The next Rookie Rebels novel
Featuring Mia Wallace, Vadim Petrov’s sister!
She’s all grown up and ready to play . . .
She’s got game everywhere but the bedroom. Enter the player who knows exactly how to grade her curves . . .
After a very public breakup and a viral post that declares him the villain, power forward Cal Foreman is taking a timeout from women and relationships to focus on hockey. When Chicago Rebels captain and old friend, Vadim Petrov, “volunteers” him to help train Vadim’s sister Mia, Cal figures he can do a favor for a pal and get ready for the season with his new team. But the imperious Russian would slice a skate blade through Cal’s internal organs if he knew what lessons Mia really wants.
Yeah, not that kind of stickhandling.
Hockey phenom and Olympics hopeful Mia Wallace needs help seducing the man of her dreams. That man is most definitely not Cal Foreman: notorious playboy, thorn in her side, and her brother’s bestie. But surely a guy with his reputed skill set has a few tips on how she can nail her target—which makes him the perfect foreplayer.
Cal knows Mia sees him as merely the warm-up act in her grand plan to win another man, but as they spend more time together, he wonders if that’s enough.
If they could be more.
And if he could convince her he’s worthy of the starting line-up . . . in her heart?
With a stony glare, he headed to the kitchen and removed a bottle of water from the fridge. “I don’t drink the devil’s bubbles.”
The devil’s bubbles. Cute. “You should use a water filter instead of these one-shot deals,” she said. “It’s terrible for the environment.” She unscrewed the cap because she was a hypocrite and her throat was bone dry.
He took the water from her after she’d downed a quarter of it and put it to his lips.
She watched, mesmerized. Her lips had been there, right there, and he was … treating her like one of the guys. This boded well for their upcoming buddy chat.
“I need advice.”
He passed the bottle back to her and headed out to the living room. “Okay. Come sit.” He patted the seat beside him. She could sit where his hand had touched and it would be like her … no. What was wrong with her?
Surely she wasn’t attracted to Cal Foreman. While she could see the appeal—the man had a rough and ready sexual charisma and Tara had talked him up in the sex department—he was not her type at all. Not that she had a recognizable type but she knew it wasn’t this.
She took a seat one cushion over and placed the bottle on a Quebec Royals coaster on the coffee table.
“Is this about your tryout?” he asked.
“Why would it be about Vadim?”
He squinted at her, obviously annoyed she was skirting the main event. “I assume he’s being his usual big dick brotherly self, so you’re here to learn how to handle him. Or vent about him.”
“No. I mean, yes, he’s being his usual big dick brotherly self but that’s not why I’m here.” Ah hell, here goes. “I like someone, and I need advice about it.”
He inhaled a deep, give-me-strength breath. “Mia, I’m flattered but—”
“For the love of Gretzky, not you, Foreman.”
His brow darkened. “Is it someone on the Rebels roster? Because Vadim won’t like that.”
“God, no. Hockey players, ugh!”
“Present company excepted.”
She shook her head vehemently. “Present company most definitely not excepted. You and your ilk are so not what I’m interested in.”
He grinned and leaned back as if … oh, God … he was presenting all the action below the waist area. He actually liked her diss of his species. Probably saw it as a challenge.
“What’s so funny?”
“I love how you act like being with a jock is so beneath you. You’re a jock, Mia. You’re one of us.” He waved casually between them.
“Okay, but that’s only because I like sports and I’m excellent at my chosen one. However, I don’t have that jock brain cell that you all share and pass like a puck to each other on the ice.”
“I suspect I’m not smart enough to completely understand that, but did you just call me dumb?”
“If the skate fits.”
That made him laugh. It was a nice, warm, wrap-her-up-in-a-sweater laugh and she almost felt bad for calling him stupid because he wasn’t stupid. Not at all. Apparently he read books as big as toasters. But like his hockey brethren, he did have a one-track mind which is what she needed to groove into right this minute.
“So, how can I and the jock brain cell I’m currently renting from the cell pool be of service, Mia?”
“I like someone.”
His brow furrowed again. “Right, you said, but not a player. Because players, dummies, yes?”
She rolled her eyes. “Yes. This guy is kind of, uh, sophisticated, I suppose. And experienced. More experienced than me. I want to know what guys like.”
At which point dumber than a box of pucks Cal Foreman burst out laughing.
Originally from Ireland, USA Today bestselling author Kate Meader cut her romance reader teeth on Maeve Binchy and Jilly Cooper novels, with some Harlequins thrown in for variety. Give her tales about brooding mill owners, oversexed equestrians, and men who can rock an apron, a fire hose, or a hockey stick, and she’s there. Now based in Chicago, she writes sexy contemporary romance with alpha heroes and strong heroines who can match their men quip for quip.
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