Zack
Cold Fury Hockey # 3
Cold Fury Hockey # 3
By: Sawyer Bennett
Releasing June 9, 2015
Loveswept
Blurb
New York Times bestselling author Sawyer Bennett goes for a hat trick with the latest romance in a sexy series about cool-as-ice hockey players and the women heating up their lives.
Warning:
The following contains spoilers from a cliffhanger in Garrett.
Rising star Zack Grantham has been
stuck in a downward spiral of grief that has put his career on hold. Back on
the road with the Carolina Cold Fury, still crippled by emotional baggage, and
now a single dad, he’s in need of some serious help with his son. But while the
nerdy new nanny wins his son’s heart, Zack isn’t sure he’s ready for a woman’s
touch—even after getting a glimpse of the killer curves she’s hiding under
those baggy clothes.
Kate Francis usually keeps men like
Zack at a distance. Though his athlete’s body is honed to perfection, he
refuses to move on with his life—and besides, he’s her boss. Still, the sparks
between them are undeniable, tempting Kate to turn their professional
relationship into a personal one. But before she makes a power play for Zack’s
wounded heart, Kate will have to open him up again and show him that love is
worth the fight.
Excerpt
The
overhead lights go out, and the club would be in total darkness if not for the
recessed lights that edge the perimeter of the stage. I slouch down in my seat,
pulling my ball cap lower over my forehead. This causes me to have to tilt my
head back a little bit farther to watch the show but keeps my face better
obscured. The beard I’d been growing for the past four months I’m sure helps to
hide my fame as well.
I
don’t want to be recognized.
I
don’t want anyone to see me and realize just how low Zack Grantham has fallen
from grace.
A sexy
techno beat starts thrumming low, gradually building in decibels. A few
whistles pierce the air, one redneck sounding a catcall. A rolling tide of
mechanical fog slithers across the black lacquered stage and then swirling
spotlights from the corners of the club start rotating. A slight flutter at the
pitch-black curtains that sit closed tight is the only indication that
something is about to happen.
A
quick glance down at my phone that sits on the table in front of me shows that
the time is almost midnight. Time for the grand finale of the evening. The
moment all of the drunk and horny patrons of The Golden Box have been waiting
for.
I
ignore the phone, but tip back the tequila shot sitting in front of me, my eyes
sliding up to the stage as I set the glass back down. When the music reaches
its apex, a slim but toned bare leg sporting an obscenely high-heeled red shoe
peeks through the slit of the curtains, thigh parallel to the floor . . . calf
muscle taut, with toes pointing downward. The whistles and catcalls increase,
but I watch dispassionately.
The
owner of that bare leg raises her knee up higher, then stretches it out fully .
. . gracefully, and holds it there, just as the music lulls to a slow grind.
She
holds it for just a second.
Just a
moment, where everyone waits to see what comes next.
The
curtains fly apart just as the bass thump of music crashes through the club and
a stunning woman with
glorious curly blond hair bursts through. My brain processes a starched white
button-down shirt and a black fedora on her head, then just as quickly
processes the fact that she reaches to the dipping gap at her chest and rips
the shirt open. Beautiful, round, and by the looks of them, real, boobs pop
forth . . . spectacularly bare and bouncing.
A
hundred horny men start cheering and I’m sure the majority of dicks go to full
mast.
The
stripper, who I happen to know goes by the name Candi Apple—and yeah, that’s
Candi with an i—struts
confidently up to the silver pole lodged firmly at the edge of the stage.
Hips
swaying, tongue licking at her full bottom lip, hair wild and blowing from some
kind of cheesy wind machine built into the stage flooring.
Her
right hand reaches out, grabs the pole, and she bends her knees . . . squatting
way down until her ass is almost on the floor. Her legs are spread wide and the
rotating strobe lights cause sparkles to bounce off the silver sequins that
cover the scrap of material between her legs. Candi gyrates her hips, fucking
the pole . . . right in front of me. Her dark eyes scan the men surrounding the
stage, calculating who might be the biggest tipper. Her gaze passes right over
me because I don’t have green clutched in my fingertips waving back and forth
with zeal to stuff them in her G-string.
The
show goes on and I watch it all . . . willing for my body to feel something.
I’d hoped for a hard-on to prove I wasn’t dead, but even a slight fluttering of
lust deep in my groin would have been welcomed. Hell, I’d probably kill for a
gurgle of indigestion—just fucking something— anything to show I could react.
I come
up fucking empty.
The
slight ache in my right wrist pulls my attention away from the tits and ass,
and I open and close my fist several times to ease the cramp, finally giving it
a hearty shake. Overall, my wrist has healed well over the last four months.
The plates and screws have been removed, physical therapy has been completed,
and I’m feeling physically strong. Yeah . . . my wrist is aching right now, but
only because I’ve been gripping the armrests of my chair too tightly while I waited to see if Candi Apple might be
the one to bring me back to life.
Luckily,
it’s just an ache and certainly not something that gives me any pause. I’ve
been cleared by the
team orthopedist, Mark Godson, and cleared by Coach Pretore as well. Starting
next week, I’ll resume practice with the team, and if I’m lucky, it won’t be
long before I’m back in the game . . . a starting second-line left winger for
the Cold Fury.
My
insides feel dead, my capacity to care for much of anything seems lost, but
there are two things that still keep me functioning. It’s the prospect of
playing hockey again, and, more important, my son, Ben.
A
flare of light catches my eye and I see my phone screen glare brightly. I grab
it and wince at the angry text from my sister, Delaney.
WTF Zack? You leave an hour ago to get some milk
and you’re not back. Where are you?
Guilt
suffuses through me, and it’s not lost on me that I’m actually feeling an emotion.
But then again . . .
the acknowledgment of guilt has not been hard for me the past four months.
I
wonder what Delaney would say if I texted her back I’m at a
strip club. Hoping Candi Apple turns me on.
She’d
shit a brick, that’s for sure.
Author Info
Sawyer is the author of several
contemporary romances including the popular Off Series, the Legal Affairs
Series and the Last Call Series. She will be releasing her second book in the
Cold Fury Hockey Series with Random House Loveswept, February 2015.
Thank you for hosting ZACK today!
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