Page 8 of At First Smile

CHAPTER FOUR

Claimed

Rowan

“ G et your shit together, or you’ll no longer wear gold and black,” Greg grumbles. His pursed lips and puckered forehead fill the laptop screen.

“What Greg is saying”—a smiling Sasha leans in, her expression soft in contrast to her husband’s hard one— “now is the opportunity for us to rebrand you from hockey’s bad boy to its nice guy. I’m working with some reporters to capture images of your volunteer work at the shelter and?—”

“No.” My protest is gruffer than I intend, but the warmth in Sasha’s onyx eyes doesn’t falter.

In five years, Sasha Ortiz Lawson, Greg’s go-to publicist and wife, always meets my borderline curt responses with patience.

Despite the sweetness, she might be more formidable than her bulldog husband.

With a bat of her long dark lashes and flash of that radiant smile, she disarms anyone’s bluster, including her husband.

“Watch the tone with my wife, Iverson. You’re not so big that I can’t kick your ass,” Greg growls.

I wouldn’t put it past him to do just that.

No doubt I’d get a swift punch to my gut from the former college football player-turned-agent.

At twenty-one, NFL scouts salivated at the prospect of All-American Greg Lawson wearing their team’s jersey.

A bad tackle during a conference title game resulted in a spinal cord injury that stole Greg’s prospect to play in the NFL but not his love of the game and sports in general.

Instead of the NFL, he went to law school.

After graduation, he joined the third best sports management firm in the country as a junior agent.

Despite his reputation as a relentless linebacker, he was an untried agent.

Blinded by his wheelchair and tragic story, few athletes signed with Greg.

Enter me. At twenty-two, some agents worried I waited too long to go pro, opting to complete my degree at university before entering the NHL draft.

I wasn’t the sexiest of players. I wasn’t drafted until the sixth round.

But Greg believes in me, and I believe in him.

There’s a strange kinship between us. We started our careers together. Our relationship is reminiscent of teammates in the locker room – no punches pulled and a lot of colorful language.

“Sorry, Sasha,” I offer with an apologetic grin.

Flashing a huge smile, she waves me off. “No apology needed. You have boundaries and I can respect that.”

“I know what you want to do, but I don’t want my volunteer work exploited. That’s separate from hockey Rowan. They’ve put trust in me and I won’t take advantage of that.”

Annoyance lines Greg’s face. “If the journalists that dubbed you Rowdy Rowan knew you spend your free time working with shelter dogs and kids in foster care, they’d call you ‘Really Nice Guy Rowan’ or some shit like that.”

Sasha places a manicured hand on her husband’s bicep. “Valiant attempt, but let’s focus on your strengths, and I’ll worry about the branding.”

“Doesn’t matter if the stubborn ass won’t let us use it.”

“Remember”—she squeezes his arm— “we promise our players that they give all to the game, but not all of themselves for it.”

It’s almost the unofficial motto of Greg’s agency.

It’s why I stayed with him when he opened his own shop five years ago.

So many players lives are consumed by the factory-like assembly line of the sports world.

They become less athlete and more product.

Greg expects us to give our all on the field, court, track, or rink that is our stage but never to give ourselves to the game.

There’s a difference between the sport and sports’ industry.

One is playing the game and the other simply a game.

The clear line between me on the ice and me in real life has never been an issue. I’ve always been okay with the reputation I have. I’m aggressive. I’m relentless. I’m focused. But that reputation now chafes against my skin since the disappointed stares from my coach, my brothers, and my mam.

How will Pen see me?

I slump in the chair, snapping my eyes to the clock.

I’m meeting Pen in the lobby in ten minutes.

I’d promised her an adventure. As soon as the clerk at the check-in counter winked at Pen trying to play matchmaker for her Ed Sheeran-lite nephew, jealousy surged in me.

Like a child calling dibs, I wanted to claim Pen for my own.

Even though she’s not someone to possess. It didn’t stop me from asking her out.

God, I’m like Pisser.

Something akin to the nerves I’d had as a sweaty-palmed-teenager going on a first date flips in my stomach. It’s not a date. Not technically, but there is an insistent pulse inside me that it could be. That this may be the start of many more adventures.

Women aren’t an unknown concept. I’ve not spent the seventeen years since my first date at fifteen living like a monk.

There’s been women. A lot of women. Mostly one-night stands, mutual agreements for repeated good times, and that regretful relationship with Emma Sinclaire.

I’ve not been someone pining away for “ the one .”

The one? Those two words twist and flutter inside me.

That’s more Finn’s territory, not mine. I’ve never been the hopeless romantic like my brother, who falls in-and-out of love with the swift change of the wind.

I’ve never been in love. It’s only been seven hours since first meeting Pen.

Love at first sight is a myth used by publishers to sell sappy romance novels.

It’s the Santa Claus of experiences. No matter how much one plays pretend, there’s no big-bellied man in a red suit breaking and entering your home to eat your cookies and leave you gifts.

Just like there’s no love at first sight.

No matter how captivating someone’s smile is or how much you could drown in their honey gaze.

“What about the girl?” Greg asks, dragging my attention back to him.

I shift in my seat; a furrow notches my brow. Pen being mentioned directly or indirectly in this strategy conversation raises my hackles. We’re supposed to focus on rebranding my image to save me from being traded. Why is he mentioning Pen?

“What girl?” Sasha coos.

“Rowdy Rowan met a girl.” Mirth drips from Greg’s grin.

“It’s not like that,” I grumble.

“Keep telling yourself that, buddy. You were adamant about having my assistant upgrade her?—”

“To first class, not to be seated next to me.”

Undeterred, Greg continues, “As well, one would think avoiding being traded would be incentive enough to get your ass on a plane… but instead you choose to stay with this woman you just met. Never mind the mess we’re still cleaning up from you breaking the nose of the NHL’s golden boy.

What hold does this Penelope Meadows have on you? ”

My jaw clenches. “Wow, you’ve gone a whole five hours without mentioning me punching Landon.”

“If you’d share with us why you punched Landon Phillips, I’m sure I could make this go away,” Sasha offers.

“He’s an asshole.” My hand curls tight around the edge of the hotel room’s desk.

“That’s a given, but I know it was more than that. Like a wolf protecting its pack, you only strike when necessary.”

My eyes flick to the door. Sasha has a way of cutting through everything and seeing the truth.

It’s what makes her one of the best publicists in the business.

It’s probably how Greg lucked out winning her heart.

She may be one of the only people to see through his barbwire exterior to what is, no doubt, a soft gooey inside.

“Fuck his reason,” Greg blurts, running his hand over his smooth bald head.

“It happened. Let’s focus on how to keep Rowan’s image in alignment with the family-friendly vibe the new Bobcat’s owner has been curating since inheriting the team last year.

” Greg taps a thick finger against his chin. “Back to this Penelope Meadows.”

I stiffen at the mischievous glint in his eyes. “What does Pen have to do with anything?”

“Pen? I see we already have nicknames for each other. Does your Pen call you Row-Row?” He waggles his eyebrows in an exaggerated manner.

I promptly flip him off.

He reciprocates before continuing, “I love my twenty-year-old assistant. Within five minutes, he pulled up her social media. With a name like Penelope Meadows, she wasn’t hard to find.”

“Wait!” Sasha’s eyes widen and she gasps. “Cane Austen and Me? Rowan is dating Cane Austen and Me?”

“I’m not dating Pen,” I grunt.

“Not yet.” Greg waves a dismissive finger. “Sweetheart, how do you know about Cane Austen and Me?”

“You remember our son?” Sasha quips.

“I’m familiar.” Greg flashes a cheeky grin.

“Remember that presentation we sat through at his school two weeks ago that you said you were totally paying attention to and not looking at emails on your phone?”

Busted . To anyone else, Greg’s stony face might appear unchanged, but the little tick in his cheeks hint at an acknowledgment of guilt.

“His presentation was on positive social media influencers. He did it on her. She’s amazing. Such an advocate for the disability community and a role model. Not just for kids with disabilities, but everyone.” Sasha takes control of the meeting displaying Pen’s social media.

Pen’s brilliant smile fills my screen. Images flash of her and Cane Austen on various adventures.

Laughing on a tandem bike, a woman with the same brown eyes in the front and Pen in the back.

Toasting in a scarlet Regency era dress with a Ryan Gosling look-a-like I immediately want to punch.

Beaming in the middle of a group of children all wearing Camp Abilities T-shirts.

On the top of all the pictures was the one I took just an hour ago with the caption One lady’s Pisser is another lady’s new best friend .

A smile curls my lips. God, she’s beautiful.

Greg whistles. “You got it bad, Row-Row.”

“You know if you take a few photos and tag?—”

“Absolutely not.” I cut Sasha off.

Greg tosses a warning glare.

“I know.” My expression softens. “Sorry, Sasha.”

“It’s totally fine.” She winks at her husband. “He does have it bad.”

The muffled click of a door shutting draws my attention. No doubt on the other side is Pen heading down the hall toward the lobby to meet me.

“I’ve got to go,” I announce, turning my gaze back to my agent and publicist’s smug grins.

“I know you mean well. I know you want to help but leave my volunteer work and Pen out of it. I’ll do whatever you think is best—” I point at the screen “—within reason. But I won’t exploit what I care about for any rebranding bullshit. Sorry, Sasha.”

I may not like playing the publicity game, but I know it’s part of hockey. As much as I just want to play the game I love – the one my dad loved – I know I have to participate in this part, especially if I want to stay in L.A.

“ What you care about? Don’t you mean who you care about?” she coos.

“I hate you both,” I grumble.

“He’s a goner. Sweetheart, you may need to draft that wedding announcement,” Greg taunts.

Flipping them both off this time, I disconnect. Eyes closed, I run my hands down my face. Does my son doth protest too much? My mam’s taunting words echo inside me. Releasing a harsh breath, I push away from the desk. After refilling my water bottle, I head down to meet Pen.

Pen stands beside a statue of a Sheltie reading a book with a yellow cover. Her back is to me, and I pause to allow my gaze to sweep down the curves of her body.

Fuck. I may die. Khaki shorts stop mid-thigh, accentuating long, toned legs.

Hell, I want to bury myself fully between those legs, finding the Heaven I do not deserve, nor dare to dream about.

The fabric stretches around a supple, apple-shaped ass, causing my hands to clench in battle against the urge to curl my fingers around that backside and pull her flush against me.

Greg and Sasha are right. I have it bad.

Pen spins. Her long auburn hair is tied in two long braids beneath my cap. The fitted black tank top, shorts, that hair, and her wearing my goddamn hat is too much. She’s the perfect blend of sexy sweetness.

She grins. “Rowan.”

“Pen.”

My cap. I almost growl the thought. It’s like she’s a present wrapped up just for me.

A possessive voice grunts inside me to scoop her up, to take her back to my room and claim every fucking inch of her.

My mouth. My tongue. My hands. My cock. All want to make their mark.

To taste, feel, and imprint her on me and me on her.

“Ready?” she asks, biting that plump lower lip.

“Yes.” As much as my body pulses to claim her, I know in that instant I’m the one who’s been claimed.