For You, I Will: A Shots on Goal Spinoff (Shots On Goal Standalone Book 7)
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For You, I Will
A Shots on Goal Spinoff Romance
Kristen Hope Mazzola
Contents
Introduction
The New York Otters Logo
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Epilogue
Did you enjoy what you just read?
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About the Author
Also by Kristen Hope Mazzola
Acknowledgments
Hat Trick
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Copyright
For You, I Will
Copyright © 2018 Kristen Hope Mazzola
Published by Kristen Hope Mazzola
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, including electronic or mechanical, without written permission from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return it to the seller and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.
Cover Design: Kristen Hope Mazzola
Editing by:
C. Marie: editingbycmarie@gmail.com
Created with Vellum
Introduction
Dear Reader!
Dilfs come in many shapes and forms. From older, confident, in-control men to the single dads who make our ovaries explode. Either way, we gotta admit, they are pretty panty melting!
This is a collaboration where authors have come together to celebrate Dilfs in a variety of ways for your reading enjoyment, bringing you brand spanking new reads. Temperatures might be dropping outside, but trust us when we say you might want to grab of an ice-cold drink while reading these!
Love,
Dilf Mania Authors
All DILF Mania Reads:
Steam It Up - Melanie Codina
Bearded Dessert - Teresa Crumpton
Revealing Him - Jennifer Domenico
Don't Be A D**k - Felicia Fox
Love Without End - Geri Glenn
I Hope You Dance - Jessika Klide
For You, I Will - Kristen Hope Mazzola
Gas Up the Jet, Baby: Nashville - Aubrey Parr
Daddy Dilemma - GM Scherbert
Quite Frankly - Mayra Statham
Daddin' Ain't Easy - Winter Travers
The New York Otters Logo
Dedication
By the by…
This one is for you.
Prologue
Cason
This is it.
My career is over before it could even start.
Limping into a new bar seemed like the only option for me. The doctors had spoken. There was no chance my knee was going to be saved enough for me to continue playing. My first game in the National Hockey League had also been my last.
One wrong move.
One dirty hit.
One check into the boards.
That was all it took, and I was going to have to figure out what my next move would be.
All I had ever wanted in my life was to be a professional hockey player, and my dreams had become a reality when I was recruited from my college team to be the left forward for the New York Otters. Practicing with those guys had been incredible. Skating alongside Chase Harding, Gavin Hayes, and the rest of the team was a dream come true. I had finally made it to the big leagues. I was ready to prove myself on my team—but I never got the chance. In an instant my life had started and stopped at the ripe age of twenty.
Fucking bullshit.
“What’re you drinking?” The young bartender leaned over the bar with a gentle, sneering simper.
“Whiskey neat,” I growled out, barely looking up from the bar top.
As she poured my drink, she glanced up at me. “Rough day?”
I shrugged, taking the rocks glass from her. “What gave it away?”
Her dewy voice cooed as she started to wipe down the bar to my right. “The furrowed brow coupled with drinking at three in the afternoon. Besides, I’m good at my job. Most people pour themselves into dive bars to soothe woes and get a little therapy from the bartender.” Her dewy voice cooed as she started to wipe down the bar to my right.
“It’s been a rough week,” I acknowledged, gripping the glass in my hand.
SportsCenter was playing on a television off in the corner. To add insult to injury, the newscaster started playing the reel from the devastating career-shattering blow I had taken only weeks prior.
“The New York Otters rookie, Cason Bennett, suffered a blow that has put him out at least for the season, if not longer. Bennett took a skate to the knee, a career-ending injury, rumors have said.” The gruff anchor’s words sent daggers into me as I quickly slammed the amber liquid to the back of my throat.
“Another please,” I called over to the bartender.
She filled my glass straight from the bottle.
“So, Cason, wanna talk about it?” Finally I looked up into her kind face, the blue of her eyes piercing as she tried to lend a sympathetic ear.
“Not really. You heard the guy—that’s it in a nutshell. I’m finished. That’s all she wrote.” There was nothing more to add. The rumors were true, and the Otters were going to be throwing me out on my ass before the next game. There was no use keeping a broken rookie on payroll after he couldn’t even make it through the first period of his first game.
“That’s a bad break. I’m sorry to hear it, but I’ll leave you to your whiskey. I’m Natty. If you need anything, just holler.”
“Thanks,” I muttered. “You can leave the bottle.”
“As you wish.” She reached down and placed the bottle of well whiskey in front of me.
The more I drank, the chattier I became. The hours passed with me spilling my guts to Natty as customers trickled in and out. She was sweet and extremely attractive. It could have been the booze, but it was nice to get attention from someone who wasn’t trying to get the scoop on my situation. She didn’t pry or probe with too many questions, just let me ramble on and on about how pissed I was about the entire situation.
“The worst part of it all is that game was on my birthday. What a fucking terrible birthday present.” I slammed down one more shot before asking for my check.
“Don’t worry about it.” Natty waved me off.
“I can’t do that,” I protested, taking a few twenties out of my wallet and placing them on the worn wood in front of me.
“Think of it as a belated, well-deserved birthday present.” Natty shot me a quick wink, shoving the bills toward me. “Besides, the company was nice—made my shift go by faster.”
I glanced down at my watch and saw it was getting close to their closing t
ime. “Crap, I’ve been here a while.”
“I get off in about an hour and change. Want some more company for the night? You still seem down.”
“I’d like that.” Going home to an empty apartment sounded awful. I scribbled my address and number onto a clean bar napkin and handed it to the beautiful bartender.
“See you in a bit.”
Slumping onto my couch, I realized how drunk I had actually gotten throughout the better part of the afternoon and evening.
Nothing a pizza won’t cure.
Natty was due to arrive at my place in about an hour, and I figured food after a long shift would be a nice gesture for how kind she had been to me.
I hated that I had been reduced to using a cane, but the physical therapist was hopeful that my knee would eventually heal enough for me to no longer need it. The limp, however, would probably never go away, just one more reminder of all that had been lost.
Get a damn grip.
It was ridiculous how whiney I had become. The poor me attitude I had adopted was starting to get old, even to myself. I just didn’t know how to shake it.
After the pizza arrived, I chugged a few large glasses of water and popped a few ibuprofen. The doctors had given me stronger medicine, but I hated taking them unless the pain was unmanageable. I was a lightweight when it came to pharmaceuticals, and I didn’t want to be a loopy mess when my visitor arrived.
A light knock sounded on my front door.
“Come in,” I called from the couch. It took me a few seconds longer than usual to get up. Gripping my cane, I finally hoisted myself to my feet as Natty started to walk into the front room.
“Nice digs,” she remarked sincerely as I helped her take off her coat.
“It’s not much, but it’s home,” I responded. “Can I get you something to drink?”
“Wine?”
Natty followed me into the kitchen as I showed her the many bottles of reds and whites I kept stocked in my wine cooler.
“What are you, some kind of sommelier or something?” Natty glanced over the bottles of expensive nectar.
I rubbed the back of my neck. “Actually, I don’t like the stuff at all, but my mother always said you have to be prepared to be a good host and having good wine is the first step.”
“Classy lady.” Natty took out a Mt. Difficulty Roaring Meg Pinot Noir. “This will do.”
“Hungry?” I questioned as I poured a hearty amount into a stemless glass.
“Starved.”
“There’s a peperoni pizza in the oven.”
Natty took my hand, kissing my cheek quickly. “You really are a good host.”
I pulled down a plate, handing it to her. “Just trying to be a gentleman.”
“I think you’re succeeding.”
After watching a few reruns of The Wonder Years with Natty’s head resting on my shoulder, she grabbed the remote and paused the show.
Turning to me, she cocked her head to the side. “So are you going to kiss me or what?”
Her question took me be surprise. “I didn’t want to be too forward.”
Straddling my lap, Natty cupped my face in her hands. “You really are one of the last real gentlemen left in this entire city.”
Before I could challenge her statement, she crushed her lips to mine, and b
eing gentlemanly flew out the window in an instant, letting my primal hunger flood in. Gripping her hair in my hands, I plunged my tongue into her mouth, tasting the sweet subtle notes of the wine she had just consumed.
Pulling away from me, her eyes smoldered. “Some simple rules for the evening.”
“All right,” I agreed, letting my hands run down her sides.
“We don’t let this turn into a thing. We’re a one-night, fun-filled adventure, and that is it. We can have our fun, but after that, it’s over.” She was resolute in her plan.
“What if it goes well?” I naïvely asked.
“Even if it does, a deal’s a deal. You don’t have my number, and you won’t come back into the bar. Agreed? If not, I’ll see myself out.”
“Deal.” There was no protesting it. There wasn’t a point. One night of fun or nothing at all—the choice was simple in my young brain.
Chapter 1
Stormi
A few weeks later
“Cierra hurry up!” I grabbed for my twin sister’s hand. “We’re going to miss our train.”
Her eyes were still locked on a Bruce Springsteen poster advertising the next few dates of his current tour.
“But the Boss!” she exclaimed as I dragged her along.
“We can look it up when we get back to the apartment. I have to get these notes in before my boss pushes my story again. If I’m going to be taken seriously, I cannot be late again.” My heart was racing. I knew it was crunch time. I was on the brink of finally being taken seriously as a sports journalist, but my big break wasn’t going to come if I didn’t put in the work in a timely manner.
“Fine.” She gave in and trotted behind me.
We squeaked in just as the train’s doors were about to close.
“Thank God,” I said with a sigh, gripping the side rail as the subway car started to whisk us to Chelsea.
Cierra continued to go on and on about how badly she wanted to finally see Bruce Springsteen in concert. “You know he isn’t going to be touring forever. We could go as our Christmas presents to each other.”
Just as I was going to give in to my twin’s wishes, a familiar face caught my eye.
“Where do I know him from?” I shamelessly stared at the young, tall, broad-chested man who sat gripping a cane only seats away from where we stood.
“Never seen that guy in my life.” Cierra shrugged.
My sister and I were opposites in almost every way. She loved dolls, pink, and dresses. I loved sports, reading, and combat boots. The only things we truly shared were our last name, dark hair, green eyes, and love for each other. She was the yin to my yang, the perfect balance that I needed in life.
“Holy shit!” I exclaimed. “That’s Cason Bennett.”
“And who in the ever-loving fuck is Cason Bennett?”
“He’s the guy who blew out his knee in the Otters game last month. No one can get an interview with him. He’s been refusing to comment on his situation.”
Cierra shot me a devilish simper. “That’s going to change today.”
Grabbing my elbow, my twin escorted me over to the melancholy man with headphones in.
She forcefully tapped him on the shoulder.
“Can I help you?” Cason snapped with an annoyed crease in his forehead.
“Are you this Cason guy everyone has been talking about?” she barked loudly.
His dark eyes darted around the car before locking onto her stern gaze. “Why are you asking?”
“This is my sister, Stormi Talkington. You might have heard of her.” Cierra was on a mission.
Cason shook his head. “Should I have? I’m sorry, but I have no idea who she is.”
Finally, I cleared my throat as the shock of what my forward twin had done sank in. “I’m a sports journalist for Athletics Illuminated. I’d love to do an exclusive with you.”
He bit his lip. “Like I’ve told countless reporters, I have nothing to say.”
“There’s always something to say,” I retorted, shoving my card into his hand. “Just think about it. I promise I will give you the voice you deserve after such a tragedy. I watched some of your practices—you really are a talented hockey player.”
“Was. I was talented,” he tranquilly argued.
“Let’s agree to disagree on that one. Anyway, you have my number if you change your mind. Thank you for your time.” I hooked my arm with Cierra’s as the train slowed to a stop.
“I’ll think about it,” Cason called after us.
“That’s all I ask.” I shot a quick wink over my shoulder as my sister and I exited the train.
Frantically, I typed out the notes I had for
my next piece. It was total fluff, but I didn’t have anything else. A highlight on the upcoming wedding of Chase Harding and Nikki Jennings, it was a twofer—he was a rising hockey star, and she was a prima ballerina for the New York City ballet. Not one of my more gritty stories, but it would pay the bills.
Tanya Turner, my editor-in-chief, was always trying to get me to do puff pieces, and she was finally going to get her wish.
It only took a few minutes for my phone to start ringing.
“Ms. Turner, that was fast,” I answered.
“Finally some sugary sweet gold that will help bring in a female audience. Nice work, Stormi. Have the article on my desk by Friday and we’ll run it.”
“Thank you, Ms. Turner.” My heart fluttered. Being a journalist was all I had ever wanted. The fact that I had dropped out of King’s College before my junior year could start had undeniably been a setback, but I didn’t care. My work would have to speak for itself. The day our mother got diagnosed with stage four renal cancer, Cierra and I had both agreed we would spend her last months taking care of her and living life to the fullest with her. It had been the right choice, but it was a hard path to follow.
Cierra had decided to go back to school, but I’d dived headfirst into working. I took every writing job I could get my hands on. Finally, Tanya had taken a chance on me—the chance of a lifetime—and I was determined to prove my worth.