by Leigh Carman
Both me and my older brother Sergey play in the NHL. Dad wouldn’t have had it any other way. My father, Dima Novak, was the son of the famous Mikhail Novak. Our grandfather was on the Olympic gold-medal-winning hockey team for the Soviet Union in 1964. My grandfather defected to the United States soon after during a trip to Detroit for an exhibition game against the Red Wings. Even though they were Russian citizens, he was of Czech descent, and my German grandmother was already pregnant with my dad, neither ethnicity exactly welcome in the old Soviet Union. So they claimed political asylum and never left Detroit.
Dad played briefly in the NHL, but a busted knee ended his time on the ice early. With his career done, he spent the next twenty years pouring every drop of sweat and missed opportunities into me and my brother, grooming us for the greatness he never achieved.
“East Coast game, Vik. We finished two hours ago. Just in time for me to catch your spectacular fuckup,” Sergey says, laughing.
“Fuck you, Serg. Is there a point to this call?”
“Just checking to see if Dad busted your balls yet.”
My bowels clench with fear. After every game our dad calls both of us to list every single thing we could have/should have/would have done if we were smarter/faster/stronger/or listened to his advice.
“Has he called you?” I retort, already knowing the answer.
“Of course, little bro. I only had to listen to a brief three-minute lecture on my weak left side.”
How does Sergey stay so calm when Dad berates him?
I let out a long breath, dreading Dad’s call. “I’ll be on the phone all goddamn night.”
“Yep!” Sergey says gleefully.
“You’re a dickhead, Serg.”
“Hey, more pain for you means less for me. Dad will be so focused on your on-ice tantrums that he might leave me alone for a few days.”
“Keep wishing,” I quip.
“Yeah, I know. Good luck, bro.”
“Bye.”
I disconnect the call and turn onto my street. Despite my lucrative contract with the Vikings, I choose to live in a hideous business converted into homes, all in a row of similar structures one block from the beach in Santa Monica. Except for the garish paint, the outside of each building is pretty much identical. Two stories, the ground floors consisting of industrial garages with metal roll-up doors where trucks used to pick up or deliver whatever goods were made inside. The second floors are reserved for the living spaces. I pull into the garage of the white structure with the bright turquoise garage door and trim and turn off the Raptor. Exhausted and still pissed, I clang my way up the metal staircase that leads to my loft while the garage door lowers behind me.
Upstairs is an industrial, loft-like space, the kitchen and living area one big room, with a bedroom and bathroom sectioned off in a far corner, and a second bedroom I use as a weight room on the other end of the space. I snatch a six-pack out of the fridge and flop onto the worn sofa, popping the top on one and guzzling half the amber down. I’m too furious to watch the game highlights, knowing they’ll dissect my behavior for ten minutes, or any sports for that matter, so I flip on a random channel and proceed to finish off three more beers before my phone rings again.
I stare at the screen, knowing if I don’t answer, my dad will be that much angrier when I finally do speak to him. Beer in one hand, I pick up the phone with the other, my thumb hovering over the screen. My pulse races, and sweat beads on my brow as my breathing becomes shallow. I groan when my stomach twists again.
Fuck it.
Unable to deal with any more shit tonight, I turn the phone off and throw it on the coffee table. Twenty-three years old and I’m afraid of my father, having goddamn anxiety attacks whenever he calls. The thought makes me laugh maniacally. I’m six three and two hundred pounds of muscle with the ability to terrorize grown men and turn them into quivering pussies with just one look, but I can’t talk to my dad without shitting a brick and feeling like a spectacular failure. I finish the six-pack and bring the empties to the sink. One slips out of my hand and shatters on the stained concrete floor.
“Son of a bitch!”
Careful to avoid the shards of glass, I step around the mess to the closet and grab a broom. With the small pieces taken care of, I pick up the larger ones by hand and toss them in the trash. All except the neck of the bottle. Somehow, it remained intact, curving down to a jagged edge where it broke off. I hold it up to the modern track lighting, turning it around, watching the dark glass glisten and reflect golden rays of light onto the walls.
My buzz vanishes, and I’m left feeling as broken as the bottle in my hand. A fuckup. A loser.
A nothing. A complete and total disappointment. A sudden sharp pain makes me gasp. I look down to see the glass clenched inside my tight fist. Blood wells up between my fingers, dripping onto the floor.
Tired and filled with familiar self-loathing, I toss the glass and wrap a towel around my palm. It probably needs stitches, but I could fucking care less at this point. Without giving it another thought, I fall into bed fully clothed and ignore my throbbing hand until I fall into a fitful sleep.
More from Leigh Carman
A Players of LA Novel
Two stubborn men.
One is a rude jerk. The other, the life of the party.
It was hate at first sight.
Pro beach volleyball players Finn Callahan and Dexter Savage have been rivals since college. While Finn always comes out on top on the court, Dexter’s carefree and fun-loving personality earns him scores of adoring men and women. And as much as Finn fights to deny it, there’s another reason for the tension he feels when Dex is around. Hate wasn’t the only thing he felt when he first laid eyes on his opponent.
When they’re forced to team up, the two men must bury their differences—on and off the court—if either of them is going to succeed professionally.
Readers love Match Point by Leigh Carman
“…I adored this story, the writing, and the passion-filled characters.”
—Lily G. Blunt
“I’m hooked on this series and I can’t wait to see where it goes next!”
—Alpha Book Club
“This was such an amazing, powerful read that it will be with me for some time to come.”
—Inked Rainbow Reads
“Phenomenal!! Leigh Carman has kept me glued to the pages of her latest novel, Match Point, from the minute I started on the first page until I landed on the very last.”
—MM Book Escape
LEIGH CARMAN was born and raised in New England with all of its fall foliage and winter snow. She escaped to the South, where she currently lives outside Atlanta, Georgia, with her husband, two kids, and French Bulldog, Shelby.
She loves the Red Sox, the Patriots, and anything chocolate (but not white chocolate—everyone knows it’s not real chocolate so it doesn’t count), and has left explicit instructions in her will to have her ashes snuck into Fenway Park and sprinkled all over while her family enjoys beer, hot dogs, and a wicked good time.
Leigh also writes M/F dark romance under the name Heather C. Leigh. She also loves exploring the underbelly of fame and the crushing weight of those under the microscope 24/7.
By Leigh Carman
PLAYERS OF LA
Fair Catch
Match Point
Published by DREAMSPINNER PRESS
www.dreamspinnerpress.com
Published by
DREAMSPINNER PRESS
5032 Capital Circle SW, Suite 2, PMB# 279, Tallahassee, FL 32305-7886 USA
www.dreamspinnerpress.com
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of author imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Fair Catch
© 2017 Leigh Carman.
Cover Art
© 2017 Catt Ford.
&n
bsp; Cover content is for illustrative purposes only and any person depicted on the cover is a model.
All rights reserved. This book is licensed to the original purchaser only. Duplication or distribution via any means is illegal and a violation of international copyright law, subject to criminal prosecution and upon conviction, fines, and/or imprisonment. Any eBook format cannot be legally loaned or given to others. 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 Publisher, except where permitted by law. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact Dreamspinner Press, 5032 Capital Circle SW, Suite 2, PMB# 279, Tallahassee, FL 32305-7886, USA, or www.dreamspinnerpress.com.
ISBN: 978-1-63533-492-0
Digital ISBN: 978-1-63533-493-7
Library of Congress Control Number: 2017901548
Published March 2017
v. 1.0
Printed in the United States of America
