When the scandal of a double homicide threatens to destroy his career, this billionaire hockey player hires an ambitious sports agent to improve his public image. It's time to let the puckery begin.
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Timothée Croneau is that jock—the bad boy superstar with the naughty reputation. He’s handsome, arrogant, and a billionaire. He’s also the number one person of interest in a double homicide and recently traded to a losing team who is showing him no love. And wouldn’t it be just his luck that his career splashed in the toilet six months after his long-time agent kicked the bucket? Now, he’s stuck with Ryker Kitsch.
An agent is supposed to fix his life, though, not break his heart.
Speaking of breaks, ex-athlete Ryker Kitsch wants his in the sports agency realm. He sees his chance to make a name for himself by helping rebrand his agency’s newly acquired hockey star, Timothée Croneau. The guy needs every lick of positive PR he can get. So, why is the devilishly gorgeous forward fighting him at every step and leaving Ryker to wonder if he’s been hired for a babysitting gig?
The mess Timothée is stirring was never in any contact Ryker was hired to handle. One thing's for sure. Whether it’s a forecheck or backcheck, collision is inevitable.
Also by Genevive Chamblee
Locker Room Love Romance
Out of the Penalty Box
Defending the Net
Ice Gladiators
Penalty Kill
Penalty Kill
A Locker Room Love Novel
Genevive Chamblee
Hot Tree Publishing
Penalty Kill © 2021 by Genevive Chamblee
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All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any written, electronic, recorded, or photocopied format without the express permission from the author or publisher as allowed under the terms and conditions with which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorized distribution, circulation or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s rights, and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly. Thank you for respecting the work of this author.
Penalty Kill is a work of fiction. All names, characters, events and places found therein are either from the author's imagination or used fictitiously. Any similarity to persons alive or dead, actual events, locations, or organizations is entirely coincidental and not intended by the author.
For information, contact the publisher, Hot Tree Publishing.
www.hottreepublishing.com
Editing: Hot Tree Editing
Cover Designer: BookSmith Design
E-book ISBN: 978-1-922359-81-0
Paperback ISBN: 978-1-922359-82-7
Contents
Foreword
Author Note
1. Timothée
2. Ryker
3. Timothée
4. Ryker
5. Timothée
6. Timothée
7. Ryker
8. Timothée
9. Ryker
10. Timothée
11. Ryker
12. Timothée
13. Ryker
14. Timothée
15. Ryker
16. Timothée
17. Ryker
18. Timothée
19. Ryker
20. Timothée
21. Ryker
22. Ryker
23. Timothée
24. Ryker
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Genevive Chamblee
About the Publisher
More Books to Check Out
This book is not dedicated to any grumpy, petty, rude, trifling, or spiteful people. Instead, it is dedicated to decent folks; aka the rest of humankind. Life is a playground. Enjoy it while you can.
To CKMC, I would like to say that it’s true. Mommy knows best.
Finally, to my precious Leah. You are so missed.
Foreword
It’s okay to laugh.
Author Note
Louisiana is very rich with culture and diversity. Two of the main cultures are Cajun and Creole. These cultures are not the same. Cajuns heritage is traced to Acadian settlers (mainly from Nova Scotia and New Brunswick, Canada). Creoles have a very diverse heritage of French, African, Spanish, and Native American. Likewise, there exist differences in the dialect and French spoken. Both are slightly different than the French spoken in Europe and Canada. Additionally, Creole French has differences than Cajun French. Finally, Louisiana being a southern state, a lot of southern terms also have been incorporated into the language. Accents of persons living in north Louisiana may be different than persons living in south Louisiana.
1
Timothée
“I’m almost thirty years old. I can’t have this happening at this point in my career.” Well, if twenty-seven counted as being close to thirty, which in hockey came close to being ancient. Timothée Croneau stopped pacing, stared out the high-rise hotel room, and swished the Glendronach in his Glencairn glass. His usually silky voice, now low and edgy, sliced through the silence consuming the room since the midday news report ended minutes ago. “You must do something.”
“These things take time to navigate,” Lesley replied, her tone smooth and gentle.
“Navigate?” His anger erupted. “No one has time for that. The press is filleting me with a dull butter knife. I won’t have any career left. This city already doesn’t like me.”
“Calm down.”
“Don’t tell me to calm down. You convinced me to sign with this coral reef of hockey’s overrated has-beens and never-will-bes.”
“It was a good deal.”
His eyes narrowed at the agent’s reflection in the glass. She’d been highly recommended, but now he reanalyzed his decision. Not to be an insensitive asshole, but Bub having a massive heart attack and dropping dead six months ago couldn’t have come at a more inopportune time. Of course, if Bub hadn’t been messing around with women half his age, gulping deep-fried pans of clogged arteries, and snorting any substance not painted on a wall, his expiration may not have happened at all.
Despite any personal shortcomings Bub may have had, he’d been a top-notch sports agent. No one would ever be able to fill his shoes. So why couldn’t this bullshit happening now happen six months ago? Or better yet, why couldn’t Bub have stalled kicking the bucket the same way he’d held out when negotiating deals? So, who was the real asshole in this situation, Timothée wondered. Bub for dying or him for being pissed about it?
“Seriously?” Timothée snapped. “You’re going to look me in the eye and say that with a straight face?”
“I’m looking at your back.”
Timothée spun on his heels to face her, his jaw clenched. “How about now?”
“We were fortunate to negotiate it.”
“We? I’m”—he jabbed his finger against his chest—“a person of interest in a homicide investigation, and you think the deal was good? What part of that screams fortunate?” He couldn’t entertain discussing the other half of this shitstorm—aka his new team—at present. That would have to take a back seat for another day.
“Your predicament has nothing to do with your contract.”
“First, had I not signed, I could have been a couple thousand miles away with another team and nowhere near here, which would make for an excellent alibi. And second, what do you mean, predicament? A predicament is attending a gala wearing the same out-of-season ensemble as someone else. This isn’t some fucking tea party.”
“Please lower your voice.” Lesley massaged her temple.
“Why? I don’t care who hears me. I didn’t kill anybody.”
“Shouting at me isn’t going to help.”
<
br /> “You should be shouting it to the world.” Admittedly, shouting wouldn’t improve his situation, but at the moment, it made him feel better. Well, not really. But his anger needed a target, and Lesley happened to be standing in his path. Too bad for her.
“You’re being unreasonable.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.” Timothée snorted, tapping his foot. “No one filled me in on the proper going-to-prison etiquette. Should I spit shine my Bolvaints to go with my orange jumpsuit or instead schedule an appointment for a pedicure to flaunt in the state-issued flip-flops? What color do you suggest I procure? Graveyard gray or prison pink?”
Lesley parted her lips to speak, but a knock on the door interrupted her. Her eyebrow arched. “You expecting someone?”
“No.”
“I’ll see who it is.”
“Get rid of them.”
Lesley crossed the room in quick, short steps and smoothed her skirt before opening the door. “Ryker, what are you doing here?”
“I heard about your situation and thought I could ride shotgun.”
She shushed him. “Shotgun?”
“Oh, poor choice of words. Sorry.”
Timothée shifted to glance at the intriguing, rich bass voice vibrating from the other side of the threshold and through his body, but Lesley’s position in the doorway obscured his view. All he could manage was a crop of rumpled russet waves and a sliver of a navy blazer-covered arm. The man spoke with a subdued confidence.
“Thank you, but I have it under control.” Lesley’s tone failed to conceal her annoyance, and she moved to close the door.
Ryker twisted with a flexibility of a contortionist and scooted inside seconds before the door slammed shut.
“Wait. You can’t burst in here,” Lesley continued to protest.
“C’mon.” Ryker gave his best—which wasn’t much—innocent expression. “It’s hardly bursting.”
“Edgar sent you, didn’t he?”
“What difference does it make?”
“Because Timothée is my client,” she hissed beneath her breath. “This isn’t professional.”
Timothée inched forward and strained to hear the muttered conversation. What the Sam Hill is this crap?
“You could use some help,” Ryker argued.
Lesley shook her head. “Not your kind of help.”
“Now that’s not fair. I—”
Timothée cleared his throat, demanding attention.
Ryker peered around Lesley to Timothée and grinned a toothy smile that would give an orthodontist an orgasm, his green eyes sparkling as if they’d been sprinkled with iridescent fairy dust.
Timothée’s throat parched as the stunning specimen of maleness came into view. Holy shit, he’s gorgeous. That mouth alone is carved for wickedness. A delicious shiver skipped the length of his spine. He swallowed hard and shook away the dozens of lascivious images that had instantaneously detonated in his mind. No, eyes, teleport back in my head.
“Hi, I’m Ryker Kitsch. I’m—”
“Just leaving.” Lesley grasped Ryker’s arm and spun him to face the door.
Timothée spoke before he thought better of it because, despite his mood, his interest piqued. “He can stay.” What can it hurt?
Lesley approached Timothée and stood in front of him. “Listen, I know you’re upset and scared, but I will handle this. You don’t need a flock of people in your inner circle mudding the waters right now. Okay?” She awaited Timothée’s acknowledgment by nodding before continuing. “Good. I’ll start by constructing a well-structured statement—”
“Along with his attorney, right?”
Both Lesley and Timothée whipped their glances toward Ryker, who had eased closer to where the pair was standing.
Attorney? “What?” The lines in Timothée’s face hardened.
“Any statement should be coordinated with your lawyer,” Ryker stated, sauntering the perimeter of the suite and surveying the amenities. He paused at a contemporary art piece, tilted his head, and then turned to face the others.
Lesley cast her coworker a warning glare. “Surely you’re not suggesting some clout-chasing attorney be his mouthpiece.”
“I’m suggesting working closely with his legal representation in this legal matter.”
Folding his arms across his broad chest, Timothée grunted. “Innocent people don’t need lawyers.”
“On the contrary, they’re the ones who need them the most,” Ryker rebutted. “Now is not the time to have your words twisted or have the media tell your story only to later have those words bite you in the buttocks. There needs to be one consistent story.”
Timothée’s eyebrows pinched together. “I don’t need a story. I have the truth.” Sorta.
“The truth, my friend—”
“We’re not friends.” Timothée scanned Ryker’s tall, fit frame from head to toe. His wide shoulders narrowed to a slender waist. Swimmer. His suit didn’t look tailored, but it fit him well and covered most of the scuffs on the tops of his loafers. Not the most expensive but trendy—or it would be if several seasons ago remained trendy. Despite the pleasing visual, Timothée refused to be distracted by a handsome face and sexy voice.
“Maybe not. But it doesn’t change the fact that the truth is decided by the court of public opinion. The media want a story that sells, and they don’t give a damn about journalistic integrity or vetting facts. What they publish is all the juicy bits, which is all the more reason to stay abreast of this. The lawyers dictate what to say, and we pretty it up.”
“We?” Lesley snapped.
Timothée smirked. Ah, the poetic justice. How does that “we” feel now?
“Yes, Lesley, Mr. Croneau is going to need a team of people he can trust.”
Oh, so now it’s Mr. Croneau when seconds ago it was friend. “And who says I can trust you?”
The glint in Ryker’s eyes darkened. “Well, let’s see now. Your estranged mother and stepfather were found riddled with triple-aught buckshot. You can’t recall your whereabouts for the last forty-eight hours, and you stand to inherit your family’s estate and holdings estimated at three hundred million dollars. Not to mention your widely publicized insensitive remarks to the media about your current city. And oh, let’s not forget you having a public shouting match threatening your stepfather two weeks ago.” He rocked back on his heels and hooked his thumbs in his front trouser pockets. “I’d say you’re a PR nightmare who could use all the help you can garner with not a lot of people lining up to assist with that duty.”
Sarcastic son of a bitch. Timothée’s jaws clenched. “Why bother with a trial? Sounds like you’ve convicted me already.” He cocked an eyebrow. “And how do you know all of this anyway?”
“Your housekeeper, gardener, and pool boy. While there may not be a line willing to help you, there are plenty who would like to have you stoned. It only cost me two hundred bucks combined. Most tabloids are willing to pay a whole lot more.”
They’re all fucking fired. Can’t trust anyone. I knew I should have had them sign NDAs. Honestly, Timothée wasn’t surprised.
“Wait. How do you know the ballistics?” No one had said anything about the caliber of gun.
“Toby Harrelson, a reporter from XJJ, reported it on his morning show.”
Lesley frowned. “How’d he know?”
Shrugging, Ryker glanced between Timothée and Lesley. “I imagine he has connections. He is a reporter—granted, a bottom-of-the-barrel-parasite one. He makes his living scratching up dirt. I mean, this is the same man who got sued for printing Henrik Habeeb’s, a Hall of Famer, private sex photos. A great sports icon like Henrik, having commentated Sports Heartbeat for over forty years, splashed across all media in black fishnets, red stilettos, and golf ball gag in his mouth, chained to some torture contraption that looked as if it had been zapped from the Middle Ages. Totally ruined his career. I wouldn’t expect Harrelson to coddle you, Mr. Croneau.”
“Shut up,” Lesley snapped. “Th
at’s not helping.”
Ryker shifted and stared owlishly. “You asked.”
A shotgun. Timothée had hoped against hope it wasn’t true when the detectives first inquired about his ownership of guns and he’d discovered one missing from the rack.
A wave of nausea coiled at the base of Timothée’s throat, and his knees weakened. I need a lawyer. Squeezing his eyes shut, he turned his back to his visitors, set his glass on a table, and walked to the window. He peered at the people scuttling on the sidewalk. They looked so miniature and untroubled going to only God knows where. “Get out,” he murmured.
“Timothée—” Lesley began.
“I said, get out.” He banged his fist on the pane. “Out!”
“I’ll call you,” Lesley replied. “C’mon, Ryker.”
Timothée waited until he heard the door close, then leaned against the glass and dropped to his knees with his arms wrapped around his waist. Officers had banged on the door in the early morning hours, the pounding like a thousand drums waking him from his drunken stupor from the bachelor party… or as best he could recollect. The party had begun on Friday afternoon on Javahn’s yacht. He remembered having drinks and playing billiards while awaiting the arrival of strippers before sailing from port around six. More people arrived after they’d set sail. He’d been intoxicated by then, had fallen on the stairs, and stumbled to a couch. Then his memory hopscotched to Sunday morning. How or when he’d gotten from the marina to his house remained a mystery. What had happened? Not since his irresponsible youth when he and his friends would sneak airplane bottles from their parents’ wet bar had he not been able to handle his liquor. And even then, he didn’t black out—not even the night he’d spent doing shots with cheap convenience store booze that guaranteed a hangover.
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