by Max Monroe
Hate the Player
Published by Max Monroe LLC © 2020, Max Monroe
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-7353811-0-7
Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
Editing by Silently Correcting Your Grammar
Formatting by Champagne Book Design
Cover Design by Peter Alderweireld
Title Page
Copyright
Author’s Note
Dedication
Intro
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Epilogue
My Brother’s Billionaire Best Friend Excerpt
Intro
Chapter One
Acknowledgments
Hate the Player is a full-length, stand-alone romantic comedy novel with two of the fiercest enemies-to-lovers we’ve ever seen. At the end, we’ve included an excerpt from My Brother’s Billionaire Best Friend, a hilarious, stand-alone romantic comedy from our best-selling Billionaire Collection.
Basically, this means Hate the Player will conclude at around 90%.
You wouldn’t think this would be something we’d have to warn you about ahead of time, but Monroe’s mom got really mad at us a couple of books ago, and now we feel obliged to let everyone—aka Monroe’s mom—know.
DID YOU HEAR THAT, MOM? THIS BOOK IS GOING TO END AT AROUND 90% BECAUSE THERE’S AN EXCERPT AT THE END.
Anyway, now that we have that out of the way, it’s time to let the awesome reading experience begin! Wooo-hoooo! Happy Reading!
All our love,
Max & Monroe
PS: Due to the hilarious nature of this book’s content, reading while otherwise occupied is not recommended. Don’t say we didn’t warn you.
For the lady in Monroe’s HIIT workout video who said “If ain’t deep, I don’t want it.”
Amen, sister.
And, this isn’t really a dedication, but it needs to be said:
Google, we swear we are not robots. So, please, for the love of everything, stop forcing us to look at pictures of tiny stoplights.
Birdie
“Roses are red, violets are blue, stay away from Andrew Watson’s dick, because no other women ever do.”
Cackles erupt from my sister Billie, who’s busy rubbing her six-months-pregnant belly with one hand and squeezing a packet of mayonnaise onto her sandwich with the other. Raquel waggles an eyebrow, seemingly satisfied with half of her audience’s reception to her cute little play on words.
I—the other half—roll my eyes and fork a piece of lettuce from my grilled chicken salad over closer to a crouton so I can scoop them up together.
Three months ago, I met the Raquel Weaver—otherwise known as one of Hollywood’s most famous starlets. Sure, she’s taken a permanent leave from her position of A-list actress and traded it in for a much simpler life that revolves around her husband Harrison and their nine-month-old baby girl Ellie in New York, but that doesn’t mean I was any less star-struck. My sister Billie and I grew up watching her and her brother Luca on our favorite show—Home Sweet Home—and the reality that those people—people who seemed to live an unattainable life at the time—ended up being our family takes a little bit of time to sink in.
Maybe that fandom is the reason her first, seemingly gentle warning about Andrew Watson sounded like so much less of a big deal. I was too busy trying to grasp that shared meals with huge stars were really happening in my life.
But sharing a meal with Raquel doesn’t seem so otherworldly anymore. Now, she’s just an extended arm of my family.
As for her warnings? They no longer have anything gentle about them.
“Wow,” I remark. “So, we’re at that stage of February, huh? Poems about penises at lunch?”
Raquel, better known as Rocky to her nearest and dearest, nods and smiles fervently, and I have to laugh.
I look around the kitschy, retro-chic diner named Frankie’s and take in the ambiance out front. People casually dine with friends and family, sunny yellow walls, pint-sized pink booths, and orange barstools punch up the restaurant’s already cheerful vibes, and a bell rings every time the chef shouts, “Order up!”
We, on the other hand, are in a nondescript black vinyl booth in the back corner, far away from the other patrons, right next to where they stack the spare chairs. I’m pretty sure it’s where the waitresses normally eat when they’re on a break.
“Our lives are so weird,” I say, and Billie quirks a brow as she takes a big bite of her grilled chicken sandwich.
“What makes you say that?” Rocky asks.
“Well…” I pause and glance toward two stools right inside the entrance of the kitchen, spotting Franco and Mel—two of Billie’s security—and laugh. “For one, we need security to eat lunch.”
It’s true. Whenever I visit LA now, anywhere Billie goes, Franco and Mel go too.
Rocky grins and shrugs. “Seems normal to me.”
It would, I suppose. Since she started acting at six years old, her life has pretty much always been this way. But for Billie and me, security teams and paparazzi are a far cry from the way we grew up in West Virginia.
“You don’t need security when you’re in Nashville?” she asks, clearly skeptical about my “down-to-earth” claims, given my career in country music.
“No, not really.” I shrug and pop a French fry in
to my mouth to wash down the taste of salad. I suggested we get a plate “for the table,” and the two of them were kind enough to pretend not to see right through me. “Everyone there knows me, and they’re used to me being around. The only time I ever need security is if I have a show or when I’m on tour…or hanging out with my famous baby sister in LA.”
Billie rolls her eyes at my white lie. I mean, I don’t think I need security in Nashville, but lately, my manager Neil has been on my ass about changing that. After a tiny incident at the mall about a month ago that required police intervention, he’s probably right, but I’m not completely ready to accept the fact that my success in country music has reached that kind of level. I’m just a girl from West Virginia who can sing.
“I’m not famous either,” Billie asserts, following my lead, and Rocky snorts so hard she almost chokes.
“You’re engaged to Luca Weaver and carrying his baby. Not to mention, you’re well on your way to being one of Hollywood’s biggest producers.” Rocky smiles gently as a balm to the sting of her words. “Trust me, you’re famous.”
I nod, pleased with Rocky’s argument—one I would have made to Billie myself—but she quickly kills my joy by pointing right at me.
“And you’re famous too. Like it or not,” she says with a laugh, directing a finger at herself, me, and then Billie. “Any one of us could end up on the cover of a gossip magazine tomorrow.”
“Whatever,” I reply, picking up another fry and popping it into my mouth—a move Billie watches with avid interest.
“Can I have some French fries?” she asks.
“Of course,” I state magnanimously. “They’re for the table. And if the table thinks they’re getting low, the table can just order some more.”
Rocky grins, and Billie tosses a fry into her mouth, chewing it with the kind of enjoyment that earns a movie an R rating.
“Good God, please don’t pull a When Harry Met Sally in the middle of this restaurant.”
“I can’t help it,” Billie retorts. “This pregnancy makes me feel like I could eat a horse. And everything tastes soooo good!”
“You know what I bet doesn’t taste good?” Rocky interjects before pausing briefly. I raise my eyebrows, and she doesn’t hesitate to finish. “Andrew Watson’s dick.”
“Jesus!” Billie nearly shouts. “Do we have to do this while we’re eating?”
“Yes, we do,” Rocky insists, narrowing her eyes. “Tomorrow is the big day, right? The audition is finally happening?”
She’s talking about my upcoming audition for Grass Roots—a movie I’ve been told is made for me, and one of the main reasons this lunch was scheduled. Billie was hoping Rocky could give me some last-minute Hollywood advice before she and her swoony billionaire husband head back to their home base in New York, and I can’t say I was opposed. I’m a musician through and through, and everything about Hollywood and acting and movies feels about a million miles away from my wheelhouse.
“Actually, no. Next week. It got postponed again.”
“Again?” She tilts her head to the side and narrows her eyes. “What in the hell are they waiting for? An alien invasion?”
I laugh. I was supposed to audition nearly three months ago, and it is starting to feel a little bit like it’s never going to happen.
“Well, the first time had to do with the studio and the budget or something, but this time is because Andrew couldn’t fit it into his schedule. He’s apparently out of the country promoting a film. Some sort of last-minute scheduling change to the press tour,” I answer. “So, I’ll be heading back to Nashville in the morning and won’t come back to LA until late next week.”
“Damn,” she comments. “That’s a bitch.”
I nod but otherwise occupy myself with swirling my fork in my salad. The never-ending anticipation is nearly crippling, but I’ve been telling myself it’s a blessing in disguise that it’s been postponed again. It will allow me to get in more studio time for my next album.
“It’s gonna happen,” Billie chimes in reassuringly after reading my mind. “Luca was talking to Howie the other day, and he’s officially balls deep in all things Grass Roots. Other than your role, all the casting has been finalized.”
The Howie she’s referring to is the Howie King, screenwriter and director of the movie I’ve been asked to audition for. He’s basically the Quentin Tarantino of dramatic, angsty love stories. Everyone in Hollywood desperately wants to be in one of his movies.
“My role?” I scoff. “You say that like I already have the part.”
Billie grins. “Because you do.”
I roll my eyes at her insane optimism and grab another faux-communal fry.
“Just remember what I’ve told you,” Rocky asserts.
“About Andrew?”
She nods.
I practically snort. “I think it would take a traumatic brain injury to make me forget.”
She laughs at me and lifts her hands defensively. “Hey, I’m just trying to look out for you. His dick is like a soldier. It’s seen things ladies like us should never see. Done things it’s not even sure it’s proud of. It is a maker of sexual carnage, I’m telling you.”
“Jesus,” Billie whispers, calling on religion to save her from this conversation yet again.
“I was a virgin until I got together with Harrison, okay? I didn’t know dick about dicks, and I’ve still heard all about Andrew Watson’s favorite appendage. So, just do yourself a favor and eliminate the possibility of getting taken with a man in uniform, so to speak.”
“Is it just me or does this lunch have way more use of the word ‘dick’ than normal?” Billie remarks. But Rocky is undeterred.
“Staff Sergeant Dick Richardson may look charming, but he is a savage. Slaying hearts all over the fucking world.”
“But Luca says Andrew isn’t that bad,” Billie challenges. “And personally, anytime I’ve seen him or we’ve had dinner with him or he’s come over to help Luca with something, he’s been nothing but super sweet to me.”
Rocky chortles. “That’s because Luca has a dick of his own, and you’re one of his best friend’s soon-to-be wife and baby momma.”
“So?”
“If you were single,” Rocky answers without missing a beat, “I guarantee you’d get a completely different Andrew.”
My sister’s expression is unconvinced. “You’re acting like he’s some kind of d-a-w, dawg.”
“Because he is,” Rocky challenges, the corners of her lips curving up with all kinds of secret knowledge. “Luca and Andrew have been friends for a long time. Before Luca turned himself into an Alaskan hermit and reformed his ways. I’ve been witness to many, many things. I’m not suggesting Birdie run scared. I’m just making sure she has all the important information.”
“Oh boy. He sounds wonderful,” I mutter and take a sip of my iced tea. Billie is once again quick to jump in and reassure me.
“Relax, Birdie,” she says and pats my hand from across the table. “I’m sure you have nothing to worry about when it comes to your future costar.”
“You lunatics keep acting like I already have the part. I still have to freaking audition. It’s not a foregone conclusion.”
“Help me out here, Rocky,” Billie says and moves her focus to her future sister-in-law after a heavy sigh. “Surely, you can tell Birdie something that will prevent her from flaking out on the opportunity of a lifetime—make some kind of productive contribution to this lunch.”
“I’m not going to flake out,” I lie. I am seriously considering ghosting. Casper-level, no-call, no-text kind of shit.
“Okay.” Rocky nods, clearly hearing the panic in my tone. She sets down her fork, putting both elbows on the table. “First of all, don’t stress about the stuff I told you about Andrew—”
“I’m not stressed about him,” I cut her off. “Nope. Not stressed at all over the fact that you’ve spent an entire lunch counseling me on how to handle a man—one of what I’m sure are many m
illions of assholes in this world—rather than how to handle a role in a profession for which I’m nearly entirely unqualified. No, it’s no problem at all.”
Rocky grins. “Are you sure you’ve never acted before? That was a very dramatic monologue.”
“Rocky,” I say, closing my eyes tight and banging my head on the table.
“Okay, okay. No more Andrew Watson talk. I think you get it.”
“Yeah, well,” I grumble, lifting my head from the table. “You made it easy to summarize. Faced with the possibility of landing this role, I have one important rule outside of the actual job. Don’t fuck Andrew Watson.” She laughs again, and I shake my head. “Easy enough.”
Birdie
If I were at Target right now, I’d be looking for the aisle with Depends. Desperately. Like, forget all formal training in avoiding embarrassment, get the closest associate with a radio to broadcast a public call to the manager, tell me where the freak the adult diapers are before you’re doing the tile cleanup kind of searching.
And a full bladder and bout with a new strain of gastrointestinal bacteria aren’t even the culprit. No. The real story is that after nearly three and a half months of waiting for this audition, I’ve given up my physical form as a human and reconstituted completely as a knotty bundle of overstimulated nerves.
But today…today is finally the day of my first real audition. Not ten-year-old me auditioning for the elementary school rendition of Beauty and the Beast and losing to Susie Marren because her mom was the president of the freaking PTA, but a real audition for a real film that will eventually be shown in movie theaters across the country and streamed on all sorts of online platforms.
Basically, millions of people could end up watching this.
Gah.
What if they cast me in this film and I ruin it?
What if I end up like Mariah Carey in that movie Glitter?
What if critics crush me like they did Britney Spears when she did Crossroads?
I kind of loved that movie, and that in and of itself makes me question my taste altogether.
