Parker (Face-Off Series Book 1)

by Jillian Quinn

  OTHER TITLES BY JILLIAN QUINN

  PHILLY CORRUPTION SERIES

  Book 1: Corrupt Me

  Book 2: Totally Corrupt (June 2017)

  Book 3: Forever Corrupt (Fall 2017)

  Book 4: Completely Corrupt (Winter 2018)

  FACE-OFF SERIES

  Book 1: Parker

  Book 2: Kane (Summer 2017)

  Book 3: Donovan

  Book 4: Jameson

  CITY OF SINNERS NOVELLA SERIES

  Book 1: Teach (April 2017)

  Book 2: Pray (Fall 2017)

  Book 3: Heal

  Book 4: Judge

  For updates on Jillian’s upcoming books, visit jillianquinnbooks.com

  Sign up for Jillian’s Bad Boy Mafia newsletter for free books, book deals, giveaways, and exclusive excerpts from her books.

  Copyright © 2017 by Jillian Quinn

  All rights reserved.

  Visit my website at jillianquinnbooks.com

  Cover Designer: Deranged Doctor Design, www.dereangeddoctordesign.com

  Editor and Interior Designer: Jovana Shirley, Unforeseen Editing, www.unforeseenediting.com

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  ISBN-13: 9780997619829

  This book is dedicated to all the strong women who strive to break the glass ceiling. Never let someone tell you that you can’t do something you love.

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  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Alex

  Most people hate the loud, obnoxious noise a hockey goal horn makes, but I’m not one of those people. Because that means my team has scored and is one step closer to another victory.

  But, this morning, the sweet sound I associate with winning wakes me from a drunken sleep, and for the third time this year, I know the person on the other end of the line is calling with bad news. I lift my head from the pillow, one eye open, as I reach for my cell phone on the bedside table.

  Except I’m not in my bedroom. This is not my apartment.

  Where the hell am I?

  I spot a pink fuzzy robe draped over the closet door, reminding me of something a child would wear. A Harry Potter poster is on the wall above a small desk with a computer, a schoolbag slung over the top of the chair. The room is about the size of a dorm room.

  No, this can’t be happening.

  When I roll onto my back and sit up, I lean against the headboard, my legs too long for the twin-size bed, and see a naked blonde sleeping next to me. Her arm covers her face, so I can’t tell if I chose well before we left the bar last night. The entire evening is a blur.

  Please don’t be a dorm room.

  She stirs, a sound escaping her lips.

  I silence the ringer on my phone and sigh when I see that it’s my agent calling. This is not good. Answering his call will only confirm that my future with the Washington Capitals is over.

  I banged the wrong chick—and not the one next to me.

  How was I supposed to know that smoking-hot puck bunny was the granddaughter of the wrinkly old fuck in charge of my paycheck?

  I have to man up and face reality, so I return my agent’s call, praying that the owner has granted me a reprieve after another phenomenal season. I think I’ve earned that much. We’re first in our division, and we have the best penalty kill record in the league, thanks to me.

  “Hey, Mick,” I say, my hand shaking as I hold the phone to my ear. “Let me—”

  Before I can finish my thought, Mickey Donoghue—also known in the sports agent world as Mick the Dick—screams, “Pack your bags, jerk off; you’re going to Philadelphia. Don’t fuck this up, you understand? This is your last chance!”

  I sit up straight, my heart pounding out of my chest, unable to process his words. The Philadelphia Flyers are not the worst team in the league, but they’re not the best either. I worked my ass off to make my team worthy of the playoffs. We almost won the Stanley Cup last year. Starting over with a young team is not ideal. In fact, it’s bullshit.

  After eight years in the league, I should have my pick of teams. But, after my last fuckup, I lost some of my sponsors and was lucky that Mick was enough of a dick to keep me in Washington, DC. The team refused to sign me with a no-trade clause because of my past indiscretions, which meant I had no choice in where they wanted to send me.

  “Can I just meet with the owner? Let me explain to him that it was all a misunderstanding.” I had a good relationship with the owner of the team before the scandal, before I banged his granddaughter in an elevator at The Ritz-Carlton. “Mick, I thought—”

  “No, you don’t think, kid. That’s your problem. You let the wrong head do the thinking for you, and the result is the same every time. Look, you’ve got a lot of talent. I know your father wouldn’t have wanted this for you.”

  He’s right about that. My dad would crawl out of his grave just to kick my ass if he knew what I had become since his death. A lot can happen in six months. I screwed up worse than normal, and now, I have to sack up and head to Philly to play for one of the last teams I would’ve ever chosen.

  “Alex,” Mickey breathes into the receiver, “you’re my godson, and you have been with me since the start of your career. Your old man was a good guy, a talented player, and an even better coach. He was my closest friend, and because we’re like family, I try to look out for you and your best interests, as if you were my own son.”

  “I know. I appreciate everything you’ve done, but you—”

  I can almost see Mickey on the other end of the line, holding up his hand to silence me, cutting me off. “Think of this as a chance to start over with a less experienced team that can use your skill set. You can teach these young guys. With a lot of patience and time, you can build this team up and help them get into the playoffs.”

  I don’t want to be someone’s mentor. I want to win the Stanley Cup.

  A brief moment of silence passes between us before Mickey clears his throat, snapping me out of my daze. My head is pounding, as if it has its own pulse, and the foul taste in my mouth makes me want to vomit. I want to drink myself into oblivion at the thought of leaving my team. But I don’t have a choice.

  “When do I leave for Philly?”

  “You have to report for practice at the Flyers Skate Zone in Voorhees, New Jersey at the end of the week. I rented you an apartment, about thirty minutes away in Philly, from an agent who owns a few properties on the waterfront. I’ll text you the address. After we hang up, my office will give you a call to work out the details, and I’ll make sure someone is at the apartment to meet you with the keys. Since you already live like a drifter, I doubt you have much to pack, but I arranged for a moving company to help you with your transition. The movers will be at your apartment at n
ine a.m. tomorrow. Make sure you’re awake. No more bullshit, Alex. You’re twenty-seven years old. It’s time to grow up and act like an adult.”

  The girl next to me removes her hand from her face, and I slide off the bed, holding on to the table next to me for support.

  “Thanks, Mick,” I say, somewhat panicked. “I gotta go. I’ll call you later.”

  “Hi,” the girl says in a playful tone.

  She looks about as old as she sounds, which isn’t very comforting, though I can see why I took her to bed. She has legs for days and perky tits.

  “What’s the rush, Alex?” She pushes her blonde strands behind her ear and bites down on her bottom lip.

  I’m standing naked in front of this girl, contemplating whether I want to make use of those nice full lips, until she says, “We have time. My roommate won’t be home until later.”

  That’s when I look at the other side of the room and see the same twin-size bed with a computer desk and chest of drawers, confirming I am in a dorm room.

  Fuck!

  I start to look for my clothes as I say to the girl, “How old are you?” I hold my breath, hoping that she’s not jailbait. The last thing I need is another scandal.

  “I’ll be nineteen in a few weeks, remember? You told me last night that you would come to my birthday party and bring some of your teammates.”

  I have to stop drinking.

  I shake my head, relieved that she’s legal. “Sorry, but that’s not going to happen. I won’t be here in a few weeks. This was a mistake. Forget that I was ever here.”

  I find my fitted gray shirt on the floor in front of her computer desk along with my boxer briefs, jeans, and sneakers. After dressing faster than I thought possible, I fix my shaggy brown hair, looking in the mirror next to her closet, and reach for the entrance door, about to escape this disaster, when something soft hits me on the back of the head. A pillow falls on the floor next to my shoe. When I look over my shoulder, the naked girl is holding up both of her middle fingers.

  “Go to hell, Alex! Get the fuck out of my room!”

  “Don’t need to tell me twice,” I mumble as I open the door with a wave in her direction before closing it behind me.

  I feel a bit of relief until it hits me that I’m on a college campus, and I’m standing in a crowded hallway full of young girls. Based on their surprised looks, some of them know who I am. This is an all-time low.

  Disgusted with myself, I keep my eyes pointed toward the floor until I get outside, avoiding the stares from those around me. I sift through the throng, all while dodging young girls who want me and boys who are whispering my name. Some of them have their cell phones aimed in my direction.

  This is just my luck.

  “Is that Alex Parker?” a boy says, his finger pointing at me as I walk past.

  “Can’t be,” says another boy.

  “I heard he fucked Jason’s girlfriend.”

  “I heard he fucked this chick in my Bio class.”

  Bad news travels fast.

  At twenty-seven years old, I never thought I’d be doing the walk of shame out of a college dormitory. I also never thought I would destroy my career with a one-night stand in an elevator.

  Once I make it through the herd, I glance up at the six-story building, my hand pressing to my forehead to shield my eyes from the sunlight.

  Where am I?

  The amount of students flowing in and out of the place, some of them staring at me with curiosity, makes me want to bolt off this fucking campus. But my head and body are throbbing in unison, and whatever strength I might’ve had today was probably spent on the girl I just ditched.

  I take a seat on a ledge to my right, blocking the sun from my face, as I pull my phone from my pocket. Using the GPS on my phone, I zoom in to get a better look at the streets and realize I am at Georgetown University. At least I know where I am. The who and the why are the parts of last night I am missing.

  I can’t believe this is happening.

  I tap my location and details into the Uber app and wait, praying they will be on time.

  A large group—six boys and seven girls, all varying heights, skin tones, and builds—stops when one boy with spiked blond hair comes to a halt about twenty feet from me and points in my direction.

  He slaps the husky dark-haired guy next to him on the arm. “Holy shit, man, look.” His voice is so loud, it carries through the air.

  His friend’s eyes flicker with acknowledgment, a wide grin forming. They stroll toward me, the clear leaders of their group, judging by the way the rest of them follow behind.

  I could walk away, but what difference would that make? It’s not like I don’t have fans coming up to me for autographs all the time. And I’m not one of those asshole players who refuses to give them out. But I can’t let them know why I’m here.

  How the hell do I explain this? Uh, I was just boning some chick who lives here. Didn’t catch her name. The papers would love that.

  Flanked by his companions and looking like a complete douche, the blond fixes his collared pastel shirt and tilts his head up at me in some lame attempt to look cool. “You Alex Parker?”

  “Yep, that’s me.”

  “I thought so,” he says, pleased. “You’ve been all over the news today. Everyone on campus has been talking about you.”

  “Yeah, I got traded to Philly.”

  His interrogation annoys me. Just ask me to sign something already and move on.

  I stand when I see the car pulling up to the curb behind them. The blond opens his mouth wide enough to catch flies. He’s at least six inches shorter than me, and he must weigh about eighty pounds less, except I’m solid muscle and he’s nothing but a sack of bones. A few of the girls giggle and flash bright smiles, their lips parting as I wink at them.

  He laughs as he pushes his cell phone in front of me and then hits the play button. “Nah, that’s not what everyone is talking about.”

  I glance down at the screen, shocked by the video of me carrying two half-naked girls over my shoulders and into the dormitory. “Shit,” I mutter.

  In the video, it’s dark outside, but there’s enough light from the exterior of the building to see all our faces perfectly. Neither of them is the same girl I woke up next to. One has long auburn hair and killer curves, and the other is a smoking-hot chick with short dark hair and huge tits.

  What. The. Fuck?

  This must’ve been all the team owner needed to make his decision about the trade. He had already been adamant about getting rid of me after his granddaughter, who’d lied about her age, went blabbing her mouth, and this footage probably sent him over the edge.

  “You’re my hero, bro,” the husky boy says. “How many chicks did you bag last night? Seriously, teach me your ways. I’m a fast learner.”

  I don’t remember the girls or how I ended up here. Was I drugged?

  That’s doubtful but not completely off base. Some chicks will do anything to become a famous athlete’s baby mama. I must’ve blacked out. That happens a lot—more times than I care to admit.

  I smirk and ignore his question. “My ride is here. Gotta go.”

  Sidestepping around them, I inch my way through the crowd and hop into the car, thankful it showed up on time. A few more minutes with those guys, and I would’ve had to deal with the grand inquisition about last night. I give the driver my address, and he sets off toward the apartment I share with my former teammates—former being the operative word as of twenty minutes ago.

  My phone rings, the sound of a hockey goal horn filling the silent air in the car. The driver jumps at the intrusion and presses his hand to his chest. It’s an abrupt ringtone, but it does the job when I’m too shit-faced or in a drunken coma and need to be woken up. I already knew this call was coming, and when I see that it’s my publicist, Rebecca Stone, I have to answer.

  “Hey, sweetheart. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

  “Pleasure?” she screams. “No, this is not a fucking ple
asure, Alex! What is wrong with you?” A beat passes between us, and then she continues, “Have you seen YouTube yet? Better yet, have you seen the news? They’re calling this one Puck of Shame. You really dug yourself a grave this time. I’m done. I can’t help you anymore. You’re—”

  I interrupt, trying to keep my cool as she lays into me, “What do you mean, you’re done? You’re done when I say you’re done. You work for me.”

  Rebecca laughs, and it’s a cackle that reminds me of the Wicked Witch. “I work for you because you pay me, you little prick. You need to find yourself a new publicist. I don’t get paid enough for this shit.” She groans and slams something down that makes a crashing sound. “I’m over here, breaking out in stress hives from you and this bullshit you pulled at that campus. Of all the schools, you had to pick one as prestigious as Georgetown? You’re lucky the dean wants this to go away as much as the rest of us. After this, there’s nothing I can do for you.”

  “Yes, there is. You can do your job, Becs.”

  “I want triple my normal fee. No one will touch you with a ten-foot pole. You’re a PR nightmare!”

  There’s no sense in denying the truth. I’ve been driving her crazy for the past year. On one occasion, I even tried to seduce Rebecca to keep her on my team, thinking that a cougar like her wouldn’t turn down a young hockey star. That plan backfired and was more embarrassing for me than it was for her.

  “Fine,” I agree. “Whatever you want.”

  “You need to get some help, Alex. I’m telling you this as a friend and not as your publicist. I know you haven’t taken your father’s death well, and I don’t blame you, but you need to clean up your act. Even with my connections, there’s only so much I can do for you. At some point, you’re going to have to help yourself.”

  “Thanks, Becs.” I pause and hold the phone away from my ear to check the caller ID, showing an incoming call from DMG—Donoghue Media Group, the company Mickey founded after college. What now? “Look, I gotta go. Mickey’s on the other line. I owe you one.”

  “You owe me more than one,” she says before ending the call.