Total pages in book: 24
Estimated words: 22810 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 114(@200wpm)___ 91(@250wpm)___ 76(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 22810 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 114(@200wpm)___ 91(@250wpm)___ 76(@300wpm)
Out of all the people in the bar, the famous hockey player chose me.
He was in town for a game and when he left, he took my virginity with him.
And he unknowingly left me with a souvenir.
Five years later, my souvenir is my whole world.
A five-year-old boy that I never told him about.
Lucas.
We’re happy and comfortable in our little life. I’ve moved on and settled into the grind of single motherhood.
But when Lucas overhears that his father is the great Harris Sutton, he becomes determined to meet him.
And my life is thrown into turmoil.
What if he rejects us?
What if he’s mad?
And even scarier, what if all of my wildest dreams are about to finally come true?
Harris has been caught up on a girl he met years ago. Little does he know that she has an adorable surprise waiting for him!
A Secret Baby awaits! Book Three in The San Antonio Hyenas series features a struggling hockey legend who gets a second wind thanks to the girl of his dreams. No cheating, SAFE, and a super sweet HEA always guaranteed.
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
CHAPTER ONE
Harris
“After starting the season off strong,” the reporter says into the microphone at my pre-game press conference, “the San Antonio Hyenas are in a four-game losing streak. People are starting to put the blame on you. They say you’ve lost your edge. That the great Harris Sutton is not the same player he once was.”
He just stares at me, waiting for a comment.
“Is there a question in there?” I ask while glaring at him.
I hate these fucking things. I’m sitting at a table with about twelve microphones in my face while all these sports media ‘journalists’ and writers grill me with their stupid questions.
I want to be done with all of it, but every player is obligated to get their time in with the media. Press conferences before games, after games, one-on-one interviews with these out of shape suits with their journalism degrees who think they’re hockey experts because they watched a few games. Most of them have never even held a stick and can’t skate.
“Do you think it’s time to retire?” the guy asks. I know him. He’s always writing shit about me in his articles, saying I’m washed up.
“No comment.”
Another reporter stands up. He’s a writer on Hockey Wrap-Up, a nightly thirty-minute show that sums up all the hockey news of the day.
“You have a big game tonight,” he says as he looks at me behind those thick glasses. “The Denver Landslides. A division team. The team who passed on you during your rookie season. Are you still bitter about that?”
“It was over ten years ago,” I answer. I’m trying not to roll my eyes. These fucking guys need something to write about in their stupid articles so they’re always manufacturing fake stories. I can already tell you what the headline is going to be.
Harris Sutton Feeling Extra Pressure To Beat The Team That Rejected Him.
But maybe it’s not totally fake. I do hate the Landslides for passing on me. It’s been an extra bit of motivation over the years to prove them wrong. I still think about it when I’m trying to get one last rep on the bench press or when I’m pushing my exhausted body on the ice while it’s screaming at me to throw in the towel.
When you’re a professional athlete training all the time, you take any extra bit of motivation you can find.
“Are you feeling extra pressure to win tonight after your slew of bad games?” he asks.
“I’m a professional hockey player,” I say in a monotone voice. “There’s pressure to win every game.”
“But more tonight?”
This guy is really trying to push his narrative. He’s just trying to get a comment out of me that he can play on his show. He’s not going to get it.
“No.”
He won’t let up. “Your shot accuracy has gone down thirty-seven percent this season,” he says as he reads off his phone, “you’ve had multiple passes stolen, and your assists, goals, and shots on net are all among the lowest of your career. You’re one of the oldest players in the league. Has Father Time caught up to you? Is it time for the once-great Flamethrower to retire?”
All eyes are on me, waiting for my answer.
I sigh as I look at the time. My required fifteen minutes are up.
“I’m focused on the game tonight,” I say, giving a canned answer. “And I’m not looking past that. Winning against Denver is my only focus right now.”
They all explode into more questions, but I stand up and ignore them all. I grab my hat and leave the room as they all try to get me to give them something that will generate clicks and views.
My teammate, Austin Gambill, is waiting to go in next for his required time.
“How are they today?” he asks, looking nervous.
“Like a bunch of jackals.”
They always are whenever a team is on a losing streak.
“We have to win tonight,” he says as he peeks into the room.
“Yeah,” I say as a heaviness takes over my body. “We gotta win.”
The game is not for a few hours so I have time to go home and relax.
I grab my coat from the locker room and head down to the parking lot. I sigh as I sink against the wall when I’m in the elevator by myself.
Those reporters’ questions swirl in my mind. Is it time to retire? Have I gone downhill? Are my best years behind me?
I hate that they’ve gotten to me. I hate that I’m like this.
Maybe I should have retired at my peak. I just… I’ve always wanted to win it all. To hold that Stoney Cup over my head. To bring one home.
I thought that maybe this year might be it, but my body is starting to give out. There’s a reason why there aren’t many thirty-six-year-olds in the league.
I’ve had three elbow surgeries over my career. I’ve had both knees replaced, a broken hand, three broken ribs, a broken nose, and now my back is starting to hurt.