Page 1 of Lucky Shot (Moonshot Hockey #1)

RUBY

They say be ready when opportunity knocks, but in my experience, opportunity is rarely that polite.

In the best of scenarios, it trudges in wearing a cloak of uncertainty (that undoubtedly wears off on you) and takes up residence on your couch for months on end.

Worst case, opportunity sprints by so fast you barely recognize it or the lifeline it tosses in your direction.

I have a sneaking suspicion that this moment is the latter. Because in what world does your literary agent email you on a random summer Friday with news that your dream publisher wants to meet?

Okay, for other people maybe that isn’t that rare. Me two years ago wouldn’t have even thought it was remarkable. But that was before…well, a lot of things.

I pull my hair down out of the messy top knot and finger comb the red tangles into some semblance of a tidy hairdo, then pull it back up.

I don’t have enough time to make myself more presentable before the meeting alert chimes.

And really, what should they expect? I’m an author.

My idea of business casual is a nice shirt paired with my most comfy leggings.

My stomach is in knots as I click the link to join the call. Molly, my agent, is already present. So is Doreen, an editor for a top publishing house and my final hope of selling this book before I’m forced into retirement.

“Hi,” I say as I adjust my laptop, so I’m centered in the screen.

Both women smile at me while my pulse kicks up enough speed that my watch buzzes and asks me if I want to record a workout.

“I am so thrilled to talk to you,” Doreen says, leaning back in her cushy, leather office chair.

Her gray hair is pulled back into an elegant bun at the nape of her neck.

She wears silver hoop earrings, and a scarf tied around her neck.

She has that timeless style of a woman in her fifties that has found what she likes and sticks with it.

“You are?” I ask. My voice betrays me by wavering a little.

“Of course.” A small laugh leaves her as she rests one elbow on the arm of her chair.

Her fingers absently touch one earring as she adds, “I’m a big fan of your work.

You have been a big part of the resurgence of vampire romances, and no one does it quite like you.

I’ve read every single one and I’m smitten with them all. ”

“Even the last one?” I ask before thinking better of it.

Over the past five years, my career has rocketed.

The first two books did well, but it was the third that launched my career to the next level.

I hit bestseller lists in three countries, accepted foreign publishing deals, optioned movie rights, and had more ideas than I could possibly write in my lifetime.

All that came to a screeching halt a year ago.

My fourth book flopped, I went through a messy breakup, and then I was hit with writer’s block so hard I couldn’t come up with a single good idea.

I haven’t sold anything since, but hopefully all that changes today.

Doreen lets out a hearty guffaw that somehow still comes off sophisticated and chic. “Was it my favorite? No. But your talent shines through even when the story isn’t compelling.”

I’m not sure how to take that. I know she meant it as a compliment, but I’m hung up on the whole "the story wasn’t compelling" part. She isn’t wrong.

“But none of that matters. Publishing has a short memory. And the most recent book Molly sent over shines like nothing else I’ve read from you.”

“Thanks,” I say, relief flooding me. I’m shocked, honestly. It was painful to write, and it was only a proposal and the first two chapters. If I manage to sell it, I’ll have to figure out how to get my mojo back—something I need to do regardless.

“It’s surprising and fun, and the tension between the main characters jumps off the page. What made you want to change things up? I mean, a sports romance from Ruby Madison?!”

I’m nodding along and smiling, eating up her words, until the last part clicks into place.

“Wait. Sports romance?”

“Yes.” She laughs again, smiling at first, but then she must read my confusion. She reaches for a pair of tortoise shell glasses and pulls them on, then glances at what I assume is a second monitor. “ A Sporty Romance by Ruby Madison. That is you, right?”

A memory of me typing those words on the title page before sending it off to Molly flashes in my mind at the same time I inwardly cringe. Not my most original title, which is probably why that book was shelved two years ago .

While Doreen waits patiently for an answer, I glance at Molly. She somehow continues to beam while I shoot lasers out of my eyes at her.

Silently, I panic scream, “You gave Doreen Walters my old manuscript!?” While she seems to say, “Just go with it, Ruby. We need this!”

The quiet stretches out for several tense moments.

“Yes, of course I wrote it,” I say as heat blooms in my face. “I’m sorry, I thought we were meeting about the vampire royalty book.”

“Molly sent over the proposal and chapters for that one too. It isn’t bad.” She pulls off her glasses and holds them in one hand, then motions toward her monitor. “But this is the one I want.”

“Why?” The question bubbles over and slips from my lips.

She lets out a laugh as she arches a brow. “I thought I liked it.”

“I’m so sorry,” I apologize again.

My brain reels. Two years ago, before the worst year of my life, I wrote a sports romance.

It was fun. My sister, Olivia, had just started dating Flynn—a professional baseball player.

I was going with her to games, completely caught up in their love story.

It was inspiring to watch them fall in love.

So inspiring that I wrote an entire draft faster than anything before or since.

It was different from what I’d written previously, but my early readers all loved it, including Molly, who I trust implicitly.

She pitched it to my publisher at the time.

They passed, noting they liked the book, but it wasn’t right for them.

Then two more editors at different publishers did the same.

I shrugged it off because I was getting plenty of requests for more paranormal or romantasy.

Publishing seemed to be telling me they wanted me to do more of what I was already doing, and I listened.

We shelved A Sporty Romance (still a terrible name) and I wrote another vampire book—the one that flopped.

My agent continues to smile through the screen, but I note the tension bracketing her mouth. Why wouldn’t Molly tell me she was shopping this manuscript around again?

Doreen continues, “I know the book is different, but it’s precisely why I love it.

Not everyone can pull off switching genres like this, but I think you can.

Your writing is gorgeous. The hero is charming, and your heroine is nuanced and lovable, if not slightly chaotic.

The book has all the charisma and wit that your readers adore. ”

“But my readers aren’t expecting a sports romance.” My readers may not be expecting anything, honestly. It’s been over a year since I’ve published, which wouldn’t be all that concerning if I were promoting or teasing something to come, but I’m not.

“If you partner with us, then I will make it my mission to convince your readers and everyone else that they need to read this book,” Doreen says without a beat of hesitation in her tone. She’s launched so many careers that her confidence is well-earned.

“I don’t know what to say.” She’s not known for her flattery, but she’s handed me several compliments in the span of five minutes.

I try my hardest to let them land and soothe the previous rejections for this book.

Even if she did call my heroine chaotic.

Not exactly what I was going for, but I can smooth that out in edits.

Oh my god, am I actually considering this?

“There’s just one little thing,” Doreen says in that way that foreshadows the little thing is going to be a huge pain to fix. She places her glasses back on the bridge of her nose. “We’d like you to change the sport from baseball to hockey.”

Her words rattle around in my brain like a pinball machine. Baseball. Hockey. What’s the difference?

In the small image of me on the screen, my brows furrow. “Excuse me?”

“We have another baseball romance on our list this summer. Besides, baseball is harder to sell in this market. Hockey romance is what readers want right now.” She grins like we’re in on a secret. “And the sport is such a small part of the story.”

That’s true, but there’s one more thing she’s failed to account for. “I don’t know hockey.”

I barely know baseball. I had Olivia and Flynn helping me get the sport’s details right, but it was a huge undertaking.

“Oh.” Doreen gets the first flicker of disappointment on her face, and instantly I get the feeling that I’ve ruined everything. And judging by Molly’s face, she thinks so too.

There goes opportunity sprinting by.

I’ve wanted to work with Doreen since before I finished my first manuscript.

She’s smart and powerful. She navigates publishing like a badass boss bitch.

Her eye for picking out books from the slush pile and making them bestsellers is impeccable.

If there’s anyone that can help revive my career, it’s her.

But hockey?

And if I say no, then what? I could have Molly send this book back around to editors. To be honest, I’d forgotten about it. I shelved A Sporty Romance ( such a terrible title) in my metaphorical box under my bed with a dozen other manuscripts.

Maybe someone else would take it as is. Or I guess I could write another book, but, well, that hasn’t been very successful the past six months, i.e., I’ve written nothing except proposals.

“What Ruby means is that she would need additional resources in order to make sure she gets the hockey information correct,” Molly interjects. “I can help with that. I’m originally from Upstate New York. I know lots of people in the hockey world.”

I shoot my agent a look that I hope communicates my skepticism. Meanwhile, Doreen’s smile is back and wider than ever. “Great.”

“Great,” I mimic, with a lot less enthusiasm.

“I’ll send over my offer this afternoon.

Take time and think it over, but not too much time.

” Doreen quickly transforms back into serious editor mode, steepling her fingers in front of the camera.

“We want to turn this around quickly and get it out with our winter catalog. You’re attending the Delaroche Book Fair this fall, right? ”

I nod. It’s the one event Molly absolutely refused to let me cancel this year—otherwise I would have.

“Perfect. We’ll announce it then with big, flashy signage and advanced copies.” She gets that hopeful smile on her face again.

Panic rises in my chest, sending a flood of warmth through my body. “You want me to rewrite the entire book by the event in September?”

“Of course not. We’d need it by the end of August,” she says with not a single drop of teasing in her tone. “We’ll rush to print advanced copies for the convention.”

Several seconds pass where my entire body is frozen with a mixture of hope and terror.

I want so badly to believe this is the chance to turn things around, but it’s so unexpected.

Lying low in my apartment, plotting books and writing bad first chapters over and over again has become almost comforting.

“Okay.” Molly gets that look in her eye that tells me she’s heard all she needs and doesn’t want me to put my foot in my mouth. “Thank you so much, Doreen. I’m excited about this.”

“Me too,” Doreen says.

I can’t seem to speak so I force my mouth into what I hope is a smile.

“We’ll talk soon.” Doreen leans forward and then ends the meeting.

Two seconds later, Molly calls me.

“Don’t panic,” she says by way of greeting.

“Don’t panic?” I ask, parroting her words but with so much anxiety I can feel it vibrating through me. I stand and pace back and forth in my small living room. “Why didn’t you warn me?”

“Honestly?” She pauses, then adds, “I was afraid you wouldn’t take the meeting.”

“Nobody turns down a meeting with Doreen Walters,” I whisper-hiss as I squeeze my eyes shut.

“She is a legend,” Molly says. “And she loves the book.”

Even Doreen must get it wrong occasionally.

As if she heard my internal dialogue, Molly uses her stern, lovable tone. “So do I. I believe in this book. I always have. I wouldn’t be pushing it if I didn’t. Maybe now is the time to finally get it out there while you figure out what’s next.”

Or it could flop like the last one. I swallow the words, but they burn all the same. I stop pacing and inhale a steadying breath.

“How would this even work?” I ask. “I wasn’t exaggerating. I really don’t know anything about hockey.”

“Let me worry about that.”

A tiny scoff leaves my throat. This is crazy.

I can’t do it. I’m the least sporty person I know.

My knowledge of hockey is nonexistent, unless you count fifth grade physical education class where we played scooter hockey.

And the only thing I remember about that is how painful it is to have your fingers run over by a scooter wheel.

“I promise I will get you the support you need. Your character will be deking and chirping, putting up hat tricks, and shaking out his glorious lettuce,” Molly adds confidently.

“I have no idea what you even said.”

“Me either, but I love Shoresy . Have you seen the show? It’s hilarious.”

My throat constricts and a fresh wave of panic ripples through me. I shake my head but no words come out.

“You can do this!” Her enthusiasm is contagious and finally a small laugh escapes. If I don’t laugh, I may cry.

“Oh, she’s already sent over the offer,” Molly says, then gasps.

“Is that a good gasp or a bad gasp?” I ask. Maybe it’s so bad it doesn’t justify learning an entirely new sport. We can go back to pushing the vampire royalty book and I can figure out how I’m going to write it if and when someone wants it.

“I just forwarded it.”

I hustle back to my laptop and pull up the email from Molly. When the attachment loads, I let out my own gasp. I have never, and I mean never , seen an advance even close to this number. It would be the biggest deal of my career.

I straighten and blow out a breath. “What does lettuce have to do with hockey?”