Parker (Face-Off Series Book 1)

by Jillian Quinn

  Charlotte is off-limits to me. Mickey would kill me if I hooked up with his girl, and she made it clear she wanted to keep our relationship professional. It’s probably for the best. I would end up fucking her once, maybe a few times since I’m greedy, and then I’d move on. And I would never hear the end of it from Mickey if I messed with his favorite agent.

  Charlotte and Kane are busy talking about his photo shoot with Under Armour while Donovan tells Rico to turn around, so he can sign the back of his jersey. Rico’s face lights up as he stares at the man next to Charlotte, waiting for Donovan to finish. He scribbles his name, nudges Kane in the arm with his elbow, and hands him the black marker.

  As Kane leans over to sign Rico’s back, Charlotte turns her head, her eyes fixed on mine. She swallows and slides her hands into her jean pockets. A few seconds pass between us before she says, “Parker,” with a nod. She stares at me, as if I just punched her in the stomach.

  “Nice to see you again, Charlotte. How are you?” I sound so formal that even I’m surprised by my words.

  Charlotte gives me an odd look, as if mulling over my response. “I’m good. Thanks for the tickets. Rico had so much fun today. We all did.” She pats the shoulder of the man next to her, and he turns to face us. “Jamie, this is Alex Parker. Alex, this is Jameson O’Connor.”

  He extends his hand to me, and I shake it, curious about their relationship.

  “Jamie,” he says, correcting Charlotte. “Nice to meet you.”

  He seems down-to-earth, like the kind of guy Charlotte would date, and the complete opposite of me. For some reason, I am jealous of him, which makes me even more irritable.

  “Likewise,” I say to Jamie, feigning interest.

  Kane hands me the marker clutched between his fingers and goes back to talking to Donovan about the game and how we can improve next time.

  Get a new team?

  “Hey, Alex,” Rico says to me with a grin. “Can you autograph my jersey?”

  I bend down to meet his gaze and reach into my gym bag. “I can do you one better, kid.” Gripping an extra jersey, I rest it on my thigh and sign my name in the white lines of my number—thirty-three, the same number I have worn since I was a kid. I always keep a few pucks and jerseys in my bag to give to the fans. I was like Rico at one time, and I know exactly what it’s like to look up to a player, only to have them pretend like you don’t exist.

  My father played in the NHL for five years before a high check to the jaw gave him a concussion that ended his professional career. My mother didn’t want him to play anymore, and it’s not like he had a choice. Not long after his injury, we moved to Boston where he became a college hockey coach. Because of his reputation as a no-nonsense coach with the wins to back it up, my father eventually got an offer as an assistant coach with the Bruins.

  That worked out well for my mother because that meant we could still live in Boston, and she could maintain her lifestyle as a lying, cheating whore. Little did my father know that her real motivation for wanting to stay was the athletic director at Boston College, whom she was banging behind his back. After their divorce, it was just my dad and me…until this past summer.

  The first time I met a professional hockey player, I was just as excited as Rico, but it was a complete disappointment. My father was furious with his player for being such a jerk, and I always promised that, if I ever made it pro, I would never be that player, the one who refuses to acknowledge their fans.

  I offer my jersey to Rico, and he gladly takes it, showing it off to Charlotte. She glances down at me, her eyes wide with excitement for Rico, as he holds it up.

  As I stand from a crouched position, Charlotte places her hand on my shoulder and leans into me. “Thank you so much, Alex. I know that meant the world to Rico. Maybe you’re not as bad as I thought.” She moves closer, her voice almost a whisper. “But, if you ever tell me to put my tits on the glass again, I’m going to kick your ass.”

  I laugh into the crook of my elbow, attempting not to draw any attention from those chatting around us. “I wasn’t talking to you when I said that, just so you know.”

  She takes a step back, and her hand drops from my shoulder to her side. “You looked right at me when you said it.”

  “I was talking to the girls behind you.”

  Charlotte scowls at me. “You are such a pig. It’s a shame because you have moments when I think you’re a decent guy, small things that make me like you, and then you and that stupid mouth of yours have to go and ruin any chance of us ever getting along. Just because you’re rich and famous doesn’t mean that every girl is going to spread her legs because you say hello.”

  I laugh, now wanting to challenge her. “And that is where you are wrong, sweetheart, because it has worked so far.”

  I realize what I have said and instantly regret it. I’m a fucking idiot.

  I keep talking to her as if she were a puck bunny, not the sexy, sporty agent who works for Mickey. With Charlotte, I keep saying and doing the wrong things. Every time we are close, my chest fills with nervous anticipation. She’s unlike any girl I’ve ever met.

  We’ve entered into a staring contest—me wanting to take Charlotte into the locker room and fuck her brains out, and her looking as though she wants to murder me. The tension between us is so thick, it makes my head spin.

  She sucks in a deep breath and draws my attention to her breasts. I can’t wait to get her out of the bulky jerseys I’ve seen her wear so far.

  As if she knows what I’m thinking, she says, “Not a chance, Parker,” as she presses her finger into my chest.

  Now, she’s acting like I’m her client again, flipping back to professional mode, with the same attitude she gave me the night we met. I guess I should feel lucky that it’s not Mr. Parker today.

  “We’ll see about that, won’t we?” I counter.

  Jamie hooks his arm around Charlotte and says, “Ready, babe?”

  Without a glance in my direction, she turns her head to face Jamie and smiles lovingly. “Yep, let’s go home.”

  Jamie thanks me for the tickets with Charlotte in his arm, and as they walk away, he pulls her close to his chest into a hug and kisses her forehead. Clearly, Charlotte has a man, but all I know is that I want her more than I have ever wanted another woman.

  Alex

  By the time I find Scores, the parking lot is crowded, and my stomach is going apeshit. The amount of cars in the parking lot on a Saturday at six p.m. takes me by surprise. They must have, like Kane said, the best tits in the city. I can’t imagine they come here for the food.

  I get out of my car and make my way toward the door, dressed casually in jeans and a fitted shirt. My only hope is that no one recognizes me and takes my picture. I probably should have worn a hat, but I wasn’t thinking when I left the Wells Fargo Center after the game. The last thing I need after less than one week in Philadelphia is another publicized scandal.

  Kane and Donovan greet me at a door on the side of the building, talking to a beautiful woman in her mid-twenties. She’s wearing a tight black dress that shows off her cleavage and long legs. Black hair falls in waves over an impressive rack.

  “You showed up,” Kane says, almost surprised. “Nichols bailed on us, so it’s just the three of us tonight.” He turns to the woman and says, “Drea, we’re ready. If you wouldn’t mind, please show my new friend here the VIP treatment.”

  Drea moves closer and holds her palm out to me, her lips curled up into a tiny smile. I place my hand in hers and allow her to lead me into the dim club, flanked by Kane and Donovan.

  It looks like your typical strip club—neon lights, mirrored walls, leather benches, tables with chairs, three stages toward the front, and a shitload of guys who are crowded around the girls. But it actually smells good. The scent of herbs and spices lingers in the air instead of the usual smell of cigarettes, desperation, and sex.

  “Alex, right? I hear you’re new to Philly. I’ll make sure our girls show you a good t
ime.” Drea winks at me.

  “I’d rather you show me a good time,” I quip.

  Drea laughs. “You wish. I manage the girls and work the bar when we’re shorthanded, but I don’t dance. And I don’t think that would go over well with my boss.”

  Kane taps me on the shoulder to get my attention and whispers, “That one is off-limits. Remember what I told you about this place?”

  “Oh, right,” I say, recalling what he said about Scores being a front for the Philadelphia Mafia. No girl is worth getting whacked.

  She steers me into a private room with the same colored lights and leather couches as the rest of the establishment. But this is much nicer than what I’ve come to expect. Tiled in dark marble instead of carpet, the floor has a certain shine to them, and a small chandelier suspends from the center of the mirrored ceiling. Everywhere I look, I can see my reflection staring back at me.

  Behind a small bar to my right, a busty blonde waits for us, topless. She flashes a sexy smile and says, “Hello.” Her tits jiggle as she raises a bottle of vodka, looking like the girl next door that you didn’t know was really a closet freak.

  Drea holds out her hand and points at the couches. “Gentlemen, make yourselves comfortable. Whenever you’re ready, help yourselves to some food. I’ll go get the girls. Alex, any preference? I already know what these two like.”

  “Yeah, you do, baby,” Kane says. He looks at the girl behind the bar and raises his index finger, beckoning her to come. “Candy, get your fine ass over here. Come show my new teammate some love.”

  Candy gathers the three shot glasses she just poured and walks around the bar and toward us.

  I take the glass from Candy and turn to Drea, knocking it back in one swig. The vodka burns on the way down, but it feels good to get some alcohol in my system. “No, I don’t care. Whatever girls you think I’ll like.”

  “Works for me,” Drea says with a nod and walks out of the room.

  Kane shakes Candy from his arm and moves toward me. “I don’t know about you, but I’m starving, and the Marcheses make the best food in town. You’ve gotta try it.”

  The thought of eating in a strip club makes me want to vomit, considering how many bodily fluids are exchanged on any given night, but it doesn’t look like the normal sleazy joint I’ve been to a thousand times. My stomach is growling too much for me to ignore the hunger pains. Plus, I don’t want to risk puking later because I was dumb enough to get shit-faced on an empty stomach.

  I follow Kane to the buffet set up at the back of the room. A young girl in a black tank top stands behind the table, a plate in her hand, ready to serve us.

  Kane gives her a tiny smile. “Just give us a little of everything, sugar.”

  “Hey, Bambie,” Donovan says, leaning on the table. “What’s shakin’?”

  She chuckles, blush spreading across her cheeks. “Other than my tits, not much, Carter.”

  I don’t think I’ve ever been on a first-name basis with a stripper in my life. Kane and Donovan are starting to make me feel like I’m not as much of a scumbag as the papers have led everyone to believe. Now, banging puck bunnies is a whole other story. There’s no shortage of those.

  After Bambie hands us our plates, we sit on the couches and eat our food. Kane is right. This is the best Italian food I’ve ever tasted. I go back for seconds and thirds by the time Drea appears again with five girls.

  Per my request, Candy sits a tray of shot glasses on the table. I plan to drink every single one of them. After all, I didn’t come here for pussy; I came here to drink. Leaning back against the leather, I pound a few shots of Johnnie Walker Blue Label before a brunette hops onto my lap, completely nude.

  Nice.

  I’m glad this isn’t one of those bullshit clubs that are only topless. At least my new teammates know how to pick them.

  Kane sits down next to me, his arm wrapped around a dark-haired girl with pierced nipples. To my left, Donovan has his face shoved between Candy’s breasts. I’m more concerned with shoveling down the shots of whiskey on the table in front of me. Holding on to the girl gyrating on my dick, I reach around her to grab another shot.

  Kane nudges me with his elbow. “Welcome to the team, man. We’re glad to have you. Our defense sucks right now, and we can use someone with your skills.”

  “I’ve noticed. The team rankings are horrible with the exception of Donovan’s save percentage. And you’re killing it. What do you have? About thirty points already?”

  “Thirty-two,” he corrects. “Maybe you can help us whip this team into shape. I dreamed of playing for the Flyers since I was a kid. I can’t imagine playing for another team, but I’d like to have a shot at the Stanley Cup someday. Shit, I’d even settle for first-round playoffs at this point.”

  “We don’t have a lot to work with.” I pound the amber liquid in my hand and continue, “But I’m willing to give it a shot. I was so close to a championship last year before the bullshit with the owner’s granddaughter.”

  “Yeah, I heard about that.”

  “I think everyone in the country has heard about it at this point.”

  “What a bunch of shit. They really dragged your ass through the mud over it because of her age. How the hell did they get the tape the next day anyway?”

  After the third song ends, the brunette slides off me, allowing another girl to take her place. I’m so buzzed from my eighth shot that her face is a bit of a blur. The one girl I really want isn’t single, and she can’t stand to breathe the same air as me.

  I shrug against the couch. “They claim that a security guard watched the whole thing while it was happening and offered the local news the tape in exchange for money.”

  I don’t even want to mention the part about how I suspect one of my teammates of knowing the girl was young and setting the whole thing up. Not that it matters who orchestrated it because I’m the one who decided to take the bait when she threw herself at me. I didn’t want to take her back to my apartment or attempt to fuck her in my Porsche. It was my teammate who suggested The Ritz-Carlton before we left the bar that night.

  Holding on to the stripper’s waist, Kane raises his eyebrows. “That’s illegal, isn’t it?”

  “Who the fuck knows? It didn’t matter once it hit YouTube. Fucking video had forty-million hits online before my lawyer managed to get it taken down from their site.”

  “Damn. Tough break, man. I guess it’s a good thing she wasn’t one of those chicks looking to get famous or score money from a sex tape.”

  “Anything would’ve been better than her being the team owner’s granddaughter. The old man was so pissed, he told the GM that he couldn’t stand the sight of me and for him to find a way to get rid of me. Now, here I am, getting trashed with you two degenerates.”

  “Hey,” Donovan says without taking his eyes off the girl in front of him. “Speak for yourself, Parker.”

  Double-fisting the last two shot glasses on the table, I raise one to Donovan and the other to Kane, and they raise their beer bottles in acknowledgment.

  Eight hours later, we stumble into the parking lot, thousands of dollars lighter and with three girls on our arms. We’re so drunk that Drea had to call us a limo to take us back to my apartment. It’s two a.m., and my stomach is turning from all the alcohol I’ve consumed. But, at least when I’m drunk, I don’t have to think about everything that’s happened in the past year. It’s only a temporary fix, but it’s become the one constant in my life, and I need it more than sex or hockey some days.

  All I can think about is opening that bottle of Macallan and passing out on my sofa. Not the girl draped on my arm or the fact that I have a meeting with the general manager of my team in the afternoon. Before we reach my building, we roll through the drive-through at McDonald’s and devour two combo meals each. The girls ordered a milk shake that they’re feeding to each other, putting on a show, as if they were still at work.

  Once the driver drops us off at my place, we take the eleva
tor to the twenty-fifth floor and barrel into my apartment, about to start the final leg of this party. Kane opens the refrigerator and sets six bottles of Heineken on the island. He flips off the tops with the bottle opener on his keychain and slides them down the bar to each of us.

  I usually save beer for guests, reserving the good liquor for myself. Beer is like water to an alcoholic. It’s never strong enough and takes way too much to get hammered. I’m not one of those people who enjoys the taste of expensive liquors, but if I’m planning to get wasted, it should be top shelf, preferably imported.

  Donovan finds the switch on the wall for the sound system that’s wired throughout the apartment and turns on a classic rock channel. Def Leppard’s music fills the room, the beat of the bass making the floor vibrate beneath my foot. The brunette I took home after her shift follows me to the couch, her beer raised to her lips.

  Before I get a chance to sit, she attaches herself to my arm. I’m unstable after drinking so much whiskey, her extra weight causing us to fall backward and onto the leather. I stare at the lights across the river as Trixie, or whatever made-up stripper name she uses, straddles me and then removes her top. Taking my hand, she slides it onto her breast and begins to grind on me.

  I polish off my beer by the time the song ends, and Donovan hands me another before taking a seat next to me with his girl. The room is spinning nicely, my mind drifting to another plane. Resting my head back against the cushion, I take a swig of my beer and focus on the girl in front of me, Charlotte.

  No, that’s not right.

  I blink a few times, almost positive I’m dreaming, until the stripper rolls onto the other side of the couch, and Charlotte stands over me, an angry scowl on her face. She’s talking, but I can barely read her lips to make out the words. The music is so loud, each thump of the bass makes my head pound.

  Someone turns the music down, and now, Charlotte is sitting next to me, placing her hand on my forehead.

  “How much did you drink?” she asks.

  “A fuck-ton,” I mumble, slurring my words.