Chapter 1

Coleson

“No one likes you.”

Wow. Well, that’s kind of fucked up. I’m a likable dude. I play hockey and make a damn good brew; I’m a winner in my book. I’m not entirely sure who the hell these people are who don’t like me, but in my opinion, fuck ’em. I bring in my brows, my face scrunching up, before I set El Davenport with a look that telegraphs exactly what I’m thinking.

“I mean, I think you’re great,” she adds with a nervous giggle. El is the social media manager for the Knoxville Bears, the American Hockey League team I play for. She’s savvy as all hell in all things social media. She has done a great job with the Bears’ accounts, along with the account for the arena we play in.

El knows what she’s doing, and she does it well.

Doesn’t mean I agree with her assessment of me, but I’m guessing the folder in front of her will explain why I’m so unlikable.

“Don’t hold back now, El. Hit me where it hurts.”

She grimaces before opening her folder. Her chestnut-colored hair is up in a big, messy bun, pieces falling around her face and in her blue eyes, while her dark glasses slide down her nose. She swallows hard and sits back on the barstool she’s occupying. I lean on the high-top, waiting, and I cup my jaw to keep my hands still. Nerves eat at my gut, and my chest is tight as I watch her. This is the last damn thing I want to do today.

Or any day, really.

When I tried out for the Knoxville Bears, I didn’t think I had a snowball’s chance in hell of making the team, but I did. Not only did I make the team, but the coach saw something in me that no one else did. Talent. Raw talent that could be molded. I have spent the last year working with the coaches and trainers, getting better each day. I never thought the NHL was in the cards for me. My parents didn’t care to support my dreams, and no one told me I could make that dream a reality. Not until I met Riggs McCoy, the coach for the Knoxville Bears.

He believes in me, which is good since I still feel like the NHL is unattainable.

“You’ve done great not sleeping with anything that wiggles its ass at you,” she says softly, as if she’s embarrassed for me. She doesn’t need to be. I’m not. So, I fucked around. I was a nobody before I got on the team.

Once word hit the town that I was playing for the Bears, everyone came out of the woodwork, thinking they could lock me down and make me their cash cow. Nope. Not happening. But I sure did enjoy myself. “The comments on posts of you, saying you’re a whore, have finally stopped.”

That was fun and was started by Tonya, a girl who tried to get me to knock her up. She went all out, poking holes in condoms and trying to get me drunk to get me to come inside her. It was interesting, and I learned quickly that, in general, these girls in Knoxville are no good. Neither are the ones in the surrounding towns. Hell, even here in Blitz. They are all thirsty as fuck. “I’m sure that’s making your life easier.”

She gives me a shy grin, and her eyes light up. “It is. I hate trying to explain to my peepaw why no one likes you.”

“But they still don’t?”

She nods solemnly. “Your image has been ruined by all the girls you were with. And I’ve been through hell, trying to get those accounts shut down. Be glad we have a great lawyer.”

“Thank you for that,” I tell her since I am very thankful for her.

Those accounts gave access to photos of my cock—and more, to people who subscribed—and were not only bad for my image, but for the team. And my coffeehouse. Yes, it was a terrible idea to allow girls to take photos of me, but I was drunk most of the time, and I enjoyed showing off. Not that I care much what anyone thinks of me, but all those sites, photos, and more didn’t do me any favors.

Everyone would come in for a “coffee,” but then they wouldn’t touch the brew and, instead, would just stare at me while looking at pictures of my cock on their devices. Yes, it brought in a lot of revenue and got me some easy ass, but I’ve turned over a new leaf.

I am trying to be wholesome.

A player the NHL would be proud to have.

According to El.

“It was a pleasure. I enjoy siccing the lawyers on people. That’s fun.” Her cheeks warm with color before her eyes meet mine. “Not sleeping around isn’t enough, though. We need to do something else.”

“Okay. As in what? Go serve chili to the homeless? Save some cat out of a tree? Play hockey in the street with some kids? What are you thinking?”

She draws her bottom lip between her teeth, and it catches my attention. If I were truly a manwhore like everyone says I am, I would hit on her. She’s a beautiful girl, smart, and has a hella great ass. But I don’t. Because I am a good guy…ish. “You’re not gonna like it.”

I arch a brow. “Spit it out, El.”

“A girlfriend.”

I find myself gawking at her, my eyes blinking on their own as I try to process her words. Then I sputter, “A girlfriend?”

“Yes. And then propose in three months.”

My jaw drops. “You want me to propose to said girlfriend.”

“Yes. And if you can knock her up, that would be super awesome. But I am aware that’s asking a lot, not only from you, but from whoever you lock down.”

“You think?” I practically yell, losing control. She jumps at my words. I close my eyes, feeling like a jackass. I run my hands down my face, exhaling hard and then filling my lungs up once more.

“I know it’s a lot to digest and that I’ve come out of left field with this.”

I look at her through my fingers. “El, you’re asking me to get a whole-ass family. I’m not ready for that.”

She nods slowly as I drop my hands from my face. “I know, and it’s a lot to ask for. But you asked me to help you. Coach McCoy asked me to help because he knows you can make it to the NHL if only you didn’t have such a toxic image.”

“Toxic?” I ask, laughing. “Wow. That’s not true.”

“It is,” she says, her eyes urging mine to see the truth. “Opening night last year, you were caught with your pants down behind a waitress,” she says, reading off her notes. “You hooked up with all three daughters of one of our trainers, and he left because of you. Plus, you have slept with a teammate’s wife.”

I grimace at each of her points as if they are small paper cuts in my skin. Shit, maybe I am a manwhore. I press my lips together. “I didn’t sleep with her,” I try, but no one ever listens to that. She gives me a look, and I shrug. “Okay, I made some bad choices, but I’ve grown.”

“Yes, but no one wants to deal with you. You aren’t approachable or even taken seriously. You have a look of pure disdain twenty-four seven. The NHL is flooded with drafted players who fuck around in each city they go to or sleep with teammates’ and trainers’ loved ones. They don’t need you. You need them, though, to make your goals.”

As much as I want to fight her on it, I know I can’t. She’s right.

“And having a family is the only way to change that?”

“Maybe not a family, but we need a wife and perhaps an animal. People love happy couples with animals.”

I blink at her. “Are you sure about this?”

She nods eagerly. “I am. I could be wrong and it won’t help, but when you look at the statistics, people want someone relatable. They already admire you for your talent, but seeing you mess around, drink, jump bed to bed publicly, gamble… That isn’t the life hockey fans want their kids to look up to. They want you to be in love, be settled, and be scoring goals.”

“And just not fucking, drinking, and gambling isn’t going to help?”

“It’s been six months,” she reminds me. “The only thing that’s changed is they’ve stopped calling you Whore-son.”

The play on my name would be funny if it didn’t hit me in my soft spot. This isn’t the first time I’ve been called Whore-son, but when I was little, it was “That Whore’s Son.” Not wanting to open that can of worms, I nod. “I don’t know, El. I’ve never seen myself with a family.”

She bites the inside of her cheek. “Ultimately, it’s up to you. I’m just here to support and suggest.” She shuts the folder. “But I can tell you that no team has you on their radar. I have met with Shelli Adler-Brooks. She doesn’t want someone on her team who will sleep with her staff or their loved ones.”

“I haven’t slept with any staff or found myself in a compromising situation with a teammate’s loved one in over a year. I learned my lesson, and, really, she came on to me,” I offer. But I don’t think El believes me. Hell, I don’t even believe myself. I was drunk, which is why I haven’t touched a drink since I found myself in the closet with the wife of one of my teammates at his house. Not only did I get my ass whooped, but no one spoke to me until the start of this season.

“It doesn’t matter. Your image is shit, and unless you’re wanting to do something drastic, I don’t think you’ll make it to the NHL.” As her words sink in, she gets up. “I believe in you—believe in yourself. Go save some cats, play with some kids, and feed the homeless. While you do all that, find a woman dumb enough to be your wife.”

I hold her gaze. “Do we know where these dumb women are?”

She laughs. “Not at all. Try eBay.”

“Or I could pay you.”

She shakes her head. “There isn’t no amount of money you could pay me to hitch my wagon to yours, but good try.”

She flashes me a wide grin and then heads out without a backward glance. I lean on my hands, cupping my cheeks with my palms as I look around the coffeehouse that I’ve owned since my dad died. There are plenty of women here, but I know they wouldn’t be down for this little plan. Who would? Hell, I don’t even want to be down for this.

I don’t want a girlfriend. Or a wife. Or even a dog or cat. And a kid? Ha. That’s not happening.

But I want the NHL.

Why I can’t have one without the other is annoying as fuck, but I can’t ignore El’s suggestion. She’s successful for a reason, and she’s right; my talent isn’t enough. My image has to be tip-top, which means I need a wife.

Where exactly does a reformed manwhore find a wife?