Winning Hard

by Lisa B. Kamps

  "I admire anyone who's willing to stand up like you girls are doing. That takes guts." He glanced over at Chuckie, his lips twitching in that small smile again. "I've been told that I don't have a fucking clue about the bond that holds a team together. I trust that you girls are willing to teach me?"

  Shannon moved one arm behind her back and shot everyone the thumbs-up sign. "Fuck yeah. If you're willing to learn."

  Taylor choked back a groan. A few of the others gasped or muttered under their breath. Chuckie closed his eyes and reached up to pinch the bridge of his nose, his lips moving soundlessly.

  Even Mr. Murphy seemed shocked into silence—but only for a few seconds. The smile that he'd been holding back broke free and he laughed then stepped toward Shannon. It looked like he was going to wrap his arm around her shoulder but he stopped at the last second, clapping her on the back instead. "I like you. You remind me of myself when I was younger."

  "Is that a good thing?"

  "Yes. Yes, it is." Mr. Murphy stepped back, sweeping them all with an amused glance. "Well, then. That's settled. Ms. Wiley and I will go discuss things that need to be changed and let the rest of you get back to work. I'll see everyone at tomorrow's game."

  It took a few seconds for the words to sink in. Then there was a collective sigh of relief, followed by loud cheers and applause. The tension suddenly left Taylor, leaving her limp and light-headed and dazed. Sammie grabbed her in a huge hug, jumping up and down.

  "Holy crappola! It worked. It worked! I can't believe it!" Sammie kept jumping up and down, shaking Taylor with each excited bounce. She stopped just as quickly as she started, a look of panic suddenly crossing her face. "Oh crap. I need to pee."

  Sammie took off at a run, nearly knocking over Mr. Murphy and Shannon as she raced past them to get inside the arena. Taylor laughed, the sound fading on a rush of breath when Chuckie pulled her into his arms.

  She melted against him, her body trembling in relief as his arms tightened around her. "You did it."

  "Not me—you. All of you."

  "But it was your idea." She leaned up and pressed a quick kiss against his mouth, then playfully whacked him on the arm. "You could have given me a sign, though. You had me worried because I couldn't tell what was going to happen."

  "That was because I didn't know. Not for certain."

  Taylor's eyes widened, a gust of chilled air swirling through her. "You seriously didn't know?"

  "No, not at first. I had an idea but I wasn't sure."

  "Oh God. I think I'm going to throw up—"

  "No, you're not." Chuckie's arms tightened around her, supporting her. "You're stronger than that. You always have been."

  "But it—"

  He silenced her with a kiss. Long and gentle, one filled with promise. She was clinging to him, her head swimming and her heart overflowing with emotion when he pulled away—the same emotion flooding the deep ocean blue of his eyes when he looked at her.

  Love. Clear and endless. Still new, but filled with promise and potential.

  Chuckie reached up and tucked the hair behind her ears, his mouth curling in that dangerously charming smile. "You did it, Taylor. It's a start. Baby steps, but I think this is the beginning of something that's going to be a lot bigger."

  "You're right." She offered him her own smile and leaned against him. "It is."

  They both knew she wasn't merely talking about the Blades.

  ###

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  Dear Reader:

  Welcome to the inaugural season of The Chesapeake Blades!

  This new series came about because I needed to do a story about Taylor LeBlanc. You may know her better as Taylor Jennings, the adorable girl with a love of all things hockey from The Baltimore Banners series. You first met her in BREAK AWAY, and saw her again in SHOOT OUT. And, of course, she had a much bigger role in COACH'S CHALLENGE. By the end of that novella, I knew she had to have her own story.

  At first, I played around with the idea of making her the love interest for a future Banners player…but that idea didn't feel right. Taylor deserved more, and I didn't want her talents out shadowed by another hockey player.

  I didn't want to do a rec league series either but, like a lot of women athletes, there really wasn't anywhere else for Taylor to go. Or was there? What if there was a brand-new league, not quite semi-pro, but better than a rec league? Because in this fictional world, there is no NWHL and the rules are a little different.

  And so, the Blades were born.

  This isn't going to be an easy road for the ladies of the Blades. They'll have to deal with different issues as they learn to come together as a team--from jealousy and juggling two jobs, to dealing with lack of pay and lack of respect, to learning to work with an owner who isn't quite sure what he's gotten himself into and how to deal with it. They'll also be dealing with personal issues along the way, some of which will be hinted at in WINNING HARD.

  I hope you enjoy meeting the ladies of The Blades, and that you cry and cheer with them on their journey. And if you're interested in learning more about the NWHL, please check out their website!

  Happy Reading!

  LBK

  #FightLikeAGirl

  #PlayLikeAGirl

  LOVING HARD

  The Chesapeake Blades Book 2

  Because sometimes love is the hardest game of all…

  Sammie Reigler is done with men. At least, with one man in particular: her ex-husband. She fell head-over-heels in love, blindly jumped into marriage—and promptly had her heart broken when her husband served her with divorce papers while he was overseas. She picked up the shattered remnants of her life and took their daughter back home to Baltimore, where she started a new life working as a teacher—and playing hockey for the Chesapeake Blades. Now if only she could ignore the emptiness that haunts her in the middle of the night…

  Nobody who knew him would call Jonathan Reigler a coward, but that was exactly what he was. Two years ago, at one of the lowest points in his life, he walked away from the only woman who ever mattered—and lost a piece of his soul in the process. Now it's time to win his family back, and he'll stop at nothing to regain the love and trust of the one woman who means more to him than life itself.

  When Sammie makes demands of her own, Jonathan has to decide if he's willing to expose his biggest weakness. Will Sammie be able to forgive him and learn to love the man he's become—or will she walk away, taking his heart with her?

  LOVING HARD, The Chesapeake Blades Book 2, hits the ice on January 17, 2018. Pick up your copy here.

  PLAYING THE GAME

  The York Bombers Book 1

  Harland Day knows what it's like to be on rock bottom: he was there once before, years ago when his mother walked out and left him behind. But he learned how to play the game and survived, crawling his way up with the help of a friend-turned-lover. This time is different: he has nobody to blame but himself for his trip to the bottom. His mouth, his attitude, his crappy play that landed him back in the minors instead of playing pro hockey with the Baltimore Banners. And this time, he doesn't have anyone to help him out, not when his own selfishness killed the most important relationship he ever had.

  Courtney Williams' life isn't glamorous or full of fame and fortune but she doesn't need those things to be happy. She of all people knows there are more important things in life. And, for the most part,
she's been able to forget what could have been—until Harland gets reassigned to the York Bombers and shows back up in town, full of attitude designed to hide the man underneath. But the arrogant hockey player can't hide from her, the one person who knows him better than anyone else. They had been friends. They had been lovers. And then they had been torn apart by misunderstanding and betrayal.

  But some ties are hard to break. Can they look past what had been and move forward to what could be? Or will the sins of the past haunt them even now, all these years later?

  Turn the page for a preview of PLAYING THE GAME, the launch title of The York Bombers series, now available.

  The third drink was still in his hand, virtually untouched. He glanced down at it, briefly wondered if he should just put it down and walk away. It was still early, not even eleven yet. Maybe if he stuck it out for another hour; maybe if he finished this drink and let the whiskey loosen him up. Or maybe if he just paid attention to the girl draped along his side—

  Maybe.

  He swirled the glass in his hand and brought it to his mouth, taking a long sip of mostly melted ice. The girl next to him—what the fuck was her name?—pushed her body even closer, the swell of her barely-covered breast warm against the bare flesh of his arm.

  "So you're a hockey player, right? One of Zach's teammates?"

  Her breath held a hint of red wine, too sweet. Harland tried not to grimace, pushed the memories at bay as his stomach lurched. He tightened his grip on the glass—if he was too busy holding something, he couldn't put his arm around her or push her away—and glanced down. The girl looked like she was barely old enough to be in this place. A sliver of fright shot through him. They did card here, right? He wasn't about to be busted picking up someone underage, was he?

  She had a killer body, slim and lean with just enough muscle tone in her arms and legs to reassure him that she didn't starve herself and probably worked out. Long tanned legs that went on for miles and dainty feet shoved into shoes that had to have heels at least five inches tall. He grimaced and briefly wondered how the hell she was even standing in them.

  Of course, she was leaning against him, her full breasts pushing against his arm and chest. Maybe that was because she couldn't stand in those ridiculous heels. Heels like that weren't meant for walking—they were fuck-me heels, meant for the bedroom.

  He looked closer, at her platinum-streaked hair carefully crafted in a fuck-me style and held in place by what had to be a full can of hairspray—or whatever the fuck women used nowadays. Thick mascara coated her lashes, or maybe they weren't even her real lashes, now that he was actually looking. No, he doubted they were real. That was a shame because from what he could see, she had pretty eyes, kind of a smoky gray set off by the shimmery eyeshadow coloring her lids. Hell, maybe those eyes weren't even real, maybe they were just colored contacts.

  Fuck. Wasn't anything real anymore? Wasn't anyone who they really claimed to be? And why the fuck was he even worried about it when all he had to do was nod and smile and take her by the hand and lead her out? Something told him he wouldn't even have to bother with taking her home—or in his case, to a motel. No, he was pretty sure all he had to do was show her the backseat of his Expedition and that would be it.

  Her full lips turned down into a pout and Harland realized she was waiting for him to answer. Yeah, she had asked him a question. What the hell had she asked?

  Oh, yeah—

  "Uh, yeah. Yeah, I play hockey." He took another sip of the watery drink and glanced around the crowded club. Several of his teammates were scattered around the bar, their faces alternately lit and shadowed by the colored lights pulsing in time to the music.

  Jason pulled his tongue from some girl's throat long enough to motion to the mousy barmaid for a fresh drink. His gaze caught Harland's and a wide grin split his face when he nodded.

  Harland got the message loud and clear. How could he miss it, when the nod was toward the girl hanging all over him? Jason was congratulating him on hooking up, encouraging him to take the next step.

  Harland took another sip and looked away. Tension ran through him, as solid and real as the hand running along his chest. He looked down again, watched as slender fingers worked their way into his shirt. Nails scraped across the bare flesh of his chest, teasing him.

  Annoying him.

  He put the drink on the bar and reached for her hand, his fingers closing around her wrist to stop her. The girl looked up, a frown on her face. But she didn't move her hand away. No, she kept trying to reach for him instead.

  "What'd you say your name was?"

  "Does it matter?" Her lips tilted up into a seductive smile, full of heated promise as her fingers wiggled against his chest.

  Did it matter? It shouldn't, not when all Harland had to do was smile back and release her hand and let her continue. Or take her hand and lead her outside. So why the fuck was he hesitating? Why didn't he do just that? That was why he came here, wasn't it? To let go. Loosen up. Hook up, get things out of his system.

  No. That may be why Jason and Zach and the others were here and why they brought him along—but that wasn't why he was here. So yeah, her name mattered. Maybe not to him, not in that sense. He just wanted to know she was interested in him and not what he did. That he wasn't just a trophy for her, a conquest to be bragged about to her friends in the morning.

  He gently tightened his hand around her wrist and pulled her arm away, out of reach of his chest. "Yeah. It matters."

  Something flashed in her eyes—surprise? Impatience? Hell if he knew. He watched her struggle with a frown, almost like she didn't want him to see it. Then she pasted another bright smile on her face, this one a little too forced, and pulled her arm from his grasp.

  "It's Shayla." She stepped even closer, running her hand along his chest and down, her finger tracing the waistband of his jeans.

  He almost didn't stop her. Temptation seized him, fisting his gut, searing his blood. It would be easy, so easy.

  Too easy.

  Then a memory of warm brown eyes, wide with innocence, came to mind. Clear, sharp and almost painful. Harland closed his eyes, his breath hitching in his chest as the picture in his mind grew, encompassing soft brown hair and perfect lips, curled in a trembling smile.

  "Fuck." His eyes shot open. He grabbed the girl's hand—Shayla's—just as she started to stroke him through the worn denim. Her own eyes narrowed and she made no attempt to hide her frown this time.

  "What are you doing?" Her voice was sharp, biting.

  "I could ask you the same thing."

  Her hand twisted in his grip. Once, twice. "Zach told me you needed to loosen up. That you were looking for a little fun."

  Zach had put her up to this? Harland should have known. He narrowed his eyes, not surprised when the girl suddenly stiffened. Could she see his distaste? Sense his condemnation? He leaned forward, his mouth close to her ear, his voice flat and cold.

  "Maybe you want me to whip my cock out right here so you can get on your knees and suck me off? Have everyone watch? Will that do it for you?"

  She ripped her hand from his grasp and pushed him away, anger coloring her face. "You're a fucking asshole."

  Harland straightened and fixed her with a flat smile. "You're right. I am."

  She said something else, the words too low for him to hear, then spun around and walked away. Her steps were short, angry, and he had to bite back a smile when she teetered to the side and almost fell.

  Loathing filled him, leaving him cold and empty. Not loathing of the girl—no, the loathing was all directed at himself. What the fuck was his problem?

  The girl was right: he was a fucking asshole. A loathsome bastard.

  Harland yanked the wallet from his back pocket and pulled out several bills, enough to cover whatever he'd had to drink and then some. He tossed down the watered whiskey, barely feeling the slight burn as it worked its way down his throat. Then he turned and stormed toward the door, ignoring the sound of
his name being called.

  He should have gone home, back to the three-bedroom condo he was now forced to share with the sorry excuse that passed for his father. But he wasn't in the mood to deal with his father's bullshit, not in the mood to deal with anything. So he drove, with no destination in mind, needing distance.

  Distance from the spectacle he had just made of himself.

  Distance from what he had become.

  Distance from who he was turning into.

  But how in the hell was he supposed to distance himself…from himself?

  Harland turned into a residential neighborhood, driving blindly, his mind on autopilot. He finally stopped, eased the SUV against the curb, and cut the engine.

  Silence greeted him. Heavy, almost accusing. He rested his head against the steering wheel and squeezed his eyes shut. He didn't need to look around to know where he was, didn't need to view the quiet street filled with small houses that showed years of wear. Years of life and happiness and grief and torment.

  "Fuck." The word came out in a strangled whisper and he straightened in the seat, running one hand down his face. Why did he keep coming here? Why did he keep tormenting himself?

  She didn't want to see him, would probably shove him off the small porch if he ever dared to knock on the door. He knew that, as sure as he knew his own name.

  As sure as he knew that she'd be sickened by what he had become. Three years had gone by. Three years where he'd never bothered to even contact her. Hell, maybe he was being generous. Maybe he was giving himself more importance than he deserved. Maybe she didn't even remember him.

  He rubbed one hand across his eyes and took a ragged breath, then turned his head to the side. The house was dark, just like almost every other house on the block. But he didn't need light to see it, not when it was so clear in his mind.