Play to Win is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
A Loveswept Ebook Original
Copyright © 2019 by Kelly Jamieson
Excerpt from In It to Win It by Kelly Jamieson copyright © 2019 by Kelly Jamieson
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Loveswept, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.
LOVESWEPT is a registered trademark and the LOVESWEPT colophon is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.
This book contains an excerpt from the forthcoming book In It to Win It by Kelly Jamieson. This excerpt has been set for this edition only and may not reflect the final content of the forthcoming edition.
Ebook ISBN 9781101969441
Cover design: Makeready Designs
Cover photograph: anetta/Shutterstock
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Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
The Wynn Dynasty
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Epilogue
Dedication
Author's Note
By Kelly Jamieson
About the Author
Excerpt from In It to Win It
Out run,
Out hit,
Out play,
Out hustle,
Out Wynn
The Wynn Dynasty
Bob Wynn, owner of the California Condors. Originally married to Grace Rogers (deceased), parents to Mark and Matthew with Grace. Parents to Everly, Asher, Harrison, and Noah with Chelsea Wynn. Grandfather to Jean Paul (JP), Théo, Jackson, and Riley.
Chelsea Wynn (formerly Clark), married to Bob Wynn, mother of Everly, Asher, Harrison, and Noah.
Matthew Wynn, owner of the Long Beach Golden Eagles. Son of Bob Wynn. Married to Aline Gagnon. Father of Théo and Jean Paul (JP).
Mark Wynn, coach of the Long Beach Golden Eagles. Son of Bob Wynn. Divorced from Victoria (Tori) Kendall. Father of Jackson and Riley.
Théo Wynn, general manager of the California Condors. Son of Matthew Wynn and Aline Gagnon. Grandson of Bob Wynn (with Grace).
Jean Paul (JP) Wynn, son of Matthew Wynn and Aline Gagnon. Grandson of Bob Wynn (with Grace). Plays for the Long Beach Golden Eagles.
Jackson Wynn, son of Mark Wynn and Victoria (Tori) Kendall. Grandson of Bob Wynn (with Grace). Plays for the Chicago Aces.
Riley Wynn, daughter of Mark Wynn and Victoria (Tori) Kendall. Granddaughter of Bob Wynn (with Grace). Goalie coach for the San Diego Hawks, affiliate team of the Long Beach Golden Eagles.
Everly Wynn, daughter of Bob and Chelsea Wynn. Executive director of the Condors Foundation.
Asher Wynn, son of Bob and Chelsea Wynn. Sports reporter for Playmaker (hockey blog).
Harrison Wynn, son of Bob and Chelsea Wynn. Plays for the Pasadena Condors, affiliate team of the California Condors.
Noah Wynn, son of Bob and Chelsea Wynn. Plays for the San Diego Hawks.
Chapter 1
Théo
This is the weirdest fucking job interview I’ve ever had.
I rise from the chair in my Las Vegas apartment and carry my glass of whiskey—Crown Royal XO—over to the window. Outside, the pool shimmers turquoise in the dusk, palm trees silhouetted against the cobalt sky.
“Come on, Théo.” My grandfather speaks from my big brown leather couch where he’s still sitting. “I can’t believe you’re not jumping at this opportunity.”
I turn to face him. At seventy-two, he’s still a fit-looking man. I don’t think he’s lost an inch of his six feet two height. His physique isn’t as muscled as it was back in the days when he played hockey, but he’s still imposing. His mostly gray hair has receded at the temples, but he has hair. After living in California for nearly forty years, the legendary scar across his right eyebrow isn’t as prominent now that his face is tanned and his forehead and eyes are more creased.
He fixes his blue eyes on me—eyes that were once piercing but now look a little cloudy.
I walk back over and sit on the chair across from him. I lean forward, elbows on my knees. “Grandpa. You know I can’t take this job. My dad would crap hockey pucks and go ape shit on my ass if I came to work for you.”
Grandpa smiles. “Yeah.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “Is that why you’re doing this? Because I don’t want your fucking job if you’re just doing it to piss off Dad.”
“No.” His smirk morphs into a scowl. “That’s just a happy side benefit.”
I roll my eyes. Christ. This feud between my dad, my uncle, and their father—now sitting here in front of me—is bringing back my stomach ulcer. I ignore the gnawing feeling in my upper abdomen.
Yeah, my dad would flip shit if I took a job working for his father, but there’s more to my refusal than that. I’m not afraid to admit that I want my dad to be proud of me and what I do, but I could live with pissing him off. What I couldn’t live with? Taking this job and failing miserably. I’ve had enough experience letting down the family to know that this would be the ultimate disgrace. And it wouldn’t just be my dad…it would disgrace the entire Wynn family, the hockey dynasty known worldwide. No pressure at all.
“I told you why I want you for this job,” Grandpa continues in his rough voice. “You’re a smart guy.”
I almost snort. Yeah, I’m smart. So smart everyone thought I was a total dork growing up.
“You know hockey,” Grandpa says. “More important, you know the hockey business. Look what you’ve done here in Vegas.”
“I haven’t done it all myself.”
I’m the assistant general manager of the expansion NHL team here. They hired me three years ago even though I was only twenty-five years old and had no experience managing a hockey team. But I’d built my hockey analytics business Coast 2 Coast into something people were taking notice of. Yeah, we’ve had some success here, and despite my protest, I know I’ve contributed a hell of a lot to that success.
“Don’t you want to, though? Don’t you want to manage a team?” He eyes me shrewdly.
Dammit. I do.
The idea of being the general manager, of being in charge of everything—responsible for acquiring the rights to player personnel, negotiating contracts, moving out players who no longer fit on the team, the challenges of constructing a team under the salary cap, along with managing the scout
s, the trainers, the coaches—it’s what I’ve wanted…well, not my whole life. What I’d wanted my whole life was to play in the NHL, and I’d achieved that…for six short months before it had been slew-footed (hockey talk for when some asshole kicks your feet out from under you).
But since then…hell yeah. I want it.
But taking a job working for my grandfather, owner of the California Condors hockey team in Santa Monica, with all the shit that exists in my big, crazy, fucked-up family…if I think my ulcer is bad now, holy shit, I’d be not only eating proton pump inhibitors, I’d be downing beta-blockers for my blood pressure and probably Xanax too.
Not that I’m stressed or anything.
Not only is there bad blood between my dad and my grandpa, for a whole lotta reasons, I’m not on speaking terms with my brother, JP. That jackhole fuckstick. JP plays for the Golden Eagles, which my dad owns, coached by my uncle Mark, who my grandpa recently fired. (That whole shit show is a long story.) The Eagles play out of Long Beach, only a short freeway drive away from Santa Monica, meaning it would be tough to avoid seeing JP.
Ah fuck. The Condors haven’t made the playoffs in years. The challenge of it yanks at something inside me, making my skin prickle everywhere. The palms of my hands tingle as I toss back the rest of the whiskey. “This is nuts, Grandpa.”
“You’re the one I want. You’ve got the brains, the logic, the common sense…but you also have the passion for the game. You work your ass off all the time.”
Another uncomfortable truth. I may have been called a workaholic a time or ten.
Then Grandpa says the magic words. “You’ll have complete autonomy to rebuild the Condors as you see fit.”
I sit back in my chair and study Grandpa. While this is enticing, I’m skeptical that he’s going to turn everything over to me.
“There’s something special about you. Lots of people in the league are seeing it. We can do great things together.”
I can’t help but smile as I slowly shake my head. “You’re good.”
“I’m not blowing smoke up your ass.”
Grandpa is known for his colorful language.
“This is serious business,” he adds, his voice gravelly. “You know this team is important to me.”
I nod. “Yeah.”
Hockey’s been Grandpa’s whole life. He grew up in rural Saskatchewan, Canada, playing hockey on a pond. He had a long, successful career with the Toronto Maple Leafs, was traded to the Condors, where he played three seasons before retiring, and two years after that he bought the team he’d played for. The Condors had a lot of good years, but sure as shit not lately.
Grandpa has four Stanley Cup rings from his time with the Leafs, but that was five decades ago. The Cup has eluded him ever since, and I know he wants it one more time. I get it. I’ll never get to hoist the Cup as a player…but I want it too. So fucking much.
“I don’t make rash decisions.” I meet Grandpa’s eyes.
“I know. You’ll think about it.” He stands. “I’m flying home tonight. Thanks for listening to me.”
I walk him to the door and we shake hands, pulling each other in and giving each other a smack on the back. “Good to see you, Grandpa.”
“You have until Friday to make a decision.”
I snort out a laugh. “Good to know.”
Alone in my apartment, I stand for a moment and draw in a breath. Shaking my head, I let it out and head to my computer. Where else would I go? If I’m going to make a life-changing decision, I need data. I need all the facts.
We’re building something great here in Vegas, and I’m a part of that. I could stay here and continue that trajectory. Even though I don’t always agree with everything my boss does. Even though I can clearly see different paths to where we want to go.
Or I could take a risk on trying to build a losing team into a winning one.
I try to ignore the push and pull of excitement and fear, the tug between desire for change and maintaining the status quo. I make decisions based on sound rationale, not emotion. That’s me. Logical. Analytical. Sensible. I gather information, weigh the alternatives, and consider the pros and cons. Emotion shouldn’t come into it. Just feasibility, acceptability, and desirability.
First, I need some extra-strength Tums. And another shot of Crown Royal.
Chapter 2
Lacey
“Oh, for the love of a milk cow.” I squeeze my eyes shut, unable to believe what I’m seeing on the computer screen.
My bank balance is negative four hundred and forty-two dollars.
When I open my eyes, that’s not what I will see. That was a hallucination. Blurred vision. Or something.
I’m not even drunk or high, though.
I crack one eye open and peer at the laptop again. Shit.
“How can this be?” My stomach clenches painfully. I click to look at the transactions in the account. “Jesus.” My gaze fastens on the large withdrawal four days ago. All my savings…gone.
It’s not like I had millions or anything, but damn, I’d just gotten out of the debt I’d accumulated when Mom had gotten sick. I was just starting to get ahead of the game.
I swallow and press my fingers to my mouth. My insides start trembling.
I’d bought groceries and paid the electric bill not knowing my bank balance was zero, which had put me into overdraft. “Chris. What the fuck have you done?”
I slump back in the couch, the laptop on the table in front of me.
I haven’t seen my brother in two days. How did he do that? Steal my bank card? Guess my PIN? Where the hell is he?
I want to cry. I want to scream and punch things. Possibly my brother, who, while being the same age as me since we’re twins, feels more like my child.
This wasn’t always true. But Chris got himself into trouble and I’ve been yanking my hair out trying to get him to change his life.
I give up.
I hate to think those words. I’m not a quitter. I take pride in my ability to bounce back. To land on my feet. But I’m tired. So tired.
I need a plan. But I’m too exhausted to figure it out right now. I have to get to work—my shift at Silk Lounge starts in an hour. What’s the point of even going, though? What’s the point of anything?
No, no, I can’t think like that.
I rub my aching forehead and haul my weary ass up out of the chair to get ready for work. I have to go, since it’s the only job I have right now, other than my freelance work. It’ll be worth going in just for the tips. I can do pretty well in an evening. Silk is a high-end cocktail lounge located on the top floor of the Wellborne Resort on the Vegas Strip, with panoramic views of the city, chill-out tunes, and pricey artisan cocktails.
I wriggle into my black dress—short, tight, with narrow straps—do my hair and makeup, and toss my heels into my backpack. With my black Chucks on my feet, I head out to take the bus to the Strip. I lean my head against the bus window, staring sightlessly through it as the bus bumps its way across town from our little apartment on South Decatur to the glitzy Vegas everyone knows.
I’ve lived here my whole life. I both love it and hate it. Las Vegas, the entertainment capital of the world. For most people who live here, it’s just like everywhere else; and yet it’s also like nowhere else. This town is alive and awake twenty-four/seven. Money, sex, and gambling are everywhere. And yet there are people who work ordinary jobs, like teachers and doctors, who go to work and go home and never interact with the tourists who flood the city. Then there are people like me and Chris—who grew up a part of the entertainment industry because of our mother. And people like Chris, who fall prey to the gambler’s self-centered interest in winning and the parts of the city I hate—addiction and despair.
In the staff room at the Silk Lounge, I add some
shiny gloss to my lips and slide into black high heels. My feet will be dying in an hour, but it’s part of the job.
I used to love the vibe at Silk, and there’s no denying the beauty of the glittering view of the city outside the windows, but now it’s like wallpaper—always there. Inside, the lounge glitters too, with lots of metallics and crystals and little white lights everywhere, the furniture upholstered in purple, blue, and gray velvets. Silk draperies in similar shades hang from the ceilings to separate table groupings.
I swing into the rhythm of my work, keeping my smile fixed in place, flirting mildly with customers. Inside, I’m a mess of frustration and anger and hopelessness, but nobody cares about that. My co-workers know me as perpetually cheerful and dependable no matter what’s going on in my life, and customers don’t want doom and gloom from their server.
Around nine o’clock, a group of men come into the lounge. I don’t know who they are, and they’re not dressed in suits and ties, but Enrico, the shift manager, springs into action to arrange some of the curved couches, chairs, and brushed metal tables into a grouping for them. In my section.
I sigh. Probably a bachelor party. Guys from Omaha or something, out for a wild time. Yay.
This is a tradition I have come to despise. The guys all expect the groom to act like a complete jack wagon because it’s his last night of “freedom.” For fuck’s sake. I’ve seen fights break out. Saw a groom fall over the railing and break both his ankles. I’ve dealt with the drunks hitting on me in all kinds of ways—groping me, cornering me, trying to kiss me…including the groom.
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