Kane (Face-Off Series Book 2)
Page 1
Table of Contents
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
KANE
A Face-Off Series Novel
Jillian Quinn
Contents
OTHER TITLES BY JILLIAN QUINN
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
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
DONAVAN
DONOVAN EXCERPT
FACE-OFF SERIES
PARKER EXCERPT
CITY OF SINNERS SERIES
TEACH EXCERPT
PHILLY CORRUPTION SERIES
CORRUPT ME EXCERPT
NEWSLETTER
OTHER TITLES BY JILLIAN QUINN
Acknowledgments
About the Author
OTHER TITLES BY JILLIAN QUINN
FACE-OFF SERIES
Book 1: Parker
Book 2: Kane
Book 3: Donovan (May 24th Pre-Order)
Book 4: Jameson
CITY OF SINNERS SERIES
Book 1: Teach
Book 2: Sex Therapy (May 10th)
Book 3: Judge
Book 4: Pray
PHILLY CORRUPTION SERIES
Book 1: Corrupt Me
Book 2: Totally Corrupt
Book 3: Forever Corrupt
Book 4: Completely Corrupt
For updates on Jillian’s upcoming books, visit jillianquinnbooks.com
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Copyright © 2017 by Jillian Quinn All rights reserved. Visit my website at jillianquinnbooks.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.
ISBN-13: 978-0-9976198-4-3
Chapter One
KENNEDY
Everyone has a ritual. Today was no different from yesterday or any day before that, apart from the interview I had with the Capitals. For a no name sports reporter like me, that was a huge score, a chance to help build my paper into a more reputable source for sports news.
After a long drive back from DC to Philly, I walk through the door and throw my messenger bag onto the dining room table. Per the usual, I unhook my bra next and fling it onto the couch. My girls hate boob jail, and it has been a long ass day.
Feeling free, I head into the kitchen of the one bedroom apartment I moved into last month. The paint on the cabinets is cracked and peeling. And if you look close enough at the floor, the linoleum tiles are coming loose. I found the place on Craig’s List. It was one of those looks better in the picture type of deals. Everything seemed fine at first. Until I unpacked, and then the appliances and fixtures started showing their age.
The only thing that works right is the coffee maker. And that’s because I brought it with me from home. Everything else is on its last leg or unsalvageable. Even the hot water lasts for about two minutes before it turns ice cold, leaving me screaming out in pain.
After I add the filter and grounds to the coffee maker, I hit a few buttons until it starts brewing. Then, I walk into my bedroom to change into a pink tank top and boy shorts. I live alone, the cramped space just enough room to house my stuff.
While I grew up in a huge house, I prefer the comfort this small apartment provides me, but I wish it were in a better neighborhood. My dad would kill me if he knew I was living in this building or on this side of the city. I lie to my father and tell him I live in Center City, up in a high-rise building I cannot afford just so I can avoid the same conversation we have every week. Crooks squandered our family fortune, and my dad had a hand in that. Now, I am stuck living in this dumpy apartment, living off leftover takeout and coffee.
I stir cream and two sugars into my mug and head straight to my desk. My dining room doubles as a makeshift office with little space away from the living room. In an apartment this size, the rooms bleed into the other. There’s no difference between them other than the chandelier that hangs from the ceiling and over my dining room table.
I have a view of the street through the window in front of me though I’m not so sure it’s the kind of view anyone would want. Even in the darkness, the street is depressing, rundown and full of dilapidated rowhouses.
After I settle into my chair, I call my best friend, Sydney Carroway. My daily habits always remain the same and calling Sydney as I sit down to work is one of them.
I punch the speed dial on my keypad, and Sydney answers on the first ring.
“I need another word for cock,” Sydney says into the receiver, her tone serious.
What may appear to someone on the outside as one of the weirdest conversations of their life is in fact just an average day with my best friend.
I chuckle and switch my cell phone to my left ear, attempting to open my beat up Macbook to type up my notes from the interview. “You’re such a perv, Syd…but a loveable one.”
“Don’t laugh.” Her voice squeaks on the other end of the line. “It’s for research purposes.”
“Writing smut,” I deadpan.
“Hey, that smut pays the bills, baby!”
Sydney is a romance author and my co-blogger at Long Sticks and Hard Shots, the sport- themed sex advice blog we write together. I talk about my experiences with professional hockey players and love of their sticks. Sydney uses her way with words and obsession with sex to make our readers swoon.
Bizarre conversations are par for the course. After all, she writes romance for a living and has her brain conditioned to write sex all day. Conversations that are sexual in nature are expected and often welcomed when it comes to Sydney. She has a way of talking about topics that would make most people uncomfortable. Somehow, she finds a way to get our readers to open up and interact.
“Maybe you should poll our followers to see how many words for cock they can come up with. I don’t have the time to sit here and ramble off all the naughty words your skanky brain wants to hear. Some people have to work for a living.”
“I might have to reevaluate our friendship,” she jokes, breathing hard into the phone. “What happened to ovaries before brovaries? We’re a team, and those hockey dudes can wait.”
I roll my eyes, a smirk forming. “I work with more than hockey players. I just happen to prefer the sport best.” Knowing she will never let me get off the phone without answering her question, I sit back in my chair and stop typing for a second. “Fine. I’ll start you off, but then I have to get back to work. Unlike you, it takes me more than twenty minutes to write a good story.”
“I’ll have you know that it take
s me more than twenty minutes to write a story. I pour my heart and soul into those raunchy taboo novels.”
“True.” I set the notepad on my desk and take a sip from the oversized coffee mug that says I’m Smutty and I Know It. This is one of the many strange gifts Sydney has given to me over the years. It even has a pink lipstick smudge through the center of the mug. “But just because I’m the owner doesn’t mean I can take the day off, now does it? I’m barely keeping this paper afloat after everything that has happened with my father’s company.”
“Yeah, babe, sorry about all that. I’m sure things will turn around for you soon. You just need to get your foot in the door with the right people.”
“Easy for you to say. You write a book, and it sells ten thousand copies in one week.”
She laughs. “What can I say? Sex sells. I have to give my readers what they want.”
I glance at the clock on the wall in front of me, one of the few things that work in this place other than the coffee pot. “I need to make this deadline, so maybe we can talk about cocks later.”
She huffs, pretending to be annoyed, a tactic she uses every time I want to get off the phone, and she still wants to chat my ear off. “You own Sports Buzz. It’s not like you have to kill yourself to make it to print, and besides, it’s an online newspaper.”
“I’m the owner, but my bank account says otherwise.” That much is true. If I don’t land a few more interviews for the month, I will have to tap into what’s left of my savings. I haven’t made a cent from the paper, still hanging on by a thread.
The call waiting beeps in my ear. I glance down and see a local 215 area code, unsure if I want to pickup at this hour. But what if it’s work related. I cannot afford to pass on a story.
“Hey, Syd, I have to take this call.”
“Oh, bullshit.” She grunts in mock irritation. “You’re just trying to get rid of me because you don’t want to answer my question.”
“No, I am not. Look, I will call you back later. I promise.”
“But I’m stuck on this scene and need your help,” she whines. “I need another word for cock. You can only use the same words so many times before they all start to sound the same. So, will you help me with this scene or not? I am so close to finishing up Nate and Ashlyn’s story, and I need the Kennedy touch to do it.”
Sydney does this every time she’s stuck and on a tight deadline with her editor. “A guy and girl meet, they have hot sex, they fall in love. The end. There you go. Write that.”
“Blah! That sucks! Thank God you don’t write romance novels. You’re awful at this.”
The other line stops ringing since Sydney keeps jabbering on and will not let me go. But whoever is calling is persistent, because another call beeps in my ear, and this time I have every intention of answering.
“I promise I’ll call you back in a little bit. We have to talk about the next few blog topics, and I’m sure you have better things to do. Like, figure out five different ways to write about men who make your ovaries explode.”
“Baaha! Fine, go back to being an adult. Later, K.”
I switch over to the other line before the caller hangs up again and get my pen and notepad ready. “This is Kennedy Lockwood.”
“Hi, Kennedy,” he says, his voice thick and modulated. “This is Alex Parker. We met in the locker room at the Wells Fargo Center a while back. You gave me your card and said to call if I found something news worthy.”
I am relieved but a little nervous for this call. Maybe I can get an exclusive interview with the former King of Scandals. That would help rake in a few bucks to keep Sports Buzz afloat for at least another month before having to dump more cash into this sinking ship.
“Of course. What can I do for you, Alex?” I keep my tone calm and cheerful, hoping he has something big for me to write about.
“I know Charlotte Coachman has you keeping tabs on me. She admitted it to me last night.” He laughs into the phone. “My girls is protective of me.”
Hello, awkwardville.
“I’m not sure what you want me to say, Alex.”
A few beats pass between us before he says, “I have a story for you. I was hoping you were available tomorrow afternoon.”
“What kind of story? About you?”
“Yes…sort of. Charlotte is co-hosting a Youth Basketball Skills Clinic with Philly Clean to raise money for drug awareness and research. But I plan to surprise her at the event.”
Sinking my elbow into the refinished wood, I prop myself up while holding the phone to my ear and start scribbling notes about Charlotte and the event. “Surprise her how? Charity events like hers are news worthy, but I’m not so sure how I would fit in. You can try the Philadelphia Inquirer or the Northeast Times.”
“No, I think you are perfect for the job. Sports Buzz is the only paper that hasn’t trashed me, and I know you have an understanding with Charlotte. She seems to like you. I’m sure you already know her boss and my godfather, Mickey Donoghue, kept us apart for months, all because of his no dating clients rule. Well, I found a way around his rules, and I’m getting my girl back. For once, I want someone to write an article about me being decent and not another scandal. Plus, it will give her clinic and the charity exposure. It’s a win-win for everyone.”
I knew Charlotte, aka Coach, had it bad for Alex after she had asked me to tail him and make sure he was staying out of trouble. But I had no idea they were so serious. I assumed she was asking as his agent, which is not unheard of when it comes to star players. Alex Parker is the King of Scandals in the hockey world—or at least he was before he met Coach. The last incident involving Alex the news outlets named Puck of Shame, and he sure earned that reputation.
But, if there’s one thing I have learned from Sydney, it’s that even smutty books have a happy ending. “Sure, I’d love to help you, Alex. When and where is the event?”
He breathes into the phone, sounding relieved. “Thank you, Kennedy. The Skills Clinic starts tomorrow morning at the event center on the Strickland University campus. I was planning to surprise Charlotte in the afternoon, but if you can meet with my teammates, Tyler Kane and Carter Donovan, beforehand, that would be great. They’re helping me organize everything with Charlotte’s clients. I’ll give them your phone number if that’s okay.”
Tyler Kane is the star center for the Philadelphia Flyers. He’s also the highest paid player in the NHL with the ego and looks to match. He’s a mega babe—short blond hair, sun-kissed skin, and wide blue eyes that jump off his face during every interview. I have a slight crush on him from watching him play. He sure knows how to tear it up on the ice, which makes me wonder what he’d be like in the bedroom.
And Carter Donovan is nothing to sneeze at. He’s bigger, more toned and taller than Tyler Kane, but he oozes just as much sex appeal with his scruffy dark beard and rugged good looks. For most of the season, he’s been sporting the lumberjack look that a lot of guys do because of superstition though I have never understood that tactic.
Alex is new to the team, but I have a serious fangirl, freak out moment knowing that Alex wants me to meet with his teammates. I’m dying on the inside, so excited I have trouble forming actual words for a minute.
“Yeah, that works for me.” My voice is level and calm, unlike how I feel on the inside. “Just have Donovan or Kane call me to setup a time for us to meet.”
I squeal on the inside with delight, the prospect of one of them calling me too much to handle after such a long day on the road. And to think I almost missed the chance because of Sydney blabbing about cocks.
“And just so you know, Charlotte’s entire client list will be there. You can have all-access exclusives with whoever you want.”
Some players are near impossible to get within a five-foot radius. I have been dying to get an interview with NBA hotshot Dante Fisher, for over a year. Even after helping Coach out with Alex, I still haven’t been able to touch him. It also doesn’t help that he plays for the Chicag
o Bulls and is only in town a few times per year. I sure as hell can’t afford to fly out there just to stalk him. The opportunity Alex is giving me is like hitting the sports lottery.
“Count me in.” The childlike excitement is evident in my voice.
“Great. Thank for doing this, Kennedy. Well, I better let you go. It’s Friday night, and I’m sure you have other plans.”
Nope, not even close. I have the dating life of a sixty-year-old woman. My life is nothing but work. The last sex I had over the past few months was with a vibrator or vicariously through one of Sydney’s books. She writes some real steamy stuff.
“Thanks, Alex. I’m looking forward to the clinic. Have a good night.”
After I hang up with Alex, I write down a few questions I want to ask tomorrow. This event will be the talk of the sports world. Sports Buzz needs a boost now that people are comparing it to the TMZ of sports. I take my career serious, and comments like that offend me. I did not spend four years studying journalism at NYU to let it go to waste.
Despite the late hour, I make another pot of coffee, because I need to finish my articles by morning. The worst part about being a writer is not having the words to put on the page. Sometimes, I stare at the screen for hours until I find inspiration, and thinking about the event tomorrow has me so distracted.
I turn on the radio and sink into the high back comfy chair, staring out the window that overlooks the noisy street.
My neighbors are blasting music from the house a few doors over. The same people sit on their front steps every night to deal drugs and throw wild parties. If I were smart, I would have gone apartment hunting at nighttime instead of the day. I had no idea what I was in store for until my first night living in this neighborhood. Most nights, I fall asleep to the sound of cop cars and ambulances.
Between the rent and upkeep for the apartment, I am barely making ends meet. My new lifestyle is much different from the one I had grown accustomed to as a child. Most people talk about rags to riches stories. Mine is more like riches to rags except my rags say Prada and Chanel. Or at least they do until I have to sell them to pay bills.