Hate the Game

by Rose, Callie

  Hate the Game

  Callie Rose

  Copyright © 2019 by Callie Rose

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

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  Contents

  1. Addison

  2. Sawyer

  3. Addison

  4. Sawyer

  5. Addison

  6. Sawyer

  7. Addison

  8. Sawyer

  9. Addison

  10. Addison

  11. Sawyer

  12. Addison

  13. Sawyer

  14. Addison

  15. Addison

  16. Sawyer

  17. Addison

  18. Sawyer

  19. Addison

  20. Sawyer

  21. Addison

  22. Addison

  23. Sawyer

  24. Addison

  25. Sawyer

  26. Addison

  27. Sawyer

  28. Sawyer

  Epilogue

  Thank You For Reading

  1

  Addison

  “Beyers! My office.”

  My editor gave me an intense look that could have meant any number of things, good or bad. She was a powerful woman who took no shit from anybody and had never felt the need to develop people skills. With my heart pounding, I followed her into her office.

  “Sit.” She snapped her fingers and pointed to the chair in front of her desk. If this had been a year ago, I would’ve been both furious at being treated like a dog and afraid that I was about to be fired; but after a year of working for the hard-nosed Janet Edwards, I knew her mannerisms were indicative only of her own personal go-mode, and nothing else.

  So I made myself comfortable and crossed my legs, waiting patiently for her to tell me what this was all about.

  “Congratulations,” Edwards said shortly. She looked across the table at me expectantly.

  “Um… Thank you? I’m sorry, what are you congratulating me for?”

  Still no indication. Her words could very well have been sarcastic—there was really no way to tell with her.

  “Your latest piece. If this doesn’t get us nominated for an award this year, nothing will. You’re my top reporter, Beyers, and I’m prepared to show you my appreciation.” She didn’t wait for a response before digging into a file drawer behind her desk. She pulled out a thick folder, slammed it on the desk, and flipped it open.

  “What do you know about Sawyer Dawson?” She narrowed her pale eyes at me as she asked the question, and one strand of greying blonde hair fell over her forehead.

  I wrinkled my nose. “The hockey player? Just what the rags print. Rumor has it he’s a womanizing party hound.”

  She nodded sharply. “And a damn good player. I got a call from the owner of the Denver Gladiators this morning. Their sponsors are starting to pull out because of the man’s reputation.”

  “Not surprising,” I said wryly, tossing my auburn hair over one shoulder. “In this day and age, backing a man like that is business suicide.”

  “Exactly. You’re a sharp tack, Beyers. But according to the owner, Dawson has turned over a new leaf. He got clean, ditched the bad influences, and hasn’t even been out on a date in months. He wants me to print the story and save the team.”

  I stared at her, aghast. “You aren’t going to do that, are you?”

  She shook her head furiously, dislodging several more strands of hair. “Not on his word alone, of course not. We are going to write the story, and we are going to write it true to life. I need my star reporter to go to Denver and get the real scoop. Has he turned over a new leaf? Or is he just pulling the wool over Brannigan’s eyes?”

  “Brannigan?”

  “Alistair Brannigan, the team’s owner. We went to college together. Great guy, little naïve about his heroes. Sounds to me like Dawson is one of those heroes—that’s why we’re getting the real scoop. You’re going to go out there, spend time with Dawson, figure out what really gets him going.”

  Even after a year, some of her phrasing took me by surprise. For a moment, it sounded as though she wanted me to seduce the hockey player, but that couldn’t be right. Or could it?

  She gave me a sharp, squinty look.

  “You are to figure out his weaknesses by any means necessary to get at the truth. Do you understand?”

  “I… um… I think I do.”

  Not gonna happen, Edwards. Not in a million years.

  I would get to the truth, but I’d do it my way. No sleeping with the enemy—and, to my mind, Dawson was definitely the enemy. He was the embodiment of the sorts of men who seemed to find me a fascinating challenge; a player, fast and loose with both morals and money, who could tell the difference between various white powders by sight. At least that was what the rumors would have me believe, and right now I had nothing but a star-struck owner’s word to make me feel differently.

  Edwards was still peering closely at me. “You don’t look happy about this. You know, this is looking to be the most coveted story of the year. Any of the girls would kill for this assignment, personally and professionally. He might be a player, but he’s successful at it for a reason.” She spun the file around to show me a picture of him, sweaty and shirtless, balanced on inline skates guzzling water in a park somewhere.

  I had to admit, he was a glorious specimen of a man. His pecs seemed to ripple, even in the still picture. I could’ve done laundry on his abs, and his arms looked like they could break you in half or hug you tight with equal success. In spite of his career choice, his face was unblemished by scars or poorly set nose bones, and his dark hair reflected almost blue in the sunlight. Yes, a very attractive man indeed; too bad he was such a loser in his personal life.

  “I’m very excited to take the assignment,” I said, turning the file back around toward her. “For its own sake. I have no interest in pursuing Dawson. Thank you for offering me this project.”

  She squinted at me again, then nodded sharply. “Then you are exactly the woman for the job. The others might have been tempted to paint him in a positive light for their own… carnal reasons. Get it done, Beyers. Your plane leaves tomorrow at ten, I’ve already emailed you your itinerary.”

  “Thank you, Ms. Edwards.” I stood to leave, but she held up a finger.

  “I’m counting on you to write the honest truth, Beyers. Good or bad. No puff pieces. No baseless smear campaigns. We stand apart from the competition on that basis alone. Understand?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Any questions?”

  “Just one. When is the deadline?”

  She slapped the file closed and shoved it toward me. “When you get the story. Here, take this, read up. Your expense account is prepared to handle at least a couple of weeks. If you need more, just ask. We’re out to get the truth, Beyers, no matter how long it takes.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Thank you.”

  She nodded and folded her hands on the desk in a gesture that meant the conversation was over. I glanced at the big clock on the wall as I returned to the bullpen; quarter to five. She had left me with exactly enough time to straighten my desk and check my itine
rary before I had to go home. The woman was so impeccably efficient it was actually infuriating.

  But, I admitted to myself, it probably infuriates me because that level of efficiency is one I aspire to and never seem quite able to achieve.

  I could plan a day down to the minute, taking every commute and bathroom break into account, and still end up running behind by the end of it. Maybe, I mused, the key to her success was in her uncomfortable demeanor. If nobody wanted to chat you up, you wouldn’t lose any part of the day to small talk.

  It seemed like a lonely existence, and I wasn’t quite ready to sacrifice my social life for time-management success, I decided. Still, practicing the habit on this particular assignment might do good things for me. I glanced at Sawyer Dawson’s shirtless photo once more as I slid into the driver’s seat of my little Toyota, feeling almost guilty about peeking at it.

  “Cold, brisk, hard-nosed, straight to the point. That’s the only way to run this one,” I told myself. “So what if he’s got the body of a god? Doesn’t make him a good person. Hell, it doesn’t even guarantee a good lay.” I nodded sharply to myself in an unconscious mimicry of Edwards and set off to fight traffic.

  * * *

  “Yeah, I landed an hour ago. They set me up in this adorable suite, but I almost wish they hadn’t.” I sipped my coffee as I sat in a little café with my phone pressed to my ear, talking to my best friend and closest confidant Rebecca.

  “Why? You don’t prefer those crappy little motels, do you?” She sounded amused, and I smiled as I rolled my eyes.

  “Of course not. But the place is practically a studio apartment; it’s got a kitchen and a living space and everything. You know what that tells me?”

  “That they appreciate you and want you to be comfortable because they know whatever story you come up with is going to be worth the expense?”

  “No,” I said with a sigh. “I mean, sure, all of that too… but it tells me they actually do expect me to be here long enough to burn through the expense account. If Edwards thought I could get the story in a day or two, she would’ve gotten me a regular room. This? This tells me I’m going to be here a while.” I looked out the big window at the massive peaks on the horizon, taking in the whole city with a glance.

  “Is Denver really that bad?” she asked sympathetically. “I mean, it always looks sporty and romantic on TV, but that doesn’t mean anything, I guess.”

  “Denver isn’t the problem,” I told her. “It is beautiful here, honestly. But God, I cannot believe I have to spend days… weeks maybe… with Sawyer freaking Dawson.”

  “Sawyer freaking Dawson,” she repeated dreamily. “Did you see that picture of him training in the park? Oh. My. Hot. God.”

  “Yeah, I saw it. Several times,” I said dryly. “I think I’ll survive if I never look at it again.”

  “Oh, but you’re missing the whole point! You could see that in person! Oh my gosh, Addison, you could touch it! The magazines all say he’s been single for months now, he must be dying for it, and you’re so pretty, I bet—”

  “Stop,” I interrupted. “Stop right there, Rebecca. I have exactly zero interest in touching him. Anywhere.”

  “What? How? Are you breathing? Feel your pulse.”

  “Of course I am, I—”

  “Feel your pulse!”

  I rolled my eyes and chuckled as I indulged her. “Slow and steady. I’m alive. I’m also sane, and no masochist. He isn’t hot enough to get away with being so annoyingly irresponsible. No man is. He’s made a complete fool of himself, by himself, and now I’m supposed to just pretend that never happened and help the man repair his reputation? Please.”

  “Aw, but the poor guy only turned to crazy behavior because that one girl broke his heart—he said so in like a million interviews.”

  “Right, he’s blaming a woman for all his problems. Hard pass. As far as I’m concerned, Sawyer Dawson deserves to stew in his own failure. The only reason I’m doing this at all is because Edwards is old friends with the team owner.” I went to sip my coffee, but it was empty. “Hold on a second, let me refill my caffeine supply. Excuse me—”

  I turned around to flag down a waitress, and my heart stopped. My jaw dropped.

  Standing there, in the flesh—and, thank baby Jesus, a shirt—was Sawyer Dawson himself.

  “Allow me,” he said icily. “Hey Millie, the lady needs a refill.”

  “Comin’ right up, darlin’.” She blushed at him, and he winked. Oh, yeah. Great way to repaint your image there, Dawson.

  “This seat taken?” He asked, pulling it out and sitting across from me without pausing for an answer.

  “Uh… Rebecca? I gotta go.”

  “Why? What’s going on?”

  “Um… Sawyer Dawson just sat down at my table.”

  There was a long, loaded pause on the other end, then Rebecca started squealing loud enough for Dawson to hear. A lazy, confident smile spread across his face as Rebecca’s voice echoed through the phone. “Oh my God, tell him he’s beautiful!”

  “Goodbye, Rebecca.”

  “Get me an autograph!”

  I hung up the phone and stashed it in my purse.

  “So, Mr. Dawson. Er… just how much of that conversation did you happen to hear?”

  2

  Sawyer

  Of course the magazine would send the sexiest reporter I’d ever seen to do my interview. Dark red hair, bright brown eyes, ruby red lips that I could instantly imagine myself kissing. Classic move. If I hit on her it would solidify my reputation—the same reputation which, I’m sure, made them believe it was beyond me to do anything but hit on her. It was going to be a challenge, for sure.

  But hell, I liked challenges.

  She had recovered admirably from the shock of seeing me and was now watching me with a cool wariness that only made it more tempting to mess with her.

  “Yeah, I heard your conversation,” I admitted with a grin. “Your friend seems to be a big hockey fan.”

  “Something like that,” she said wryly. She maintained her cool professionalism as she reached out a hand. “Addison Beyers, In Deep magazine.”

  “Sawyer Dawson, but you knew that already.” I shook her hand. It was cool and dry, which I hadn’t expected; but then again, I was used to the sweaty palms of hyperventilating puck bunnies. Addison was neither of those things.

  “Good to meet you,” she said in a tone which implied the exact opposite. “Do you come here often, or did you intend to take me by surprise?”

  Of course I’d come here to size her up before our official interview. I knew she was staying at the Ski Run Hotel across the street, and I figured she would come here first. It was a decent little café; I came here myself all the time. But I wasn’t about to admit that.

  “Oh, please,” I said, rolling my eyes. “Project much? Your people told you I have lunch here all the time, and they sent you to stalk me. Hey! Millie! Did you get that coffee for my stalker yet?”

  Every head in the place turned to look at her. Millie popped her head out of the kitchen, puffing up like an angry mother hen. She grabbed the coffee pot and stalked over, glaring daggers at Addison’s head.

  “I’m not a stalker,” Addison told the waitress sharply. “The team’s owner asked me to come here and interview him.”

  “Right, that’s what they all say,” I said loudly. “You know what, fine. You want an autograph, I’ll give you an autograph.” I sighed heavily as I whipped a permanent marker out of my jacket pocket. “Chest or forehead? Oh, you don’t want to mess up your makeup I bet. Avert your eyes, Millie!”

  “What?!” Addison jumped up out of her seat and took a step backward. “Keep your pen to yourself, Mr. Dawson, nobody wants your autograph.”

  “I do!” A squeaky voice behind me piped up, and I turned around. A skinny blonde girl, probably younger than twenty, batted her eyelashes at me. I grinned at Addison, who had crossed her arms over her chest with a look that said “unbelievable”.


  “Sure thing, doll face. Where do you want it?” I held the pen at the ready, and the girl pushed a travel guide at me, opened to the page on Denver.

  “Right across the stadium, of course! Oh, and make it out to Staci. That’s Staci with an ‘I’, no ‘E’.”

  “You got it, darlin’.” Thank God she didn’t want it on her body. Teasing the reporter was one thing, but anybody who got a picture of me signing this girl’s chest would have tabloids in a bidding war over it, and this whole ordeal would be for nothing.

  “There you go. To Staci with an I, love Sawyer Dawson. Go Gladiators!”

  “Thank you so much! Er… is she really a stalker?” She cast a wary glance at Addison, who rolled her eyes.

  “Nah, just a reporter. See you later, Staci with an I.”

  As she went away, I overheard her telling her friends that she was totally going to switch her major to journalism. I would have taken a few minutes to encourage her, but Addison was back in her seat now and pinning me to the spot with icy daggers from her pretty eyes.

  “Listen up,” she said. “I don’t want to do this story, and you clearly don’t want me here. The way I see it, both of our careers are on the line. You might want to cooperate.”

  I blinked at her innocently. “What makes you think I don’t want you here? You’re more than welcome to take a hockey vacation on your employer’s dime, I’m all for that.”