Her
biggest fantasy is about to become a reality. . .
Mister Hockey
Hellion's Angels #1
Lia Riley
Releasing July 11, 2017
Avon Impulse
Jed West is
Mr. Hockey. The captain of the NHL’s latest winning team, the Denver
Hellions—and the hottest player on the ice—at least according to every
magazine. .and Breezy Angel. Breezy has been drooling over Jed at games for
years, and he plays a starring role in her most toe-curling fantasies. But
dirty dreams don’t come true, right?
Then Jed
saunters through the doors of her library, a last minute special guest for a
summer reading event, and not only is he drop dead gorgeous up close, his
personality is straight up swoon-worthy. He even comes to the rescue when she
has an R-rated “Super Book Worm” costume malfunction. But when he mistakenly
assumes she’s more into books than pucks, she’s too flustered to correct his
mistake. And then comes a big kiss, followed by a teensy-tiny problem. Jed’s
dating policy is simple: Never date a fan.
So what’s a
fangirl going to have to do to convince her ultimate crush that he’s become
less of a perfect fantasy, and more like the perfect man. . .for her?
Jed West’s stomach curdled faster than overheated hollandaise sauce as he squinted at the menu for Zachary’s, Denver’s most popular all-day breakfast hangout. Ghost-like shadows haunted the specials list, blurring the descriptions for peanut butter French toast, country fried steak benedict and sweet potato pancakes. Ah, shit. Not fucking now. There went the prices too–the dollar signs and numbers blurring until barely legible.
No point blinking. He knew
the drill. Jaw tight, he reached for his orange juice, took a swig and waited.
Short bouts of double vision had dogged him ever since Game Seven, the pattern
the same. After a minute or two, his focus would snap back to normal as if
nothing had happened. Until then, he needed to follow one of coach’s favorite axioms: “Suck it up, Buttercup.”
Who cared about the damn
menu anyway? He pushed it to one side, having already ordered the “Manwich”,
chorizo and eggs smashed between a jalapeno cheddar biscuit–the kind of
breakfast that wanted to kill you in the best kind of ways–and crunched ice.
Too bad the cubes didn’t pass on their chill, because this. . .situation for
lack of a better word, was getting under his skin and it shouldn’t.
No–Scratch that. It couldn’t.
Unexplained double vision
wasn’t a walk in the park, but facts were facts. And the ugly truth was that if
he didn’t quit batting his lashes like Scarlett O’Hara with a fly in her skirt,
The Post’s toughest sports columnist would glance up from across the
table, mistake his tic for a cheesedick wink, and go Lord of the Flies on his
nut sack.
At least for the moment,
Neve Angel was occupied. She hunched over her digital voice recorder, dark
bangs obscuring her sharp gaze as she fiddled with the control settings. Her
lips moved to the upbeat Buddy Holly song piping over the sound system while
she plucked a mic from her messenger bag. His vision came back online in time
for him to read the orange button pinned to the front.
Had a Ball at The Rock
Creek Testicle Festival.
Christ, looked to be an
authentic souvenir too.
Slamming his knees
together, he forced a grin, the one that had potential endorsements lined up
around the block, eager for him to shill everything from vitamin infused
coconut water to shaving cream. He unwrapped the paper napkin from around the
fork and knife, and began tearing the corner into neat strips.
No doubt the eye thing was
fatigue-related, an inevitable toll from the grueling NHL season and subsequent
hard-fought playoffs. Everything would be all right in the end. If it wasn’t
all right, it wasn’t the end.
“You plan on telling me
what’s up with Mount Napkin Shreds?” Neve leaned her elbows on the recycled
wood tabletop, a signal they were shifting into interview mode. Her brows
arched beneath her thick-cut bangs. “Nervous about being in the hot seat,
princess?”
“Yeah, terrified,” he
answered laconically, not missing a beat. Hiding his true feelings behind a
mask of confidence was a reflex; it came with the territory of having the “C”
stitched on the front of his jersey. A good captain never showed fear to an
opponent. “A jackal’s bark is worse then it’s bite.”
“Jackal? Don’t tell me
you’re using Gunnarisms now.” She rolled her eyes. “And I’d so wanted to enjoy
my bagel without gagging.”
The Hellions Head Coach, Tor Gunnar, had a reputation for dismissing the press as “jackals.” He fostered a tense relationship with journalists, in particular, the tiny woman sitting opposite. Neve had run a piece on his divorce a few years ago. He retaliated by refusing to call on her during press conferences. Neve hit back with increasingly critical op-eds. Their mutual enmity had devolved to the stuff of local legend.
The Hellions Head Coach, Tor Gunnar, had a reputation for dismissing the press as “jackals.” He fostered a tense relationship with journalists, in particular, the tiny woman sitting opposite. Neve had run a piece on his divorce a few years ago. He retaliated by refusing to call on her during press conferences. Neve hit back with increasingly critical op-eds. Their mutual enmity had devolved to the stuff of local legend.
A fun read with a cast of both quirky and sexy characters! Breezy is funny and the somewhat awkward situations she found herself in made me laugh. Jed is of course a sexy hockey player who is instantly attracted to Breezy and finds her quirks charming. The secrets they keep from each other were bound to cause some speed bumps in their relationship, but weren't so bad as to cause major trouble. I wouldn't call this a sports romance, since hockey is not heavily featured in the book, but it does address the very serious issue of head injuries and how they can affect a player's health and life. I loved Jed and Breezy together and am looking forward to discovering what the head coach of Jed's team and Breezy's sister Neve have going on between them.
I voluntarily reviewed an advanced reader copy of this book. I was not compensated for this review, all conclusions are my own.
After
studying at the University of Montana-Missoula, Lia Riley scoured
the world armed only with a backpack, overconfidence and a terrible sense of
direction. She counts shooting vodka with a Ukranian mechanic in Antarctica,
sipping yerba mate with gauchos in Chile and swilling fourex with stationhands
in Outback Australia among her accomplishments.
Thank you for sharing your lovely review!
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