Sugar Daddy (Sugar Bowl #1)

by Sawyer Bennett

  Stand-Alone Titles

  Uncivilized

  Love: Uncivilized

  If I Return

  PHOTO: MARIE KILLEN

  New York Times and USA Today bestselling author SAWYER BENNETT is a snarky southern woman and reformed trial lawyer who decided to finally start putting on paper all the stories that were floating in her head. Her husband works for a Fortune 100 company that lets him fly all over the world while she stays at home with their daughter and three big, furry dogs who hog the bed. Bennett would like to report that she doesn’t have many weaknesses, but can be bribed with a nominal amount of milk chocolate.

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  The Editor’s Corner

  Swing into spring this May with Loveswept! We’ve got something for everyone, so take your pick from these fabulous romance books.

  Tracy March brings you another enchanting novel set in Colorado, with book two in her Thistle Bend series, Just Say Maybe. Brenda Rothert releases her first Loveswept book, Blown Away, a sensual, emotionally charged novel of love and loss in which a tender affair gives two daring storm chasers the strength to overcome shattered dreams and the courage to build a future together. Then we go from extreme weather to the world of extreme sports with Zoe Dawson’s pulse-pounding Mavrick Allstars series debut, the steamy Ramping Up. Bestselling author HelenKay Dimon makes her Loveswept debut with Mr. and Mr. Smith. Moving on from the suspenseful to the sensual is a novel of pleasure and persuasion revolving around a high-stakes business deal in which the rules of negotiation are defined by desire in Shawntelle Madison’s Bound to You. New York Times bestselling author Noelle Adams introduces a notorious tech mogul who makes a mild-mannered woman an offer she can’t refuse and gets in return a battle for control—and a million-dollar affair—in Fooling Around. The Hunt Club continues with Pamela Labud’s A Most Delicate Pursuit. New York Times bestselling author Erin McCarthy follows Nashville’s hottest country music duo as they fight for love in a city where dreams often cost a broken heart in Heart Breaker. And New York Times bestselling author Sawyer Bennett proves that vengeance is sweet—but seduction is to die for—in Sugar Daddy.

  Wait—there’s more! Gina Gordon’s White Lace series continues in book two with lots of sizzle and heat in Reason to Believe. A. M. Madden continues the True Heroes series—hot hero alert!—with Glass Ceilings. Two tortured souls share an unbreakable bond even as they break taboos, as Laura Marie Altom does it again with a fabulous stepbrother romance in Stepping Over the Line. Back in the sporting world, Stacked Up continues the Worth the Fight series from USA Today bestselling author Sidney Halston. And Interference continues the Pilot Hockey series from Sophia Henry, where a young single mom falls for a damaged coach pulling double-duty as a cop.

  It’s a great month for relationships, so follow us on Facebook and Twitter and let the romance begin!

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  Until next month ~Happy Romance!

  Gina Wachtel

  Associate Publisher

  Read on for an excerpt from

  Alex

  Cold Fury Hockey Series

  by Sawyer Bennett

  Available from Loveswept

  Chapter 1

  Alex

  Flexing my jaw back and forth, it moves with a resounding pop but there’s no pain. That’s either because there truly is no pain or I’ve blocked it out. Regardless, I push back from the boards, even as that douche Talbot tries to push my face back into them again. The puck is between our legs and we scrabble to kick it loose.

  There’s less than forty seconds left in the game to break this tie, and I want to get it done. Although I have no desire for the spotlight that will come with making the game-winning goal, it’s absolutely preferable to being stuck in overtime or a potential shootout. I’m ready for this fucking game to be over.

  Giving a particularly hard push back, I’m able to free my stick from the boards and put the blade to ice. Because we’re playing on home ice here in Raleigh, North Carolina, and I know its speed and consistency like the back of my hand, it takes nothing but a short tap on the puck and it shoots back between both of our legs. I juke left, and when I feel Talbot follow, I spin back right to skate around him, grabbing the puck just as it clears his blades, and take off for the goal.

  One of my natural talents is to freeze-frame the entire ice in my mind, analyze my best course of action and dump the puck as quickly as possible to the guy with the best scoring chance on our team. But now with only thirty-five seconds left in the period—and yes, I saw the clock winding down in my freeze-frame—I don’t want to leave it up to one of my teammates to seal the deal. I fake a pass to the nearside, then slip a quick wrist shot toward the goal, watching as it sails cleanly into the net, just between the upper post and the goalie’s left shoulder.

  Way too fucking easy!

  The red light behind the net burns bright and the arena erupts, nineteen thousand fans rocketing to their feet to scream in rapture that Alexander Crossman has broken the tie and most likely won the game. Of course, there’s still thirty-one seconds left for my team to screw the pooch.

  My teammates throw their hands up in the air, skating toward me to celebrate the goal. I make a half-assed attempt to look pleased with myself, which basically means I let my teammates rub the top of my helmet or tap my legs with their sticks. But that’s about as excited as I get when I score a goal.

  I hate this fucking shit…the adulation, the limelight…all of it.

  Skating back to the bench, I step up through the open gate and take a seat. Some of the guys shout down a congrats, and a few nod at me; others ignore me point-blank. I’m not a well-liked guy by most.

  Grabbing the water bottle, I squirt a bit in my mouth, swish it around and spit it back out. The crowd goes crazy again, their cheers rising in crescendo as the replay of my goal is shown on the Jumbotron. I glance up at it, my brow furrowing. It’s a pretty sweet play and I totally smoked Talbot, but as I watch it I know without a doubt my dad will be calling tonight because he’ll find something to criticize. It’s physically impossible for him to do anything but.

  The announcer’s voice comes over the PA system, Carolina Cold Fury goal, scored by Number Sixty-Seven, Alexander Crossman, unassisted…

  And the crowd erupts into more cheers, drowning out the stats as they are relayed. I do a quick glance around the arena, knowing that the fans are happy as shit I just scored the game winner but also very much aware they can’t stand me. I even snicker as I see a sign across the ice proclaiming, Crossman for MVP, Most Valuable Prick.

  Classic! I’m the player they love to hate, and I could give a fuck.

  I come out, do my duty, score my goals and get my assists, collect my paycheck, and past that, just leave me the fuck alone.

  If only life were that simple.

  For the remainder of the game, I don’t even watch the action on the ice. I sit on the bench and lean my head back against the glass, watching the time slowly tick down so I can be free of this shit for the night.

  —

  “Crossman…in my office before you leave,” I hear Dan Pretore call out. He’s the head coach for the Cold Fury, and while he’s probably one of the best coaches I’ve ever played under, he’s a hard-ass as well. I know, without a doubt, that even with two goals and three assists on the night, I’m going to get my ass handed to me.

  Slipping on my suit jacket, I zip up my equipment bag and make my way back to the staffing area under the arena. None of my teammates say goodbye, none of them congratulate me. They know it wouldn’t do any good, becaus
e I won’t respond. Some of the newer guys think that’s just me being reflective, but the ones who have been here awhile know it’s because I’m a mean son of a bitch after a game, regardless of whether we win or lose. In fact, the better I do, the crustier I become, which I get…that’s some whacked shit and I’m sure a psychologist would have a field day with me.

  I rap my knuckles softly on the coach’s door, and he immediately calls out for me to enter. I don’t close the door behind me, only because I could care less if anyone hears my ass-reaming. Taking a seat across from his desk, I casually prop an ankle over my knee and look around his office with no real interest. It’s a mess…piles of papers, binders, and fast-food wrappers litter his desk. He has several framed awards, but they’re all sitting on his floor, leaning up against the wall. I’ve been with the Carolina Cold Fury for almost six years now, and his office looks the same now as it did when I had my first meeting with him those many years ago.

  “Great game tonight,” he says, looking up from the iPhone that he had been texting on when I entered. “Your plus-minus went to forty-seven. I believe that means you’re leading the league right now.”

  I stare at him, offering no “thank you” for the praise. I don’t need it or want it and statistics never meant much to me. Kind of like all those awards Coach has on his floor…don’t mean shit to me. I respect his coaching skills for what they are, not what other people say about them.

  He waits for me to say something…an acknowledgment, an eye flicker, an I could give a flying fuck. He gets nothing, so he sighs and continues on.

  “That little stunt at the end of the game was uncalled for,” he tells me.

  He’s referring to the fact that I was named the game’s most valuable player—or most valuable prick if you go by what some fans say—which is an honor commemorated at the end of the game by having the player skate out on the ice for acknowledgment. At the time they were calling my name, I was halfway back to the locker room, refusing to come out for my stupid fucking lap around the ice. The fans’ boos followed me all the way back.

  “Sorry…had an upset stomach…diarrhea. Had to hit the can,” I tell him, my face a study of genuine truth even though he knows I’m lying through my teeth.

  Pretore leans forward across his desk, flashing his teeth at me in a snarl. “Do you think I’m fucking stupid, Crossman? You thumbed your nose at the crowd and this team because you’re an asshole and no other reason. I’m fining you a thousand dollars for that stunt.”

  I pick an imaginary piece of lint off my slacks and look at him blandly. “Fine. Anything else?”

  Leaning back in his chair, Pretore studies me for a moment. Steepling his hands in front of his face, he regards me with interest. “You know…I don’t get you. You were the best player in the Quebec Juniors by the time you were sixteen, the number one NHL draft pick six years ago, and you have the potential to win the Art Ross Trophy every fucking year if you actually decide to start caring about this game. Instead, you do the bare minimum to get by, which, lucky for you and your career, still makes you pretty fucking good. You have the talent and ability to captain this team, yet you have the emotional maturity of the arena’s janitor. You’re a fuckup by most standards, yet you’ll continue to get your pay and bonuses because you have more talent in your pinky than most players have in their entire body. I guess what I don’t understand is…how do you look at yourself in the mirror every day knowing that you’re wasting your life?”

  I know where the coach is coming from. I get it…his little speech is supposed to be a slap-down plus a build-up. He knows I don’t respond well to ass-kissing and lofty praise, but rather I respond to the challenge of proving myself. Unfortunately, his words tonight are absolutely wasted lung capacity on me, because I’ve heard this speech a dozen times already from my dad.

  “I look in the mirror same way you do, Coach…every day to shave or brush my teeth. I’m comfortable with the guy staring back at me.”

  Pretore snorts at my response and although he’s pissed at me, I also know that answer amuses him somewhat, because he too is a smart-ass by nature.

  “Yeah, well, you may be comfortable with that reflection but the suits upstairs aren’t. They’re mandating an immediate cleanup of your attitude.”

  Boring! Had this conversation…too many times before.

  “I see the look on your face,” Pretore says with a sigh. “They’re not joking this time.”

  “Let me guess…they’re going to demand I go to the children’s ward of Raleigh Community Hospital and sign autographs or something. Show that I’m really a teddy bear inside.”

  “That’s not a bad idea, but no. They want you a little more involved.”

  For the first time in this conversation, I feel a tiny thread of apprehension move through me, and only because Pretore’s voice has gone from tired and frustrated with me to actually a bit fearful. Whatever the suits want me to do, Pretore doesn’t think I’ll agree to do it, so I’m guessing he’s getting ready for there to be a big fight on his hands.

  “Spill it,” I say quietly.

  “They want you to be the team spokesman for an anti-drug-abuse campaign.”

  “I can do that,” I say cautiously, because I can. I have no problem with supporting worthy causes, and even though I’m an asshole, I know how to put a smile on my face when I want to…for the greater good, you know.

  “Specifically, they want you to work closely with the Wake County Drug Crisis Center and implement a program to talk to at-risk youth throughout the state.”

  “That’s fine,” I say, but the apprehension increases because this is sounding a little too easy.

  “They have very specific requirements,” Pretore says firmly.

  I just cock an eyebrow at him, urging him to just lay it the fuck out. He’s killing me here.

  Taking a piece of paper from a folder on his desk, he hands it over to me. I take it and scan it, noting an itemized list of stuff, but I just look back up at him.

  “Essentially, they want you committing at least five hours a week during the season, on non–game days, of course. Off-season, twenty hours a week.”

  “Jesus fucking Christ,” I curse, because I just became the equivalent of a felon who came out on parole.

  “That’s not all. They are going to have your liaison report to them weekly on your progress and your attitude. They’ll give him or her a list of criteria you must meet.”

  “No fucking way,” I snarl but Pretore ignores me.

  “If you don’t agree, I’ve been told that you are to be benched indefinitely and all bonuses forfeit.”

  “Do I have to wear an ankle monitor too?” I growl.

  “Finally,” he says, his voice even stronger, “at any time they deem you to have made an ass of yourself to the public or to our fans—and the ‘ass’ is their word, not mine—they are going to fine you five thousand dollars per infraction.”

  I open my mouth to curse again, but nothing comes out. Coldness washes through me as I realize my employer has just drawn a pretty deep line in the sand. I have two choices—do what they tell me or kiss my career goodbye.

  And the fucked-up thing about it—the kissing my career goodbye seems like the better choice for me at this very moment.

  —

  Walking up the stairs to my apartment, I pull my keys out of my pocket, eager to strip out of my monkey suit and drink a cold beer. When I hit the top step, I stop as I recognize who is standing at my door.

  “What are you doing here?” I ask tiredly.

  Cassie cocks a perfectly shaped eyebrow at me, pursing her full lips as she smirks at me. “You had a great game tonight—which means you’re probably in the pissiest of moods. I thought I’d come over and help you blow off some steam…‘blow’ being the key word.”

  Yeah, Cassie Gates gives the best head and I’m probably not going to turn her down, but it pisses me off that she came over without me asking her to. She’s been my casual hookup for the p
ast year, ever since moving to Raleigh with her sister, Allie, whose husband, Kyle Steppernech, is a defenseman for the Cold Fury.

  “You weren’t invited,” I tell her as I insert the key into the lock, not even bothering to look at her.

  She merely steps in close and reaches a well-manicured hand down to cup me between the legs. Leaning her chin on my shoulder, she whispers, “Come on, Alex…you know I’ll make you feel good.”

  Her hand squeezes me and, along with the sexy purr in her voice, it works like magic, and I start to get hard. Cassie’s a fucking knockout with her platinum blond hair, mile-long legs, and fantastic tits, so yeah…my body reacts.

  Pushing the door open, I walk in, dislodging her hand but knowing she’ll follow me to finish the job. I hear her close the door as I walk into the kitchen. Dropping my bag on the floor, I pull a beer from the fridge and twist the cap, tossing it in the sink. Taking a deep swallow, I watch as she walks into the kitchen, sauntering forward like a woman on a mission.

  I know she thinks she has me figured out. That she can worm her way into a relationship with me by giving great blow jobs and even hotter sex, but she’s way off base. No self-respecting woman would get down on her knees for an asshole like me, just to try to trap an asshole like me.

  If I had more of a conscience, I might feel guilty about the give-and-take of our situation, but I’ve got no qualms about the part where I take what she is offering. I’ve been straight up, honest with her about how I play, and relationships aren’t part of my makeup. She knows she’s barking up the wrong tree if she’s looking for anything more than Richter-inducing orgasms.

  “Don’t come over again unless I invite you,” I tell her after I take another swallow of beer.

  Stepping up close to me, she trails a finger along my jaw, smiling apologetically. “Sure thing, baby.”

  “I’m not your baby,” I remind her, just because I feel like being an even bigger asshole than I normally am.