Bruiser

by Whiskey, Samantha

  Bruiser

  Samantha Whiskey

  Contents

  Also by Samantha Whiskey

  1. Hudson

  2. Shea

  3. Hudson

  4. Shea

  5. Hudson

  6. Shea

  7. Hudson

  8. Shea

  9. Hudson

  10. Shea

  11. Hudson

  12. Shea

  13. Hudson

  14. Shea

  15. Hudson

  16. Shea

  17. Hudson

  18. Shea

  19. Hudson

  20. Shea

  21. Hudson

  Epilogue

  Lukas

  The Seattle Sharks Have Bite!

  About the Author

  Acknowledgments

  BRUISER

  By Samantha Whiskey

  Copyright © 2019 by Samantha Whiskey, LLC All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you’d like to share it with. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.

  Cover Design: Madhat Books

  Also by Samantha Whiskey

  The Seattle Sharks Series:

  Grinder

  Enforcer

  Winger

  Rookie

  Blocker

  Skater

  A Modern-Day Fairytale Romance:

  The Crown

  The Throne

  To those willing to fight for what they love, no matter the cost

  Chapter 1

  Hudson

  “Are children always this noisy?” Lukas asked as we walked across the expansive gym floor of the newly opened Dorsal Kids Club.

  We paused just in time to keep from crashing into a pair of waist-high kids as they chased each other with pool noodles.

  “When you put a couple hundred of them in close quarters,” I answered.

  Lukas’s eyes constantly shifted, as if each individual sound drew his attention. “And remind me why we’re here?”

  “Because my agent informed me that if I wanted to secure that endorsement deal, I’d show up for the opening.” I forced a smile for a couple of wide-eyed parents as we made our way toward the glass-lined conference room.

  “Well, you are a PR nightmare.”

  “Speak for yourself.” I shot him a raised eyebrow.

  “I’m every publicist’s wet dream,” he argued. “I don’t get into fights. I keep my nose clean, and I was just voted the sexiest man alive in Norway.” He shrugged. “Add that to my scoring record—”

  “On or off the ice?”

  “I do well in both places.” He smirked.

  “And one day that is going to bite you in the ass.”

  “Maybe you’d be less cranky if you got a good bite on the ass,” he threw back, his accent drawing more than a little attention from a group of moms. He gave them a wink. “You could always call up that social worker.”

  “Don’t start,” I warned him.

  Immediately, visions of Shea filled my head. Soft, touchable hair that reminded me of merlot. A petite frame that possessed lush, fuckable curves that I knew would fill my hands perfectly because they already had in those short moments I’d carried her in my arms to get away from the paparazzi. Delicate features on her gorgeous, heart-shaped face covered by all that flawless skin made even more perfect by a small smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose—they all added up to the dick-hardening perfection that was Shea Lansing.

  Especially those eyes. Those gunmetal-gray eyes that took in every detail. The ones that never quite met mine.

  The ones that held a wariness in them that let me know I didn’t have a shot in hell with her.

  “Connor could set you up with her—”

  “I mean it,” I snapped.

  Lukas whistled like a bomb dropping and made a little explosion sound, but he let it go. “You know, when you said you had to go to the boys and girls club, I thought it was...you know…”

  “A club?” I offered.

  “Yeah, like Thirty-Five.”

  I laughed out loud. “You thought I was going to the bar at one p.m. on a Saturday?”

  “You can understand my confusion.” He gestured to the kids shooting hoops.

  “No, I really can’t, but now I get why you tagged along.” I shook my head, but at least my smile was genuine as we walked into the conference room. Smiles were rare for me lately. And lately was the past year or so. Maybe the move to Seattle, to the Sharks, had been for the best.

  I wasn’t ready to say what she had done was, though. Maybe I never would.

  “Mr. Porter!” A middle-aged brunette clapped her hands. “We’re just so honored to have you here with us!” The woman gave me a once-over and did the same to Lukas, her eyes widening. “So. So. So honored,” she repeated, her tongue darting out to swipe her lower lip.

  “Happy to be here,” I answered, quickly looking away. A few years ago I would have gone for it—hell, it seemed like Lukas was entertaining the offer—but I’d learned to be way more careful about who I slipped my dick into. There were certain levels of crazy that weren’t worth a quick orgasm.

  Then again, there were some women worth going crazy for, period.

  Shea. A flash of auburn hair, gray eyes, and curves filled my memory, but I shut it down, the same way I knew she’d shut me down if I ever got too close.

  “Lucy, sit down,” Clara ordered in her gravel-filled voice. “Hudson,” she greeted me with kind eyes that crinkled at the corners. “I’m glad you made it. Let’s show you around.”

  She quickly ushered us from the room, shutting the glass door before Lucy could follow.

  “Now, let’s fill you in on what we’re doing here,” Clara said, leading us into the open gym we’d just come through. “Do you mind?” she asked as a two-person camera crew joined us.

  “Not at all,” I answered, knowing it was expected of me.

  She nodded and began. “As you know, the center is designed for the mentorship of youth. I won’t say ‘at-risk,’ since our only requirement is that a young person desires a role model.”

  Clara spent the next half hour walking us through the center and describing the program. Role models were volunteers, background checked, trained, and matched with a “Little,” whom they mentored. The first mentorship meetings were held in the center until all parties felt comfortable interacting in the outside world. Most match-ups lasted a year, but some went on for longer. Some didn’t survive the first meeting.

  It was all about the connection between the Big and Little.

  We made it through the aquatics center, the crafts room, the commercial kitchen, and were headed back through the gym by the time she finished describing the process.

  “And all of these kids need matches?” I asked, looking at the dozens of kids and adults engaged in different activities from shooting hoops to painting in the art room. Everything was open, visible through giant glass windows that let in the light.

  “No, almost all of these kids were matched before opening, and today is their first meet-up.”

  At least that was one area I wouldn’t be expected to volunteer. I didn’t exactly have that open, warm and fuzzy personalit
y that made kids gravitate toward guys like Connor or Eric.

  Or Lukas, who currently had four kids trailing him across the gym floor like he was the Pied Piper, despite the worried glances he kept throwing toward his unwanted entourage.

  “Mr. Porter, is this a good time to ask you a few questions?” the guy holding a mic asked.

  I fought every instinct I had to decline to comment, just like I did at every post-game interview. Fines or no fines, I wasn’t a fan of the media or the way they twisted words for headlines.

  Why the hell did they want my opinion anyway? There was no point to a post-game interview. They watched the same game I played.

  But here, the game was PR and securing millions in an endorsement deal that I didn’t honestly care about, anyway.

  “Clara?” Lucy interrupted, saving me from answering. “I’m so sorry to interrupt, but we have a problem.”

  “It’s okay,” Clara answered. “What’s up?”

  Lucy’s eyes flickered nervously from the camera team to me before she finally whispered, “I’ve already called her mother, but...she rejected another one.”

  Clara sighed. “Where is she?”

  Lucy nodded toward the conference room, where a small, red-headed girl leaned against the wall.

  “I’m sorry to cut this short, but it looks like my attention is needed elsewhere,” Clara told the team. “Mr. Porter—”

  “I’d like to tag along, if I could,” I interjected. Getting out of the interview would be a bonus, but mostly, I was weirdly curious to know how many mentors the girl had rejected already, and why.

  I liked picky people, even small ones.

  Clara’s brow puckered like she was weighing the propriety of bringing me along against the money I’d donated. With a small nod, she said, “Of course. It would be good for you to get an idea of what goes into to pairing Bigs and Littles.” She looked over at the crew. “No cameras, though. This part isn’t for the public. Lucy, why don’t you take the news crew over to Mr. Vestergaard. The camera always seems to love him.”

  “It’s a mutual love,” I assured the crew, looking over to where Lukas was shooting hoops with some of the kids and their Bigs.

  Once we’d ditched the camera crew, Lucy, Clara, and I made our way into the conference room, which had emptied to leave only the redhead.

  Lucy closed the door behind us.

  “Another one, Elliott?” Clara asked.

  The girl met the older woman’s gaze with raised eyebrows and a dismissive shrug. Her hair was dark red and braided down over the side to rest beneath one of her shoulders, strands coming loose all over the place. Her jeans were fitted, but torn at the knee, and the black Vans on her feet matched her retro Pink Floyd T-shirt from the ‘75 tour of Wish You Were Here.

  “Elliott,” Clara urged again, a clear tone of warning in her voice.

  “She smelled like pickles,” the girl said.

  I laughed and was rewarded with glares from all three females in the room.

  Elliott narrowed shockingly pale green eyes at me.

  “Pickles,” Clara said, returning her attention to the girl. “The first one was too snobby, according to you—”

  “She talked down to me like I was a charity case.” Elliott folded her arms across her chest.

  Lord help this kid’s mom when she became a moody teenager.

  “Right, and the second was too girly—”

  “She wanted me to do ballet. Do I look like I want to do ballet?” She held her arms out.

  “You look like you need some skates and a stick,” I commented. The girl needed an outlet for all that animosity. At that age, I had, too. Hockey was the only thing to ground me, to keep me centered, to let me work out my shit in an environment that didn’t lash back at my personal life.

  The girl’s eyes widened. “Oh. My. God. That’s who you are. You’re Hudson Porter.”

  “Maybe,” I answered, tucking my thumbs in my pockets.

  “No maybe. You’re him.” She nodded, coming off the wall and walking straight up to me. Her neck craned way back so she could meet my eyes. “You’re smaller in person.”

  I snorted. “I’m six-five. Ice doesn’t change that.”

  She tilted her head. “You’re bigger than the guy out of Nashville. Ormond? I thought for sure that’s who was getting traded to the Sharks.”

  Damn, kid knew her stats. “Were you hoping for Ormond?”

  “Not really. We needed a fighter, and you’re bigger than he is,” she repeated.

  “Oh, is that all?” A smile tugged at the corner of my lips.

  “No, you were also drafted first round by Ontario, and he went ninth round to…” She pursed her lips.

  “Boston,” I supplied the answer.

  “I was going to get there,” she assured me. “Boston, then traded to LA, then to Nashville. You don’t have a history of being traded.”

  “You sure know a lot about the NHL. You play?”

  She ducked her head, kicking her foot at the carpet. “Nope. My mom won’t let me. She thinks it’s too violent.”

  It wasn’t, not at her age, at least, but I wasn’t about to tell the kid her mom was wrong. “So you watch a lot?”

  “When my mom doesn’t catch me, or check my YouTube history,” she muttered that last part, which made me laugh again.

  Where I’d grown up in Ottawa, hockey was a simple fact of life, not something you had to sneak behind your mom’s back.

  “Huh,” Clara said, drawing my eye. I’d forgotten the other two women were standing there, watching us. “Mr. Porter, have you ever thought about being a Big?”

  Big was something I just...was, but not something I’d considered in the way they meant. My gaze swung back to Elliott.

  Her eyes widened, and she grinned. “Yeah, have you?”

  “I hadn’t,” I admitted. “But I like you. Don’t girls have to be mentored by women?” I asked Clara.

  “They’d probably take a bear as my mentor at this point,” Elliott declared.

  “I would not give you a bear,” Clara answered. “You’d probably skin it alive. Mr. Porter, we usually do, but we’ve had an exceptionally hard time matching Elliott to someone she approves of, so if her mother agrees, I don’t see why you couldn’t be her Big...if you want to.”

  Elliott looked up at me with those wide, green eyes, and a spark of something grabbed ahold of my heart and twisted. It was hope.

  Shit. Was I mentor material? Did I have the time? I did now, but once the season started…

  “How much time do you take up, kid?” I asked.

  “An hour a week,” she answered quickly.

  An hour. I had that.

  “What about weeks where I’m on the road more than home?”

  “We can skip,” she assured me.

  I weighed it in my mind as she began to bounce on her toes.

  “Please?” she asked, her voice smaller.

  She just needed an adult for an hour a week. Someone to talk to. Someone to be there.

  “Yeah.” I nodded my head. “Yeah, I can do that.”

  “Really?” Her entire body went rigid with excitement.

  “Really,” I promised. “I’ll do it,” I told Clara as the door opened behind me.

  “Elliott! You can’t seriously tell me you’ve rejected another Big!”

  That voice. Chills shot up my spine, followed by a flash of heat as she stepped into my line of sight.

  Shea.

  Her hair was a riot of waves down her back, covering the simple white button-down she wore tucked into her jeans, emphasizing her tiny waist and generous hips. My palms itched, the same way they had the first time I’d ever set eyes on her.

  Did I believe in love at first sight? No. Love was something that grew with time and trust.

  But fuck me, I’d fallen into lust at first sight, that was for damn sure.

  Five months later? Apparently still lusting.

  But what was she doing...

  “Pi
ckles. She smelled like pickles!” Elliott argued.

  “Elliott Mae Lansing, you had better not have turned down a perfectly good Big because of her lunch choice,” she warned, leaning closer to Elliott.

  Their hair was the same color. Lansing.

  Holy. Fucking. Shit.

  “Mom! It’s okay! Mr. Porter is going to mentor me!” Elliott pointed at me just as all the pieces clicked together in my head.

  Shea had a kid. That kid was Elliott.

  Shea spun, her hair whipping behind her as she looked to where Elliott pointed. At. Me. Her eyes landed on my chest, no doubt on the Sharks logo stretched wide across my pecs, and they flew wide as she looked up...and up, finally meeting my gaze.

  She swallowed.

  I froze. She looked up at me over her glasses, and man did those eyes hit me like a fist to the gut. She was so damn beautiful.

  “Porter,” she said softly.

  “Shea.”

  We stared at each other for what felt like a heartbeat and an eternity all at once.

  “You know each other?” Clara asked, breaking the spell.

  Shea blinked and shook her head, then turned back to her daughter. “No. He cannot be your Big.”

  “What?” I asked, my voice rising.

  “No. Find her someone else,” she instructed Clara.

  “What’s wrong with me?” Damn, her rejection stung.

  “We’ve tried, Ms. Lansing.”

  Ms. She wasn’t married. Not that it mattered, since she wanted nothing to do with me.

  “Mom! Please! He’s so cool, and he knows all about hockey, and he’s super nice, but not too nice, and he doesn’t smell bad!”

  “That’s a ringing endorsement if I’ve ever heard one,” Lukas said as he joined us.