V.L. Locey said...

I sure hope everyone likes this one!