Genres: Contemporary Romance, Sports Romance
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SURE SHOT by Sarina Bowen
Series: Brookyln, #4
Release Date: 12th May 2020
A new stand-alone hockey romance from USA Today bestseller Sarina Bowen.
On the eve of her thirtieth birthday, successful sports agent Bess Beringer is ready to make some changes. Armed with a five-year plan—indexed and color coded—she’ll tackle a few goals in her personal life.
A big, tall, ripped hunk of hockey player who’s just been traded to the Brooklyn Bruisers is not a part of that five year plan. Mark “Tank” Tankiewicz has a lot of baggage. He’s a ride-or-die loner. He’s on the rebound. He’s also the sexiest thing on two legs, and for some crazy reason it’s Bess that he wants.
She knows better. But then she falls stupid in love with him anyway. And for a while it seems like maybe he’ll do the same.
Until she asks him for the one thing he can never give her…
Five hours later, I’m feeling more like the Hulk than Superman. There’s two minutes left on the clock, and we’re losing 1-0 to Philadelphia. Our offense is not creating enough scoring chances. They’re too patient, which drives me up a tree.
Worse—the first line still can’t find me when I’m open. After a week of intense practice, they’re still completely confused by my style of play. When I’m open at the top of the circle, I’m somehow invisible to Castro, Campeau, and Drake.
“Coulda turned that into a goal,” I growl at Castro before a third-period faceoff. “You have two shoulders. Check the right side once in a while.”
“Who died and made you a forward?” the young wing spits. “Stay in your own lane.”
Ugh. It’s not like I don’t understand the problem. They’re young, and their captain is a different kind of D-man. O’Doul’s a shut-down defenseman—a wall of “no.” He’s always behind the blue line, ready to stop whatever comes his way.
I’m not that guy. I’m an agent of chaos. I had twice as many points as O’Doul last year, and that’s what this team needs—flexibility on the blue line. The GM and the coach thought so, anyway. That’s the reason I’m here.
This logic has evaded my young teammates. They win the faceoff, dragging the puck toward the corner, and then passing it tidily amongst each other.
I move up, harassing the opponent and opening myself up for a shot. Again. No dice. Drake passes to Castro, instead. His angle is a hair’s breadth off, and we get stripped.
It’s the perfect storm. An opposing D-man tangles up Campeau in a blatantly illegal hit. There’s no whistle. Castro lunges after his opponent but can’t get there fast enough.
Our other defenseman—Anton Bayer, aka “Baby Bayer”—is perfectly positioned. But it’s a three-man rush, and there’s only so much he and the goalie can do. None of us can get there in time, and Philadelphia capitalizes on the chaos, lighting the lamp a split second before the buzzer goes off.
“Les fuckés!” Campeau shouts. His face is full of thunder. The guys on the bench all look miserable.
As we leave the ice, Castro looks like a bomb about to go off. That dude won’t even look at me. His scowl leads us off the ice and down the chute to the locker room, past a dozen sports writers trying to make a big story out of a single early-season game.
“Tankiewicz, how’d it go?” one of them calls toward me.
“We’ll get there!” I say cheerfully. Although I’d rather knee him in the nuts.
God, I need a shower and a drink. I strip off my sweaty gear and grab a towel. But then—because it’s so much fun to be the new guy—I head in the wrong direction. I end up in the crowded anteroom instead of the showers, clutching a towel around my ass like an idiot.
Then it gets worse. Castro is standing there, head down, grumbling to a trainer. And what do I hear? “So fucking useless as a defenseman. I mean, the guy is so useless his own wife didn’t want him anymore.”
Anger rears up inside me. I reach out and grab the edge of his jersey, turning his body so he can see I’m standing right here. “Excuse me? You got issues to talk about, you do me the courtesy of saying it to my face.”
Honestly, I couldn’t have picked a worse time or place to behave aggressively to a fellow teammate. A dozen heads swivel. Half of them are journalists. And one of them is a certain red-headed agent with the prettiest blue eyes I’ve ever seen. Her mouth drops open in shock, and she stomps toward me.
“Are you insane?” Bess hisses. “Get your mitts off my player.”
I drop my hand like a guilty child.
“Is this the story you want to read on the blogs tomorrow?” She somehow manages to yell at me in a sotto voice. It must be something you learn at agent school. “‘Veteran Player Manhandles Younger Forward’? Are you fucking crazy?”
“Bess,” Castro grunts. “Stop it.”
She lets out a growl of outrage. “Don’t escalate this, Jason.”
“Shh. I won’t.” He puts a casual hand on her shoulder. “I was a dick first.”
“What?” she squeaks. “How big a dick?”
Castro’s brown eyes meet mine, and they look guilty. “Extra-large.” He sighs. “The showers are around there—behind the trainer’s table. Grab one before they’re full.”
I’m so angry I could explode. But I finally do the smart thing. I turn around and go.
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About Sarina Bowen:
Sarina Bowen is the RITA® Award winning author of over two dozen contemporary and LGTB romance novels. She most recently hit the USA Today bestseller’s list in February, with Brooklynaire. Formerly a derivatives trader on Wall Street, Sarina holds a BA in economics from Yale University.
Sarina Bowen is a New Englander whose Vermont ancestors cut timber and farmed the north country since the 1760s. Sarina is grateful for the invention of indoor plumbing and wi-fi during the intervening 250 years. On a few wooded acres, she lives with her husband, two boys, and an ungodly amount of ski and hockey gear.
Sarina’s books are published in a dozen languages on four continents. In 2016, The Romance Writers of America honored HIM by Sarina Bowen & Elle Kennedy with a RITA award for Best Contemporary Romance, Mid-Length.
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