by Abbey Foxx
ROOSTER
A Secret Baby Sports Romance
Abbey Foxx
© 2016 Abbey Foxx
Cover designed by Lunatic Design
All Rights Reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locations is purely coincidental. The characters are all productions of the author's imagination.
Please note that this work is intended only for adults over the age of 18 and all characters represented as 18 or over.
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“You miss 100 % of the shots you don't take.”
- Wayne Gretzky
Table of contents:
ROOSTER: A Secret Baby Sports Romance
About This Book
Prologue
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Five.
Six.
Seven.
Eight.
Nine.
Ten.
Eleven.
Twelve.
Thirteen.
Fourteen.
Epilogue.
RHINO: A Bad Boy Sports Romance
About This Book.
Prologue.
Part One.
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Five.
Six.
Seven.
Eight.
Part Two
Nine.
Ten.
Eleven.
Twelve.
Thirteen.
Fourteen.
Fifteen.
Epilogue.
About Abbey Foxx
Also by Abbey Foxx
About This Book:
Real men stick around.
Izzy
Guys like that are not meant to happen to girls like me at all.
Not once, and certainly not twice.
So, when I see that Rory O’Connor, Ireland’s most talked about bad boy sports star has been given a contract for the New York Rangers a full year after the last time I saw him, I feel like life is about to repeat itself.
Banned from his own sport for a lifetime and just out of prison for assault, he’s clearly going to be more than a handful.
But I already know that, even if I don’t really know him.
I know what he’s capable of because I get reminded of it every day.
Our baby, Oscar, is already three months old.
I wonder what he’ll say when he finds out. I wonder if I’ll even have the guts to tell him.
What I do know for certain is that I won’t be able to keep myself away from him for long.
That’s the thing I do know about Rory.
If there's something he wants, he won’t let anything get in his way.
Rory
I can’t believe I’ve been given a second chance.
My country has turned its back on me, but I’m not going to let that get me down.
When I get the contract to come over to the States, I can’t help but think someone’s looking out for me.
It doesn’t take her long to find me either, but I knew she wouldn't be able to resist.
Even if I hadn’t thought about her every day for a year, I’d still never forget her face, and now that I’m back, I’m not going to let anything keep us apart.
If there’s one thing I know how to do better than anyone else it’s fight and win for what I believe in.
She may not realize it yet, but Izzy’s definitely the only girl for me.
**This is a standalone, full length, bad boy sports romance with a secret baby, absolutely no cheating, and a happy ever after. It’s heavy on the steam, and has just enough sports action to be enjoyed by fans of both genres.**
***
ROOSTER:
A Secret Baby Sports Romance
Prologue.
Rory
There’s so much fucking stuff going on, I don’t know where to look. This must be an absolute nightmare for any poor fucker with epilepsy. Horns blaring, neon lights flashing, it’s complete chaos and I love it. It’s like hurling, on steroids, on ice, with pretty girls coming on at half time, or third time, or whatever the fuck it’s called. Twice.
I never thought ice hockey was going to be this brutal, but to be fair, stick any game in a cage and you’re already halfway there.
It’s not hurling, but it isn’t a bad substitute, even with all this padding. I’ve probably seen more attempts at fighting tonight than I have attempts at goals, which is something you’ve got to respect.
I’ve seen blood, stick slashing, kicking, helmet grabbing, headbutting, even full on mauling and that was just in the queue to get a fucking hot dog. I swear this crowd is just as pumped up as the players.
We get ice hockey in Ireland, but it’s nowhere near as popular as it is here. I’ve heard there’s supposed to be hurling here too, but everyone I’ve spoken to so far has no idea what the fuck it is.
Hockey with balls is the way I usually describe it. It’s the fastest fucking game on grass and the most violent too. If you don’t end each match with a break, a tear or something gouged out you’re doing something wrong. I love it too. Back in Ireland, I’m a superstar, yet over here, I’m just another Mick with a funny accent.
There are plenty of us around here as well, probably even more than there are back home. I haven’t been here all that long, and tonight may be my last night here, but I can’t move without seeing a traditional Irish bar or feeling like I’m in a weird parallel universe version of the fucking Emerald Isle.
It’s been a good week. I’ve done all the touristy shit you’re supposed to do, I’ve met some good people, Americans as well as Irish, I’ve eaten like a king and I’ve drunk several pints of shit Guinness. I’ve even met some pretty girls, not that I’ve managed to sleep with any. I’m hoping to change that tonight, though. You know, the luck of the Irish has got to come true at some point.
Girls are all over me back home, so it’s kind of weird to come here and not get even a sniff. I reckon they can’t handle me. Too big, too brash, even too fucking Irish for these lot. Maybe it’s the tattoos, maybe it’s the scars, maybe I should have gone to Boston instead. I didn’t expect it, but it seems like girls in New York are much more sensitive than I originally thought. You say one wrong thing and they get offended. I’m not exactly the most subtle person in the world, and maybe they’re just not used to my particular brand of humor, but I thought I’d get something at least. Obviously, this trip is for dossing around off season while I still have the chance, but a bit of skirt thrown into the mix wouldn’t exactly have gone amiss.
The crowd recoil in a wave as one of the players gets smashed up against the cage, his helmet half off, the end of the hockey stick up against his chin. It takes a while for the official to pull them apart, and when he finally does, blood drips from his nose and sinks into the ice.
I have no idea what the fuck’s going on, but I cheer with the crowd anyway when the player with the bloody nose is penalized, and then pulled off to get treated
. It seems a bit unfair, to say the least, but if you’re from the visiting team you’ve got to expect to get fucked over no matter what.
I learned that lesson from a young age, which is why I’m so good at fighting without the referees spotting it. Some people think that’s immoral, but anyone who knows how to do it right will tell you it’s part of the game.
When the medic has set his nose right, his broken stick has been swapped out and the tip sharpened up, he comes back onto the ice to a chaos of boos from everyone around me. Seriously, these people are worse than the crowd at a title fight. There are kids here too, cussing and spitting and shouting obscenities at the players, not even my grandmother would have the balls to say.
It’s fucking amazing.
The beer is shit and watered down, and I have no idea who the fuck is winning or losing, but this is pure entertainment in a way the Irish have no idea how to do. The entertainment we get at a hurling game is a fully grown man dressed as an animal walking up and down the touchline. The rugby’s no better, and the closest thing we get to cheerleaders are the slutty wives of some of the players, but they hardly make it out onto the field unless it’s some special fucking occasion.
Here you get so much shit going on at once it’s like going to a hockey game, a roller disco, a title fight, the cinema and a broadway show all in one go. With strippers thrown in for good measure.
If I didn’t have that fucking court case next week, I’d stay here for the rest of the year. Hurling season doesn’t start until January, so that would give me a couple of months at least to wear down some of these uptight New York lasses. I always thought Americans were more liberal when it came to putting out, but obviously, I’ve been misinformed.
I’m not a bad looking guy either. Alright, maybe the size of me puts some girls off, but surely that can’t be it. Don’t they like it big in the States? That’s what I’d always heard. Perhaps the luck of the Irish is just as fake as the pot of gold at the end of the fucking rainbow, and maybe I’m just not trying hard enough. To be honest, I haven’t met anyone who’s interested me enough to make me want to pull out all the fucking stops anyway, and I’m not the kind to go begging if someone’s playing hard to get.
I’ll put the work in, but I’m not bending over backward to get laid. I’m not that desperate, and back home, like I already said, I’ve got red headed, milky skinned, pink nippled beauties by the dozen lining up to make me feel special.
That’s the best thing about being single. You get to be your own man, and you get whichever girl you want whenever you want her by your side.
Actually, that’s one of the best things about being an international fucking superstar too, even if no-one’s ever heard of me over here. Chicks fucking love hard men, and there aren’t any harder men than those who hurl, and out of those who hurl there aren’t any harder than Rory O’Connor.
If they take that away from me I’ll be pissed. I doubt they’ll have the balls, but there’s always the possibility. Just like it is on the field, I’m never far from trouble when I step off it.
I guess I’ll find out next week, and I don’t really want to think about it now. The only thing is, if they send me away, which is what some people are saying is possible, there’s no way I’ll be able to get any once I’m inside. Which kind of makes it important that I get some before I turn up.
Fucking bullshit. It was hard enough to get into this country with that hanging over my head, and the whole thing has been blown so far out of proportion because I’m supposed to be some kind of important role model, that if I wasn’t who I am, none of it would have even mattered.
The game comes to an end with a fucking klaxon blast that nearly makes me shit myself and by the noise the crowd around me are making it seems like the Rangers have won.
There are torn shirts, blood on the ice that has to be mopped up and ambulances parked up outside to carry of the casualties. In short, even though I have no idea what was going on, it’s an absolute success.
I could play that game. I mean, I haven’t skated since I was a kid, but it can’t be that hard to pick up again. I played hockey for a while in school and the rest is just hurling with pillows strapped to your body. Once I got the hang of the ice bit, I’d be fucking unstoppable.
If hurling ever stopped being a possibility that’s something I’d definitely look at. Any game where fighting is not only allowed but actively encouraged is certainly something that interests me.
Out on the streets of Manhattan, I feel like I’ve escaped a video game for a night. I fly home tomorrow, which means I’ve got less than twelve hours to find myself some decent, all-American pussy. There is no way I can go home with sowing my seed at least once, because fuck, what would the rest of the team say?
I’m not looking for love, I’m certainly not looking for the mother of my children, just someone who can cope with me for one incredible night of no strings pleasure that’ll keep me going until I get back home.
This is New York after all, and I’m hot fucking property. Surely it can’t be that difficult.
Izzy
“No chance. No fucking way. Not tonight.”
April is giving me her well-practised if you were a decent friend you do it to help me out eyes. I get them all the time from her as though I’m the one that expects the world and gives nothing back in return.
“Come on Izzy, he’s a nice guy, what else are you doing?” she says.
“Working.”
“That’s bullshit and you know it is. On a Friday night in New York, nobody works.”
“Why can’t you just go on your own?”
“Because he might be a rapist that’s why.”
“I thought you said he was a nice guy.”
April doesn’t answer that question. She’s been on the internet dating scene for the best part of the year, and I’ve been dragged onto a few of them as her wing girl. I’m not in the mood for any kind of casual hook up, which is usually what these guys are all looking for, and besides which, I’ve got the game to go through. If I want to smash this interview I’ve got to know absolutely everything about this team.
“Look, if he’s not a rapist and you’re seriously not into the other guy, you can either leave me or we’ll come home together”, April says.
I know that’s not going to happen.
“I’ve got a ton of footage to go through”, I say.
“Come on Iz, when was the last time you even got laid?”
“Not on one of your blind dates, that’s for sure.”
April puts her hands on my shoulders and turns me towards her.
“They’re not blind”, she says.
“They might as well be. That last one didn’t look anything like his photo. And people in New York are boring anyway, they’re either metrosexuals or hipsters, and I’m not sure which is worse”, I say.
“You can’t just expect a sports star to fall into your lap, the world doesn’t work like that.”
“It might do after my interview.”
April rolls her eyes. “Alright fine, I can see you’d rather rust away at home instead of coming out with me and having a good time like every other normal person in the world”, she says.
“April.”
She holds her hand up defiantly, palm flat out towards me. “No, no, I’ll be fine, the east side is perfectly safe at night time. Pretty girl like me, short skirt. Maybe I’ll just fuck them both.”
Fucking hell. I have an interview on Monday, a whole season of ice hockey footage to go through, of not only the Rangers but a selection of the other teams too, and April wants me to play chaperone to her latest fucking hook up. I’ve known her for a long time, but this is asking way too much. I’m struggling to pay the rent on this apartment as it is, and if I screw up this once in a lifetime opportunity, I’m going to have to move back home and forget all about my plans of making it big in the world of sports publicity. Hooking up with a sports star? Forget about it.
“Promise me we are not g
oing to a cocktail bar”, I say.
April smiles. “Yes, Izzy! I knew you’d come round. Tonight I’m going to get you laid.”
I sigh and close my laptop. “You know what? Please don’t.”
***
Fucking hipsters, I knew it. Not only is this a cocktail bar, these two waifs of men have got their trousers on so tightly I bet that even if they wanted to they wouldn’t be able to procreate.
What the fuck has happened to men in this world? Where are the real men with muscles and testosterone and big dicks that would make even the most experienced of woman wince?
Where are the athletes and sports stars and mixed martial arts fighters who would do anything in the name of love? The kind of men that fuck with their shoes still on, their trousers barely lowered to let their balls escape, while they hold you up with one hand and fuck you into the wall at the back of a techno club.
Surely those men still exist, and if they do, why is it so impossible for me to find one? Every single date that April has dragged me on has been with men like this, and even though I know she’s got different tastes to mine, I can’t believe she keeps finding them.
Not my thing at all. How she thought they would be in the slightest bit rapey, as well, is absolutely crazy to me. I’ve got more chance of being raped by one of the pictures on the wall, which ironically seem to be the only thing in here that is anything approaching manly.
I know she only wanted me here for support, which is fine, but if she wants to go home with the guy she’s already giving her gooey eyes, that leaves me either with short trousers and bow tie, or going home alone, which is exactly what she asked me here to avoid.
It’s typical, and I knew this was going to happen anyway, but whatever, at least it gets me out of the house, I suppose. I’m not bothered about going home alone, either, which is bound to be what it comes to. I just have to wait for the right moment in which it’s polite for me to escape, hopefully way before anyone puts their moves on me.