Delayed
Penalty
Pilots Hockey # 1
Pilots Hockey # 1
By: Sophia Henry
Releasing September 1, 2015
Loveswept
She closed her heart long
ago. He just wants to open her mind. For fans of Toni Aleo and Sawyer Bennett,
the debut of Sophia Henry’s red-hot Detroit Pilots series introduces a hockey
team full of complicated men who fight for love.
Auden Berezin is used to
losing people: her father, her mother, her first love.
Now, just when she believes those childhood wounds are finally healing, she
loses something else: the soccer scholarship that was her ticket to college.
Scrambling to earn tuition money, she’s relieved to find a gig translating for
a Russian minor-league hockey player—until she realizes that he’s the same
dangerously sexy jerk who propositioned her at the bar the night before.
Equal parts muscle and scar
tissue, Aleksandr Varenkov knows about trauma. Maybe that’s what draws him to
Auden. He also lost his family too young, and he channeled the pain into his
passions: first hockey, then vodka and women. But all that seems to just melt
away the instant he kisses Auden and feels a jolt of desire as sudden and
surprising as a hard check on the ice.
After everything she’s been
through, Auden can’t bring herself to trust any man, let alone a hot-headed
puck jockey with a bad reputation. Aleksandr just hopes she’ll give him a
chance—long enough to prove he’s finally met the one who makes him want to
change.
When you’re twenty years old, there’s nothing
music and a drink can’t cure.
At least that was my best friend’s response when I told her I’d been cut from Central
State’s
women’s
soccer team that morning.
The overzealous stylings of two drunk chicks
bellowing “It’s
Raining Men” wafted through the air, and I’d just received my vodka
club from the bartender, so why did it still feel like someone scratched my
heart out with a serrated shovel?
Maybe “It’s Raining Men” wasn't the
right song?
Or maybe my friend’s remedy lacked one vital
piece. Like, five minutes locked in a bathroom stall with the crazy-haired
hottie approaching me. His head was buzzed short on the sides, leaving a thick
patch of dark locks, gelled into a neat pompadour in front. Sort of like 1920s
gangster, except less slicked, more height.
Every muscle in Crazy Hair’s body rippled under his
clothing as he walked. He had to be over six feet tall, with a broad chest and
massive arms stretching the seams of his long-sleeved black Henley. His skin
was smooth and pale, a contrast to the thick dark eyebrows resting above his
jump-in-and-drown-in-me blue eyes. From the scar on his left cheek to the smug
smirk of his lips, he was exactly my type: dangerous, confident, and totally
lickable.
I flipped my long blond hair behind my
shoulder and glanced to my left, pretending Crazy Hair’s advance had no effect on
me. In reality, I’d checked to make sure that he wouldn’t pass me up on the way to
some beautiful bombshell I hadn’t
noticed standing in the vicinity.
Like when you see someone wave, so you wave
back. Then you realize they weren’t
waving at you but the person behind you. So you try to play off your lame wave
like you were batting away mosquitoes, which aren’t there because it’s December in Canada. Just
trying to avoid an awkward situation like that.
Crazy Hair continued to close in, before
stopping just inches away.
I’d
opened my mouth to ream him out for stepping too far into my personal space,
but the sweet scent of clove cigarettes flooded warmth through me like a sip of
hot chocolate on a January morning in the Upper Peninsula.
“You work at post office?” he asked in a
thick Slavic accent.
“Um, no.” I took a swig of my drink. Though I
was unsure where he was going with that line, he was hot enough for me to stick
around.
The left corner of his mouth curved into that
sexy little smirk. “Because I see you check out my package.”
Carbonation stung my nose as I snorted and
choked trying to hold in my laugh. Without time to turn my head, I sprayed
vodka club and saliva across the front of Crazy Hair’s shirt.
Awesome.
“Weak!” I heard from somewhere behind me.
I turned to see who had yelled, still
coughing as I noticed a group of guys and girls at the high-top table behind
me. Shaggy blond hair bounced against one guy’s forehead as he snickered.
The dude next to him held his fist in front of his mouth in a horrible attempt
to hide his laughter. A brunette in a tight red sweater didn’t look amused. At all.
Crazy Hair threw the guys not one but both of
his middle fingers.
“That girl’s a fucking smoke show. Why’d he use a shitty line like
that?” the blond one said.
Smoke show? I bit down hard on my lip to
fight back a smile. The last time I’d
heard that phrase was in high school from my hockey-playing best friend, who’d informed me that “smoke
show” was player lingo for “hot girl.”
Unsure of how to recover any semblance of
cool after spitting my drink across Crazy Hair’s muscular chest, I spun
around and shuffled back to the table my friends occupied in front of the
karaoke stage.
It felt weird to drink in public, though we’d
been to Canada on multiple occasions. As lifelong residents of Detroit,
Michigan, we thought of Windsor—the Canadian city connected to Detroit by a
bridge and a tunnel—as the next town over, rather than a foreign country.
Nineteen was the legal drinking age in Windsor, so it made sense for underage
Americans like us to cross the border for some legit cocktails.
My butt had barely brushed my seat when I
heard my name, and my name alone, called over the speakers. I lifted my eyes to
the outdated popcorn ceiling, as if the voice resonated from the heavens beyond,
rather than the karaoke host.
“Why is he calling my name?” I asked Kristen.
“I picked you a song,” she responded, taking
a swig of her beer.
“You picked us a song,
you mean?” Emphasis on the us, because I’d never sung alone in my
life—not counting the shower and car, of course.
“Nope. Just you.” Kristen placed both hands
on my back and pushed me toward the stage. “You need to sing it out. Keeping
shit bottled up never works.”
I had no problem singing it out if I was
singing with other people, but not when it was just me. Hadn’t I been
embarrassed enough today?
My short-lived “smoke show” happiness
vanished, and the embarrassment of making a fool of myself in front of Crazy
Hair returned. I tried to reverse, but Kristen’s trampoline-like hands propelled
me back toward the stage.
Climbing onto the stage, I snatched the
microphone out of the host’s hand. I almost felt bad about taking my anger out
on him until I saw the lyrics to “Proud Mary” light up in
white against the teleprompter’s blue screen. Fuck.
What
the hell? I exhaled and lifted my
eyes to Kristen.
“Girl power!” She saluted me with her glass.
Was “Proud Mary” a girl-power song? I thought
it was about a boat.
“Do you have ‘Good Feeling’?” I asked the
karaoke host. He was around my age, with big brown eyes matching his neat,
trimmed beard and his shoulder-length hair.
“Flo Rida?” he asked, as disapproving
wrinkles formed on his smooth forehead.
“Oh, no,” I said. “The Violent Femmes.”
A smile spread across his lips, and he
nodded. “Give me a second.”
Sophia Henry, a proud Detroit
native, fell in love with reading, writing, and hockey all before she became a
teenager. She did not, however, fall in love with snow. So after graduating
with an English degree from Central Michigan University, she moved to North
Carolina, where she spends her time writing books featuring hockey-playing
heroes, chasing her two high-energy sons, watching her beloved Detroit Red
Wings, and rocking out at concerts with her husband.
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