Only One Chance

by Madison, Natasha

  Only One Chance

  Natasha Madison

  Copyright © 2020 Natasha Madison. E-Book and Print Edition

  All rights reserved. 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 permission in writing.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used factiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons or living or dead, events or locals are entirely coincidental.

  The author acknowledges the trademark status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/ Use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owner.

  All rights reserved

  Cover Design: Jay Aheer https://www.simplydefinedart.com/

  Editing done by Jenny Sims Editing4Indies

  Proofing Julie Deaton by Deaton Author Services https://www.facebook.com/jdproofs/

  The Only One

  Only One Kiss

  Only One Chance

  Only One Night

  Only One Touch

  Southern Series

  Southern Chance

  Southern Comfort

  Southern Storm

  Southern Sunrise

  Only One

  Only One Kiss

  Only One Touch

  Only One Night

  Only One Chance

  This Is

  This is Crazy

  This Is Wild

  This Is Love

  This Is Forever

  Hollywood Royalty

  Hollywood Playboy

  Hollywood Princess

  Hollywood Prince

  Something So Series

  Something So Right

  Something So Perfect

  Something So Irresistible

  Something So Unscripted

  Tempt Series

  Tempt The Boss

  Tempt The Playboy

  Tempt The Ex

  Tempt The Hookup

  Heaven & Hell Series

  Hell And Back

  Pieces Of Heaven

  Love Series

  Perfect Love Story

  Unexpected Love Story

  Broken Love Story

  Faux Pas

  Mixed Up Love

  Until Brandon

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Dedication

  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

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Epilogue One

  Epilogue Two

  FREE BOOK!

  Books By Natasha Madison

  Acknowledgments

  Dedication

  Dedication: Jan, Layla, Lori, Mary, Natasha M, Sandy, Sarah, Teressa, Yamina, Yolanda

  I can’t do it without you guys!

  Chapter 1

  Layla

  “You look like fall,” Brian, my producer and sidekick, says as I walk by his office door.

  Shaking my head, I laugh as we both walk down the hallway. “You look tired.”

  “Well, I was up late editing the segment I aired this morning on women’s hockey growth in the US.” His dark hand runs through his hair. “You still look like fall, though.”

  “What does that even mean?” I ask him, then look down at my outfit. “It’s blue jeans and a navy blue blazer.”

  He shrugs his shoulders like any man who has no idea why he said what he said, but he did it anyway. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s the brown purse.” I stop walking once I get to my office door. “Don’t forget we have the Oilers’ Manning and Miller coming in today to discuss the charity auction this weekend,” he says before walking off in the direction of the kitchen while I groan out loud.

  “I hate Miller,” I grumble. Every time he’s mentioned, I automatically think back to the first time we met. It was my first week at the station, my afternoon sports radio show, Lay it on You, was on the air, and the radio station was having a fundraiser. He showed up to the event looking equally charming and arrogant clothed in dark jeans and a tight T-shirt. When we were introduced, he told me that he loved my show, especially my commentary on hockey as a sport, being as it was underrated in the South. I was super proud of those first few segments. He’d touched my arm gently and not at all creepy, and he actually made me laugh at a couple of jokes, which is hard to do. We were talking, he was flirting with me, and to be honest, I was flirting right back with him. I stepped away for a second to go to the bathroom, and I walked out to find him tongue fucking a blonde against the wall. Ever since then, I’ve taken him at exactly face value. ‘Make out with anyone literally all the time because you’re not special, Layla’ value.

  Grabbing the handle to my office door, I open it, mumbling, “How could I forget Manwhore Miller?” The sun shines on the signed Dallas Oilers jersey I have framed in my office. It was from the All-Star game last winter. Framed pictures of some of my sports idols that I’ve taken fill the wall. I never expected to be a sports commentator; it happened by luck. When I applied for a job at the local college radio station, I thought they would put me to work on the marketing front, but instead, they had me calling the hockey games because the last announcer had quit that afternoon. It just stuck, and I fell in love with it. Hockey, sports, commentating—all of it.

  Brian sticks his head into my office on his way to our recording booth. “Ready?” he asks. I nod my head, grabbing my stuff and following him down to where we do the show. He walks into his producer booth while I push open the door to where I sit. Two windows give the room a bit of light. I put my coffee and notes down on the table right next to the bottles of water there for my guests. Sitting in the chair in front of the microphone, I grab the earphone and put them on.

  “Check the mic,” Brian tells me from where he’s standing in front of the soundboard.

  “Check one, two. The XYZ TEAM sucks,” I say, looking at him. He nods his head, then laughs, pressing a couple of buttons on his side. I hear the commercials play as I get into the zone.

  “Ten seconds,” Brian says, and this time, I nod at him as I watch the on air sign light up.

  “Hey there, welcome to Lay it on You, the Layla Paterson show.” I smile every time I say those words.

  When I started at the station, I was an intern, and then they gave me a shot, putting me on from midnight to four a.m. I thought it was going to be dead air, but I had assholes calling in all the time trying to one-up me, and I have to say I got their sports trivia questions right ninety-nine percent of the time. Well, more like ninety-five. Thank God for Google some nights.

  The ratings had never been better for my slot. When the afternoon radio show host went away for vacation, they
gave me his time slot for two weeks. It was like I was the queen of the castle. I went head-to-head with the men who called in. I went toe-to-toe with the other radio show hosts who didn’t want me to leave by the end of two weeks. When they finally gave me the afternoon spot, I was with them for ten years at that point.

  “For those of you tuning in for the first time, I’m your host, Layla. And I have Brian on the command with me.” I look over and wait for Brian to chime in. “Brian, I believe you owe me ten bucks.” He groans. “I’m not going to say I told you so, but I told you so. I told you that Montreal was going to win.” I mention the game played last night when the team lost six to four.

  “Yeah, yeah,” he says, shaking his head. “Let’s take a call, shall we?” he suggests, patching through a caller.

  “Hey, Layla, longtime listener of your show,” the guy on the phone says.

  “Thank you.” I lean back in my chair. “What did you think of the trio last night?” I ask, talking about the captain and his two assistants.

  “The loss was a hard one to take,” he says, huffing out.

  “Nothing hurts more than having a team come into your building and leave with a win,” I tell him.

  “They made mistakes last night, for sure, but I think Weber is getting better and better,” he says of Ralph. “Stevenson is perfect each time,” he says of Manning, the captain on the team. “And Adams?” He whistles. “The guy is on fire. I think this is going to be his year.” I inwardly groan and roll my eyes so hard that they might get stuck. “His stick is hot.”

  “Yeah,” I say, agreeing with him as much as I hate to, “I’ll give it to Adams. He’s on a four-game scoring streak, and he’s at a plus six.” I throw out the stats that I looked up this morning, hating every single second of it. “I mean, if he stays out of the penalty box, he really does have a chance to beat his record last year.”

  The caller huffs out as they usually do when I try to prove them wrong. “Mark my words, this is his year.”

  “Listen, I wholeheartedly hope that you're right, but …” I roll my neck. “They didn’t look like they were a team last night. Montreal came in and handed them their behinds on a platter. It was brutal out there. Justin Stone scored his first hat trick of the season, and we are only in October. Dallas needs to get it together, or there’s no way they’re going as far as they did last year.”

  We answer additional callers for thirty more minutes. When we get a commercial break, Brian pops back into my headset. “Just got word from Becca.” I look over at him. “Manning is out today. It’s only going to be Miller,” he says, and another groan escapes my throat.

  Somebody out there hates me. They have to hate me. Miller has been a thorn in my side ever since he set eyes on me one year into his contract during that dumb fundraiser. He came from Chicago, and every single time he sees me, he goes balls to the wall to convince me to sleep with him or at least have dinner with him. And it doesn’t matter how many times I tell him no; it just pushes him to crack me harder.

  I’ve been around these players for a long time. I’ve seen the trail of women they leave behind season after season, and I vowed early on to never be that woman. My cold coffee tastes even worse when I see Miller fucking Adams, top centerman of the Dallas Oilers—and a walking sex god, according to himself—walking down the hall.

  Brian gets up and shakes his hand. The manwhore is wearing jeans and a black Dallas Oilers shirt with a leather jacket on. His hair looks like either he just ran his hands through it or someone else did for him. He looks over at me and smirks like a fucking asshole. I ignore the way my stomach just rose and fell. Shit, is cold office coffee bad for you? Walking into the room with his motorcycle helmet, he places it in one of the two empty chairs.

  “Hey, gorgeous,” he says. I lean back and vomit in my mouth.

  “Layla.” I say my name, and he looks at me. “You know, in case you forgot.”

  “I can never forget you,” he says, grabbing the empty chair and pulling it out to sit in it.

  “Since when do you ride a death trap?” I ask as I grab my cup of cold, gross coffee and take a drink, my mouth suddenly dry.

  “I usually take my bike out when I want to clear my head,” he says. “It’s not every day you feel like you got ass fucked by a cactus.” He mentions last night’s loss, and I want to laugh, but the coffee goes down the wrong pipe, and I end up choking.

  Air struggles to find its way to my lungs as I cough. Miller comes to save the day as though he’s some kind of hero by rushing around the desk and slapping my back. “Jesus.”

  Pushing his hand away from my back, I say, “Get away,” between coughs. He continues to rub my back, and I shoo him away with both hands.

  He grabs a water bottle and opens it, handing it to me. “Here, take a sip.” I can’t even argue with him if I tried. I take the bottle and take a little sip.

  “We are back in one minute,” Brian says, and I look up at Miller, who just stands there over me.

  Uncomfortable concern sits in Miller’s eyes. “You can go sit down now.” I push him away. “You know that when one is choking, the last thing you should do is slap them on the back. That’s for trick shots and squat challenges in the locker room.” Throwing his head back with a laugh, he sits in the chair in front of me, then grabs the headphones tucked off to the side.

  “Welcome back,” I say when I see the on air sign light up. “You guys are in for a real treat today. Miller Adams stopped by the studio today. He’s not here to talk about last night’s game, that’s for sure.” I smirk at him. “I think you still have whiplash from Evan Richards skating by you.” He just looks at me with fire in his eyes. “Don’t hate the player, hate the game.” I hold up my hands.

  His laughter fills my headset. “I’m definitely not here to talk about last night.” He shakes his head. “It was a hard one, and we weren’t ready for them. But we need to give credit where credit is due.” He doesn’t even try to make excuses. “The good news is that we are still early in the season. The bottom line … we need to play better. Not just for ourselves but also for our fans.”

  “I can agree with you there,” I say. “So tell us why you’re really here?” I look down at the notes that I made.

  “To convince you to go out with me?” There’s that stupid smirk again.

  “Not going to happen. Tell us about the Dallas Oilers’ charity auction coming up.”

  “It’s a great event that we do every year, benefiting the children’s hospital.” His deep brown eyes go soft as he talks. “We raised a little over seven hundred thousand dollars last year, and this year, we are hoping to double that.”

  “Is that why you are auctioning yourself off?” Brian says, laughing.

  I swear, my head almost shoots off my body at his comment.

  “I’m not the only one,” he says, humor coloring his words. “We have six or seven of us who are up for our bachelor auction. So if you want to come out this weekend,” he says, “there are still tickets available. Plus, the Oilers owner, Nico, sent me with a couple of tickets to give away.” He reaches into his inside pocket and takes out a white envelope. Dropping it on the desk, he says, “So, ladies, polish off that checkbook and come and support an amazing cause.” I swallow down the stupid lump forming in my throat.

  “Well, ladies, you heard him. Come one, come all,” I say with fake enthusiasm. “That’ll wrap us up for the day. On behalf of Brian and myself, we wish you the best rest of your day and hope you’ll tune in for our show tomorrow.” My headset is making me hot, so I slide that off and set it on the table.

  When Brian enters the room, he approaches Miller, who pushes his chair back, and they shake hands. “This has to be the first time I’ve met you without a woman or two draped over you.” He laughs and slaps him on the shoulder. “I’ll never forget that one time in Vegas—” Brian starts to tell the story, but I put up my hand.

  “What happens in Vegas should stay in Vegas,” I remind him, and he laugh
s, shaking his head as he walks out of the room.

  Miller grabs his helmet. “So what do you say? You wanna come ride the pony?” He smirks at me. Always fucking smirking.

  “I don’t ride motorcycles,” I say, ignoring his look. “I don’t trust you not to be reckless with my body.”

  “I can promise you I wasn’t talking about the bike.” He laughs, and I look up at him with my mouth open. “See you Saturday, gorgeous,” he says, leaving me to pick up my mouth when he walks out of the room.

  Chapter 2

  Miller

  The three trips to see the tailor were definitely worth it because my black suit jacket fits like a glove. As I straighten the sleeves of my shirt, I admire the shine of the black cuff links engraved with my initials. And just like that, with a run of my hand through my black hair, I’m ready.

  Walking out of my massive walk-in closet and past the great room, I make my way to the garage where my black BMW is waiting for me. As I’m pulling away, I look back at my house. Is it big? Yes. Do I need all this space? Absolutely not. But I plan on staying here for a long time. I want to bring my wife here and have my kids here. And every time I walk through the doors, it’s so easy to envision. I mean, why the fuck else would I buy a five-bedroom, two-story house for one person? Soon after, I’m pulling through the gates of my community.