Fighting against Gravity: A Standalone Enemies-to-Lovers Sports Romance (An Ice Tigers Hockey Romance Book 3)

by Isabella Cassazza

  Fighting against Gravity

  An Ice Tigers Hockey Romance

  Isabella Cassazza

  Fighting against Gravity © 2020 by Isabella Cassazza

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, 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. The author recognizes the trademark names of all the brands used in this book, and in each instance, the brand is used fictitiously.

  This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return it to the seller and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the authors work.

  Copyright © 2020 by Isabella Cassazza

  Editing: Hot Tree Editing and My Brother’s Editor

  Contents

  Trigger warning

  Prologue

  Part I

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Part II

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Epilogue

  Author’s note

  Also by Isabella Cassazza

  About the Author

  Acknowledgments

  Stay connected

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  Trigger warning

  This book deals with the effects of a career ending injury. If you’re sensitive to scenes that include depression and its effects, please do not read this book.

  Prologue

  Michael

  Present day

  The doctor’s mouth moves, but I can’t hear the words. I’m suffocating. Slowly. Not because of an actual lack of air, but because the emptiness inside me threatens to swallow the million pieces that an hour ago were my heart.

  When everything was the way it was supposed to be. When I hadn’t tried to be someone I never was supposed to be. I should have known better.

  “You’re a defenseman, not a forward,” my very first hockey coach told me when I was five years old. “Your job is to protect the goal and the goalie against sudden attacks. Defensemen are the keepers, not the heroes. Do you understand, Michael? You’re a keeper. You are not a hero. Your job is to protect, not to shine. Your task is as important as to shoot goals, but the forwards will receive the glory. Not you.”

  He had put his hands on my shoulders and looked me straight in the eyes. Then he asked the million-dollar question. “Do you understand, Michael?”

  I had nodded. Everything Coach said was true after all, and I soaked up every word he said like a sponge, a brainless mass of cellulose.

  Tonight proved I hadn’t understood a single thing. Tonight I’d thought my time had come to shine and receive the glory. I wanted to make my dad proud. Instead, I ruined everything.

  If my arms weren’t trapped under a blanket, I’d punch both of my fists in my face. As hard as possible.

  I thrust the white cloth away. The flimsy thing can’t keep me warm anyway. Ice clots my veins. I’m empty. All that’s left of me is a useless shell.

  Instead of punching myself, I press my fingernails in my skin in a desperate attempt to… feel again, but inside me is nothing but numbness.

  The doctor glances down, his eyes giving me a what-the-fuck stare.

  I close my eyes. He hasn’t gotten the message yet. Whatever he wants from me, I don’t give a goddamn shit.

  Nothing matters anymore. Nothing.

  Not. A. Single. Thing.

  Nothing.

  Game over.

  Part 1

  Chapter 1

  Michael

  The evening before

  “I was so scared when you fought last night.” Candace places her hand on my biceps and presents me with a perfect view of her fake tits—not that I care. Natural or not, they’re a gorgeous pair of womanly goodness.

  “It was nothing.” I give her my million-dollar smile with my fake teeth. Fake tits vs. fake teeth—I win. I always do. The ladies love a winner. Candace isn’t the only one after me tonight, but I haven’t made my final decision yet. Kendra looks smokin’ in a skirt that barely covers her ass too.

  Some men like boobs; some men like ass. I like both. Why make a decision if I can have one today and the other tomorrow? Or both in the same night.

  Unfortunately, I’ll not have Candace and Kendra in my bed at the same time. These two don’t share. Maybe one after the other? But first things first. “See you later, babe. Someone’s waiting to lose.”

  “King. King. King.” The voices around me rise in volume with every mention of my last name. My guests are ready for some action.

  “You don’t stand a chance.” I stare my opponent down. Then I take my seat across from him. I’m the fucking king after all. And he, he’s a nobody. I don’t know his name, let alone who brought him along. It doesn’t matter. He’s here to lose, that’s what counts.

  I place my elbow on the table, ready to get the party started. Loud rap music buzzes through my first-class sound system while the crowd forms a circle around us. They’re expecting to see their king win. And the king is fucking ready to make this loser cry.

  I flex my muscles one last time to please the crowd. After that, I take his hand in mine—first lightly so he won’t see it coming, then with full force, until his knuckles turn white and his eyes pop out.

  The funny thing about arm wrestling is, it isn’t necessarily about strength. It’s all about timing. I’ve had people sitting across from me with arms thicker than trees, and yet I beat them.

  Judging from his small shoulders, the guy across from me hasn’t seen a gym from the inside in a very long time. He doesn’t spend two hours a day in the weight room either.

  I’m ripped because I work for it, not because I was gifted. That’s what most people don’t understand—if you want something, you have to be willing to make sacrifices and work for it. Your dream won’t magically appear in front of your eyes. And if it did, you wouldn’t appreciate your success.

  Most people end up with an ordinary life because they don’t have the endurance and consistency to reach their goal. They take the easier route and settle for something in their comfort zone. Ot
hers might be satisfied with an ordinary nine-to-five job, a house, and a family of four, but that kind of life isn’t for me. I was born to achieve higher things.

  My dad settled and gave up his dream. I never will.

  I’m on my way to glory. Whereas the poor loser across from me has settled for normality. He and all the others that sat across from me before serve as a reminder to never lose my focus.

  With a pitiful look, I turn the guy’s arm toward the table and smash it down for all it is worth. He presented not even a hint of a challenge to me, yet the crowd screams my name.

  I’m barely on my feet when Candace throws herself at me. “You’re so strong.”

  Her tits—fake or not—feel fucking amazing pressed against my upper body. Decision made. She’s the lady of the night.

  I smirk. “Sure I am.” I’ll hold her up against the wall and fuck her later to prove how strong I am. But first things first. “Champagne for everyone,” I yell, and the crowd goes nuts.

  Are my parties legendary? Would people kill for an invitation? Hell, yeah. If only my old classmates could see me now. Not that I would want them here.

  Instead of lingering in the past, I concentrate on the present. I’m happy when my guests are happy. And why wouldn’t they enjoy themselves? I provide the booze and the music. And let’s not forget, the beautiful ladies.

  My fellow defenseman Peter Ringdahl sure loves the selection and leaves with another one each time. So do I, but I’m the king and he’s only a prince in the making.

  “Let’s party,” I shout over the loud music. My guests obey.

  Some crazy people go outside in the cold, others turn my living area into a club and the kitchen area into a bar. I love watching them. Being here… satisfies me. My mansion attracts people like flies. Unlike me, they’ll never be able to buy one. Another proof that I’ve left ordinary behind me. They say money can’t buy you friends. My parties are proof it can.

  What a shame that Peter’s the only one of my teammates here tonight. He never says no to my invites and he can take care of himself. My lineman had my tutelage, after all. Free of charge.

  The others don’t know what they’re missing. Their loss. Not mine.

  “Want a glass of bubbly?” I turn to the blonde on my arm. A rhetorical question, as if she’d ever resist a free drink. It’s an even exchange—she gets the booze; I get sex. Not a bad return on investment.

  “Yes, please.” She stands on her tiptoes and kisses me.

  I kiss her right back. Deep and hard, just the way I love to fuck. Soft and lingering isn’t for me. My kisses prepare the ladies for what’s coming.

  I take her arm and guide her to the bar, taking it on myself to pour her a drink. I can be a gentleman if I want to. Or have to. The ladies expect me to behave in a certain way. I’m here for them. As long as they’re down to fuck, I can provide the illusion that I’m into them. Which I am, but only until the next one catches my attention.

  “Don’t you drink?” she asks when I hand her the flute. You won’t find ordinary glasses in my household. The crystal flutes cost a fortune, but they look fancy. Fancy’s always good.

  I bring my attention back to the blonde bombshell. “I have a game tomorrow.”

  “And yet you party.” She takes a sip from the golden liquid and bats her eyelashes at me.

  “So what?” I raise an eyebrow and drop it again. Too much facial expression only gives you wrinkles.

  “Nothing, babe. Have a drink with me. One glass won’t hurt you.” She reaches around me and fills a glass.

  I turn her in my arms and bend her over at the waist before I whisper in her ear. “Only one?” Her ass feels fucking fantastic on my dick. Maybe it’s time to take this party to the bedroom.

  “Only one,” she twists her head in my direction and whispers against my mouth. “You could lick it off my body.”

  I take a new bottle with one hand and pick up Candace with the other arm.

  A ten in my bed, a Rolex on my arm, and a buzzing party in the house.

  It’s fucking great to be me.

  I drag myself up on one elbow when my alarm rings. My head feels like it’s about to explode. I rub my temples and toss the blanket aside. Fuck my life. If this is how it feels to get older, I want out at the next stop.

  Two years ago I could party every night and have all the energy in the world the next day. I always stayed away from alcohol, so hangovers were never my problem but these days I have to limit the parties to once or twice a week, depending if we’re on a road trip or have a bunch of home games ahead of us. I’m getting older and need my beauty sleep. One of life’s hard truths.

  Someone groans next to me. Who the f…? Candace. Shit, I must have fallen asleep after round three. Or was it four? I don’t remember anymore.

  My gaze falls on the two empty champagne bottles next to the bed. Double shit. Our drinking sex games got out of hand.

  Candace groans again, and I turn to her. “Wake up, Candace. You need to leave. I have to prepare for my game.” I shake her body with both hands.

  “Leave me be.” She pulls the blanket over her head. I pull it right back.

  “You know the rules. Get up and leave.” I never let women stay overnight. And I never drink before game days. I messed up. Big time. We have an important game tonight. I need to bring my A-game to the rink. Plenty of water, that’s what I’ll need. And for Candace to leave. I call an Uber and toss her out of bed.

  “You have fifteen minutes to shower.” I watch as she scrambles off the floor, using the blanket as a shield. What’s the point if I’ve already seen everything there is to see?

  “You’re a fucking asshole.” She stumble-storms into the bathroom.

  I rub my temples some more and wait for Candace to return. No way I’m leaving her alone in my room. Who knows what she’s up to in her current state.

  Her insults don’t stop while she puts her flimsy dress back on and continue all the way outside. I couldn’t care less. She means nothing to me. She got what she wanted. So did I.

  “Have a great day.” I open the car door for her with a fake smile on my face.

  “Fuck you,” she yells at me when I close it.

  “Never again.” I wait for the Uber to leave my driveway and enter the house again.

  Thank God for the cleaning and security service that keeps people from entering the left part of the house—where my bedroom is located—and throws them out after four in the morning before taking care of whatever mess people left behind in the living area and kitchen. I’ve learned from rookie mistakes. Party organization isn’t as easy as it sounds.

  I turn around the counter and step into my spotless kitchen. Everything is where it is supposed to be. My breathing calms down. I take a seat on one of the barstools and gulp down a whole bottle of water.

  After that, I take a much-needed shower and air out my room. I won’t take my pregame nap in a place that smells of sex, booze, and cheap perfume. Super sweet cheap perfume. I wrinkle my nose. How did I not get sick last night with Candace sleeping next to me? Thank God I never licked the champagne off her body either.

  I close my eyes. My head has stopped throbbing, but I still feel like I’ve been run over by a train. Nine hours until the game begins. Nine hours to get the alcohol out of my system. The last thing I need is to suck on the ice. Coach Benning tolerates my party lifestyle as long as it doesn’t interfere with my performance on game days. The team needs me. And I need hockey more than I need air and water.

  It’s what defines me. Without hockey, I’d be an ordinary guy, but my stickhandling skills set me apart from everyone else. I worked my ass off so I wouldn’t end up like my dad. He gave up his chance to make it into the NHL for my mom. And me. I’m grateful he did but deep down I know he’s asked himself a thousand times what his life could have become if he hadn’t gotten a nine-to-five job and settled down in Canada to become a family man.

  He never said so, but he must dream about where he could be
today if he’d chased his dreams and played for a farm team in the States. An NHL team would have signed him eventually. But he didn’t prioritize hockey the way he should have.

  I’m not only living my dream, I’m also living his. And I’m making the most of it. Why settle for normal when you can have it all?

  Hockey is the thing I excel at. And the job that pays more than any of my former classmates make. It is really fucking great to be me.

  I rub my temples again. Maybe not at the moment. My head throbs again from all that thinking. In search of water, I head back to the kitchen and gulp down another bottle. Fuck, why didn’t I drink some last night before I fell asleep? Because you weren’t thinking at all, the little voice inside my head whispers.

  I take another bottle of water out of the fridge and enter one of the guest rooms. Falling down on the bed, I close my eyes. I might take my mandatory pregame nap earlier than on any other game day.

  I lace my skates, ready to head onto the ice and stretch my legs some more. My nap worked wonders. I’m not hungover anymore—well, maybe a tiny bit, but nothing I can’t handle. I’m ready to throw myself in the way of the Dallas forwards and protect our goal as if it contained the holy grail. Dallas’ Darren Lawson knocked out our captain and best player, Tyler Wolfe, at the beginning of the season.