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If you enjoyed this book you'll love Dirty Play

She’s the new PR knockout—she’s off-limits… but I’ll have her begging for trouble.

Wild nights, puck bunnies, and one too many bar brawls have our team’s reputation on thin ice.

Livia Moody? She’s here to fix the damage.

A PR hellcat with a clipboard full of demands and a no-nonsense attitude.

She thinks she can keep me in line. Cute.

But those sassy comebacks and defiant blue eyes? Too easy to fall for—and I'm already gone.

New city, new job, and she’s taking on the LA Panthers headquarters like she owns the place—and swearing she can keep us strictly business.

But the way she shivers when I lean in too close? Sweetheart, that’s not professional.

She’s fighting this. Fighting me.

But I’ve built my career on breaking down defenses.

Now, “off-limits” isn’t just a rule in her contract—it’s a ticking time bomb.

And the heat between us… is about to detonate.

She came here to control my chaos, but she just signed up to be my hottest scandal. To start reading this steamy Enemies to Lovers romance CLICK HERE

~LIVIA~

The line at the café feels like it’s moving backwards. My heels tap a steady rhythm against the floor as the barista fumbles with the espresso machine. I’m trying to be patient, but patience has never been my strong suit—especially not when I’m twenty-three minutes away from the most important first day of my life.

Yes, I’ve got exactly twenty-three minutes before I need to be at the Panthers’ headquarters for my first day as their new PR agent. Twenty-three minutes until my new life begins.

Just last week, I was set to be the PR agent for the LA Blades. Then—plot twist—I got reassigned. "Welcome to the Panthers!" Now I’m staring at a roster full of names I don’t recognize. I wasn’t hired for my hockey knowledge—I was hired to fix their mess. Young, unattached, and coming in with no baggage.The problem? If I accidentally shout Go Blades! like I’ve been rehearsing all week, I might not make it past day one.Last thing I need is to be eaten alive by Panthers.

I pull out my compact mirror and check my reflection. Blazer: crisp. Mascara: not smudged. Hair: surviving the humidity—barely. I look calm, even if the butterflies in my stomach are throwing a rave.

I close the compact mirror and slide it back into my purse with a deep breath.

Today’s the day. No more doubting myself. No more wondering if my parents were right when they said I’d come crawling back to our farm in Wyoming. This job is my shot to prove to them and to myself that I belong in LA and that I can thrive in a world that doesn’t smell like hay and cow poop.

The line inches forward, and the woman in front of me moves aside with her coffee, making way for me. I glance at the clock above the counter. Twenty-one minutes.

“Good morning.” I smile at the barista, ready to finally order. “A large latte with a pump of hazelnut, please.”

That’s when he walks in.

At first, it’s his sheer size that catches my attention—tall, broad, and solid in a way that makes you rethink the definition of muscular. His dark brown hair is just wavy enough to look annoyingly perfect, and tattoos snake down his arms, disappearing beneath his shirt sleeves. One even climbs up the left side of his neck like a daring secret. And then there are his eyes. Piercing green and sharp, like they see more than they should.

He walks right up to the counter, taking more space than a regular-sized human would, ignoring the rest of us entirely like he’s the only one who matters.

I blink. Oh, hell no. Scratch what I said. He’s short, scrawny and ugly. And he’s about to find out the meaning of a line.

“Excuse me?” my voice slices through the café noise, loud enough to turn a few heads.

He freezes for half a second before turning his head toward me, the sharp angle of his jawline looking even more pronounced. I ignore the tension coiling in my belly and square my shoulders as his green eyes lock with mine.

“Yes?” His voice is deep and calm, with the kind of authority that makes people listen.

“You just cut in front of, oh, I don’t know, everyone ,” I say, gesturing to the line behind me. “There’s a system here, sir. It’s called waiting your turn.”

There’s a flicker of surprise across his stupidly handsome face that makes me feel smug, but it’s short-lived.

His eyes flick to the line, then back to me, giving me a once-over. “I’m on a schedule.”

“Oh, you’re on a schedule?” I ask, my brows shooting up to my hairline. “And the rest of us are here for the ambiance?” I wave toward the people waiting behind me.

He watches me for a second before tilting his head to the side. Most guys would get defensive by now, but not him. No, he just stands there, calm and unbothered, like he’s deciding whether I’m worth the effort.

“Are you done?” he asks finally, his voice as smooth as it is infuriating.

Jerk!

“Not even close,” I snap. “But since you’re clearly so important, by all means, go ahead and cut. The rest of us will just stand here basking in your superiority.”

For a moment, I think I see the corner of his mouth twitch. It's not quite a smirk; it's more like he’s trying not to be amused.

“Thank you for your permission,” he says simply, turning back to the barista. “Large americano. No sugar.”

The barista hesitates, clearly caught between serving him and respecting the line. But then the man slides a bill across the counter, crisp, folded, and big enough to settle any debate. He then leans across the counter, towering over the barista, to say something I can’t hear. The barista looks up at him with a nod before hurrying to make his coffee.

I fold my arms across my chest and shoot daggers at Mr. Line Cutter’s broad back. I’ve said what I needed to say. The next step is to pay an Etsy witch five bucks to hex him.

The barista returns in a few moments, carrying a large cup.

“Your coffee.”

“Thank you.” He picks up his coffee and turns around, those green eyes flicking my way. “Have a nice day.” And with that, he walks out the door, everyone’s eyes following him.

I stare, mouth half-open, as he disappears out the door.

The barista clears his throat, pulling me out of my rage spiral. “Um, here’s your order too, Miss.”

“Thank you so much,” I smile at the young man who at least had the grace to make my coffee as well as Mr. Line Cutter’s. “How much do I owe you?”

“Oh,” he says. “It’s already paid for.”

I blink. “What?”

“Mr. DiMarco paid for your coffee.” He waves at the door where Mr. DiAsshole just walked out. Amazing, so he’s a regular then. I need to remind myself not to come here again, despite this café being the closest to the Panthers’ headquarters.

“He did?” I gape at the young man, who just shrugs apologetically. I don’t want to hold the line any more, so I just thank him again with a polite smile before walking off.

As I leave the café, I replay the whole interaction in my head. The way he didn’t argue, didn’t explain himself. The way he’d just…paid.

It’s annoying.

It’s confusing.

It’s the perfect warm welcome to LA, where entitled playboys like him are in abundance.

The Panthers’ headquarters is everything you’d expect from a multi-billion-dollar franchise. I pause at the double doors, letting its size sink in. Sleek glass panels, polished steel accents, and a huge logo glinting above the double doors like a crown. Just stepping inside feels like a power move.

I clutch my bag and cup of coffee a little tighter, my nerves buzzing like I’ve downed three Red Bulls. This is it. This is the first step toward proving I belong here. No farm, no backup plans, just me and my career.

Inside, the air hums with energy—phones ring, conversations echo, and there’s the faint tap of hurried footsteps on polished floors. Everything is colorful and modern, from the high ceilings to the massive light-up Panthers logo dominating the lobby wall.

I walk to the reception desk and introduce myself, doing my best to sound confident despite the tiny voice in my head that keeps whispering, “ What if they don’t take you seriously?”

The receptionist types something into her computer and then picks up a phone. “Someone from HR will be right down, Ms. Moody,” she says with a friendly smile. And that, truthfully, eases my nerves a bit.

“Thank you.” I adjust my blazer and glance around, my anxiety giving way to excitement.

Ten minutes later, I’m sitting in a plush leather chair in the HR office, trying to keep my leg from bouncing like I’ve had way too much caffeine.

The HR rep, Christina, slides a contract across the desk, smiling warmly. “We’re thrilled to have you on board, Livia. Let’s go over the details.” She’s a woman in her mid-thirties with curly brown hair, milk-chocolate skin, a flawless outfit, and a warm smile that I’m more than thankful for.

As we review the paperwork, I spot a particular clause:

MORAL CONDUCT AGREEMENT Relationships between team personnel and players are prohibited.

“You guys really lock things down here.” I snort softly.

“Yes,” she huffs out a laugh. “We don’t want personal matters interfering with the team dynamic.”

“Of course,” I say, though I’m already rolling my eyes internally. I didn’t come here for romance. I came to climb the PR ladder and prove myself. Still, I scribble my signature. This is it. I’m officially an NHL team’s PR agent.

God, this feels so good.

Another ten minutes later, Tina, a bubbly staff member assigned to show me around, chats enthusiastically as we weave through the labyrinthine halls of the building.

“We’re so happy to have a fresh face on the team. You’re going to love it here,” she says, her black ponytail bouncing as she walks. “The guys are great, total professionals. Well, mostly.”

“Mostly?” I raise an eyebrow.

“You’ll see.” Tina grins.

We pass the locker rooms, where muffled laughter and voices spill into the hallway and a dozen other rooms we pass. Finally, Tina stops in front of a set of heavy double doors.

“Ready to meet the team?”

“Ready!” My palms go clammy again, but I nod.

She pushes open the doors, and I step into the gym.

It’s impressive. State-of-the-art equipment everywhere, with high ceilings and floor-to-ceiling windows letting in natural light.

At least a dozen men are scattered around, all in various stages of warm-up or training. Sweat glistens off toned muscles, and the room hums with testosterone. The air smells like effort and a faint hint of expensive cologne.

And then I spot three of them who stand out like they’ve been plucked from a magazine spread.

The first guy is tall and broad-shouldered, his dark brown hair combed back, with tattoos swirling down his naked torso and arms. He’s bench-pressing an ungodly amount of weight, his jaw as flexed as his muscles.

Next to him is another man, spotting for him, I think. He’s just as tall but has tousled black hair and a couple of strands falling over his pale blue eyes. He glances at me before he’s back to watching the first man with focus, his heavily tattooed arms crossed, exuding the kind of quiet confidence that says he knows exactly how good he looks. If the first man was tattooed, this man is blacked out. Ink covers his arms and whole neck, and even his hands and fingers have tattoos, making me wonder if there’s any…skin left untouched.

I blink, shaking away the thought.

And then the third man turns around.

My stomach plummets. Oh, this is just lovely.

It’s him. Mr. Line Cutter.

I almost laugh because, of course, he’s here. The barista knew his name, the café being so close to the Panthers’ HQ. Of course, he’s part of the team. My luck is just that impeccable.

“Alright, listen up!” Tina claps her manicured hands, and the room quiets as the guys turn to us. “As you know, we have been on the lookout for a new PR agent to represent the Panthers since Angela stepped away. I want to introduce you to Livia Moody, your new PR agent!” She waves a hand at me with a wide smile.

“It’s wonderful to meet you all,” I say with a small nod, feeling a bit out of place as some of the guys share looks.

The silence lasts for maybe two seconds before someone wolf whistles. Then there’s applause, and the comments start flying, coming from everywhere.

“Welcome to the jungle!” a blond man by the squatting rack bellows.

“Don’t scare her, man!” another teammate elbows him before smiling at me.

“Welcome to the team!” another one yells, and a collective, “Yeah!” follows.

Yells and cheers ripple throughout the room, and I cross my arms, pretending I’m not about to hyperventilate. I’ve never had so many eyes on me at once.

“Are you guys always this enthusiastic, or is this a special welcome for me?” I try my best to keep an easygoing smile despite the prickling sensation at the back of my neck. I can feel his eyes on me. He’s watching me. I can see him from the corner of my eye with his large arms crossed.

“Depends,” a shirtless guy with a towel slung over his shoulder quips back. “Can you handle us?”

“You pack of puppies?” I wave a finger around. “Oh, I’ll be fine.” I nod with a wave of my hand.

That earns a round of laughter, hell yeahs, and a few mock barks. I can’t help but grin. It’s ridiculous, but it’s breaking the ice.

“Welcome to the team, miss PR agent,” the blond guy from earlier yells, jogging up to me.

“Just Livia.” I take his large, outstretched hand and shake it.

“Livia,” he huffs out a nervous laugh. “I’m Cole, by the way. Sorry about the sweaty palms. I was doing pushups.” He flexes his bicep in my face.

“Yeah, I can see that.” I laugh right before another player smacks his arm away to introduce himself, then another, until the whole pack of puppies swarms me. The whole pack of puppies, except for three big dogs, looking at me from the corner of the gym.

Once I’ve shaken a dozen sweaty palms, Tina nudges me forward.

“Come on, let’s meet the captain.”

Captain? Wasn’t one of these guys the captain?

Oh, no.

Tina leads me straight to him. Mr. Line Cutter.

He’s standing there towering over me with his arms crossed, looking at me like he already knows this is going to be a disaster. His green eyes are sharp, piercing, and way too knowing.

“Livia, this is Damien Colton.” She gestures to the shirtless man who was benching a few moments ago.

“Welcome to the team.” He gives me a tight-lipped smirk, his hazel eyes gleaming.

“And this is Ares Black.” She waves at the blue-eyed tattooed-up man next to him, who just gives me a nod, his pale eyes studying me beneath dark brows.

“Hi, guys.” I raise a hand, suddenly feeling a bit out of place again.

“Don’t take it personally,” Tina throws out. “He’s always like that.” She pats Ares on the shoulder as his eyes follow the movement, impassive.

And then my eyes travel to him. His arms are still crossed over his chest, but now, he’s looking at me with a small, knowing smile, two lines appearing at each corner of his mouth.

“And this is our captain, Rowan DiMarco. You’ll be working closely with him since he’s the face of the team and all.”

My smile freezes. Of course.

“Mr. DiMarco,” I manage to say, my voice even, my shoulders squared. I probably look like one of those cats ready to pounce, but I can’t help it.

“Ms. Moody ,” he replies, his tone polite, but there’s a flicker of amusement in his eyes.

Of course, he’s the guy I’ll have to collaborate with most. The guy who, apparently, represents the team’s image and is too entitled to wait in lines.

“I hope you enjoyed your coffee,” he says smoothly, amusement in his voice.

“Can’t say the same,” I shoot back, my smile sharpening. The first man, Damien, snorts a laugh, shaking his head.

There’s a beat of silence, the tension thick enough to cut with a knife. I swear I catch the corners of his mouth twitching upward, but he doesn’t reply.

“Well, I’m sure you two will work great together.” Tina glances between us, clearly oblivious to the undercurrent.

“I’m looking forward to it,” I say, my voice dripping with sweetness.

“Oh, me, too,” Rowan replies, his smirk finally breaking through.

As Tina moves on to show me the rest of the facility, I can feel his eyes on me, like a weight pressing against my back. My pulse races, but I refuse to turn around.

This job is going to be a challenge for reasons I did not anticipate.

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