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RONAN

I have a feeling today’s gonna be a shit day.

So far, it already is. And it’s barely 9:15 in the morning.

Tearing the toque off my head, I fling open the door to the media room, paste on a smile and step inside. Cameras flash in my face. The whole room is buzzing with eager reporters and they’re all staring at me.

Press conferences never get any easier.No matter how many I’ve had to do over the years. Even worse still? Having to face the media when I’m fresh out of the slammer.

It’s Monday morning and I’m still not over the drama from the events of the weekend. Hell. I’m still having flashbacks to the stench of that piss-soaked guy who was passed out in the corner of the holding cell on Saturday night.

Shudder .

I walk up to the front of the room, passing my teammate on his way out. The queasy look on Tipton’s face confirms that the reporters ate him alive and left no crumbs. I nervously rake my fingers through my hair. Great. They’ve had a taste of blood, and now they want mine .

The reporters grow quiet as they wait for me to speak. I stand up at the podium, looking down at the electronic tablet that the PR director left out for me. I groan inwardly, wishing I could be anywhere but here.

Still I clear my throat, lean toward the microphone and read off the garbage speech that some intern in a back office wrote for me.

“…I want to apologize first and foremost to my fans…”

“…My actions in no way reflect the kind of leader I strive to be…”

“…I take full responsibility for my reckless behavior…”

“…And can assure you that I am going to do better.”

“…I am going to be better…”

“…I am going to be the leader my Saints teammates, coaches, and fans can count on…”

Yaddy. Yaddy. Yadda.

Blah. Blah. Blah.

Bullshit.Bullshit. More bullshit.

Wiping sweat from my forehead, I manage to finish my apology speech. I feel like I didn’t do half-bad. But it’s the barrage of dumb questions that the reporters fling at me afterward that have me stumbling and muttering and nearly losing my cool.

Before I can dig myself a new hole to fall into, my agent steps in, says a few flowery words, and brings the conference to a close.

But I’m not off the hook just yet.

Next, I’m trailing down the corridor of the Saints’ head offices behind a group of pissed-off billionaires—Darius, Cash Westbrook, Liam Kline, Cannon Kingston, Raphael Silver, Reuben Barre, King freaking Xavier of Ridgeland. Then there’s my agent, and the team’s general manager. Basically, all the big wigs.

It’s hard to believe all their big heads can squeeze into the same hallway.

Judging from the energy in the air, I get a sense that all these rich fuckers are participating in a silent power struggle, competing over who comes across as the grumpiest.

And I have a nagging feeling that it’s a really bad omen to get stuck in a room with all of the boss guys at once.

Sheesh—Darius wasn’t lying when he said I was about to face some consequences.

It’s like back when I was in high school, and I got busted for accidentally breaking that TV in the cafeteria. I still remember the feeling—the principal, the lunch monitor, and my coach all shooting glares at my head.

Out of nowhere, I feel tired.

Jeez. I’m tired of being a disappointment.

A part of me thought I’d grow out of this phase by now. How is it that I’m 27 years old and I’m still fucking up all over the place?

I don’t want to be some laughing stock who drove the Sin Valley Saints franchise into the ground.

I want to be a great. A hockey great . I want to go down in history as one of the best players of my time. I want to show the New York Troopers that they were wrong for overlooking me, for underestimating me.

I’ll never achieve any of those goals if I keep screwing up.

“Stop sulking already,” Darius leans over and hisses into my ear. “Because you’re the one who got yourself into this mess. You and you alone.”

And what a giant fucking mess it is.

Everybody's pissed at me over this scandal.

“I’d call it an innocent mistake. A wrong-place, wrong-time kind of thing.The truth is, if we’d chosen a different bar to hang out that night, none of this would have happened.” I try to defend myself.

“An innocent mistake?” He spits out a bitter laugh. He jams a thumb over his shoulder, in the direction of his business partners. “These angry rich dudes call it a bad investment. With millions and millions of dollars circling the drain right alongside their reputation.”

I shake my head at Darius, keeping my voice low. “I feel like I’m walking into a lion’s den. What’s the plan here? If you’re going to behead me or something, can you at least make it quick?”

He whispers back, a devious smile making his eyes crinkle at the corners. “Let’s just say that, as of today, you now have yourself a babysitter.” He claps my shoulder with a heavy palm. “Congratulations, little brother.”

The fuck? “A babysitter?”

“That’s right, Ronan. Effective this morning, we have a junior associate from the PR department who will be following you around. Supervising your comings and goings.” His smile widens.

Fuck. He’s enjoying this.

Darius is such a stick in the mud. Sometimes, I can’t believe that he’s only 30 years old.

“F-following me around?” I stutter. “Following me around for what?!”

My brother balks. “To make sure you keep your ass out of trouble!”

“That’s bullshit,” I grumble. “Is that even legal?”

“It’s legal. Probably. I think. Maybe.” A shadow of doubt crosses over his face. He shakes it off. “Anyway, you’ve definitely earned it,” he says with a shrug. “My business partners and I invested a lot of time and money into this hockey franchise, and we refuse to let the Saints become the laughing stock of the league just because our captain can’t keep his shit together.”

My blood boils just as my stomach goes tight. Honestly, I was expecting some form of punishment along those lines, but to hear him say it out loud just pisses me off.

This whole thing pisses me off.

“I don’t need a babysitter!” I hiss after him as he strides on ahead of me. “Especially if it’s going to be some stuffy, uptight corporate dude in a polka dot bowtie.” At least, that’s how I picture him. “If some jerkwad like that starts following me around, I’m going to strangle him before the end of the week.And right back to jail I’ll go, making headlines again.”

Darius glances back at me, just to roll his eyes. “How come I never noticed you were such a drama llama?” He reaches out to pinch my cheek. I slap his hand away.

I open my mouth but I don’t get the chance to respond. Because when we make it to the end of the hall, the conference room door opens ahead of me. And I don’t see some corporate bowtie dumbass.

Far from it.

I see the hot, sassy Westbrook girl stirring sugar into a teacup.

My heart rate instantly picks up and I pinch myself to make sure this is not the beginning of another one of my x-rated dreams.

It’s not.

It’s her.

In the flesh.

Her hair is pulled into a tight bun. Her shoulders are straight like a statute. Her blouse is buttoned all the way up to her chin.

Our eyes meet and her peach-colored lips fall open.

I smile.

Looks like I was wrong. This day just took a turn for the better.