Wolf: A Sports Romance: The Nighthawk Series #2 Read online

  Wolf: A Sports Romance

  The Nighthawk Series #2

  Lisa Lang Blakeney

  Writergirl Press

  LISA LANG BLAKENEY

  Love reading novels featuring hot alpha men who fall for smart women? Then join MY VIP MAILING LIST at http://LisaLangBlakeney.com/VIP and get a free book just for joining!

  * * *

  Copyright © 2018 Lisa Lang Blakeney.

  All rights reserved.

  Published by: Writergirl Press

  Edited by: Marla Esposito

  Cover by: Writergirl Press

  * * *

  Follow Lisa on Facebook

  Join Lisa’s Facebook Fan Group

  License Note

  This book is a work of fiction. Any similarity to real events, people, or places is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. This book may not be reproduced or distributed in any format without the permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations used for review.

  * * *

  The author acknowledges the trademarked status of products referred to in this book and acknowledges that trademarks have been used without permission.

  * * *

  This book contains mature content, including graphic sex. Please do not continue reading if you are under the age of 18 or if this type of content is disturbing to you.

  This is a tribute to every little boy who ever made your heart skip a beat

  Acknowledgments

  I’m sorry I didn’t cook…

  Thank you to my husband and my daughters for understanding that microwaves were invented for a reason. Love you madly.

  * * *

  I’m sorry I couldn’t talk…

  Thank you to my loyal group of friends who now understand that “I’m On Deadline” means that I can’t shoot the shit tonight.

  * * *

  I’m sorry it was late…

  Thank you to editor Marla Esposito who I just adore and who understands and accepts when I send her chapters out of order and on different days.

  * * *

  And a special thanks…

  To all of the readers and authors who have supported me in any way during my author journey. You all are amazing!

  xoxo,

  Lisa

  Books By Lisa

  THE FIXER SERIES

  (Two Interconnected Trilogies)

  Masterson (Book 1)

  Masterson Unleashed (Book 2)

  Masterson In Love (Book 3)

  Claimed By A King (Book 4)

  Indebted To A King (Book 5)

  Broken By A King (Book 6)

  Promised To A King (Book 7)

  * * *

  THE NIGHTHAWK SERIES

  (Interconnecting Standalones)

  Gunslinger (Book 1)

  Wolf (Book 2)

  Diesel (Book 3)

  Introduction

  From international bestselling author, Lisa Lang Blakeney, comes a sweet and sexy STANDALONE football romance.

  A one-click, damn I read it one night, boss romance and fated love story.

  Ursula

  My family thinks I’m crazy, my astrology chart says it’s a mistake, but after three years of carefully molding the highly narcissistic Cooper Barnes into the athlete influencer of the year– I quit.

  He won’t care anyway. Whether they work for him or sleep with him, women have always been expendable to the billionaire baller. Even me.

  Cooper

  What in the ham sandwich is wrong with Ursula Owens? It’s like she woke up one day this whole new person. A woman I don’t recognize.

  One day she was my quirky, highly organized assistant, happily managing my entire life for me . The next she is handing in her resignation with no warning and no reason.

  I met her by chance, but I’m keeping her by choice. Maybe our love story is fated after all.

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Epilogue

  Diesel

  Prologue

  I wake up entwined in sweaty cotton sheets that smell faintly of ocean breeze, detergent, sweat, and fear. It’s the third time this month that I’ve had the dream. Each one more vivid than the last. Each dream attempting to give me access to my vault of forgotten memories. Each attempt getting me only millimeters closer inside of my subconscious. To the pain. To the truth.

  I was in the backseat by myself, strapped in tightly, and humming along to a radio block of seventies hits that my mother loved to listen to during long car rides. I remember kicking the back of her seat to the beat of the song, excited by how the lights on my sneakers lit up with every small punt.

  I’ve never seen in my dreams exactly where we were coming from, but I know that we were on our way home from somewhere familiar. It was a route I’d been on countless times before. That I know for sure.

  I knew we were getting closer to home as I began to see gargantuan steel buildings, hordes of people on foot, and beautiful green and silver confetti all over the streets. Remnants of a recent city parade. The light from each passing car would bounce off of the silver flecks of confetti spread across the black tar. This was a good memory. But in ever iteration of the dream is the thunder.

  Deafening, ear-splitting, soul-scarring thunder that was so frighteningly loud that it may have been the moment that I first believed in God. There was no other explanation for the source of such a sound. God was real, and he must have been very angry.

  I felt terribly exposed sitting in a ninety-degree position directly behind my mother’s seat. As if the thunder could reach out and touch us both and toss us into the Hudson River. I was afraid. So frightened that I unbuckled my seatbelt and folded myself in the space on the floor of the car between my seat and my mother’s.

  I remember feeling how odd it was that my mother wasn’t frightened like me. She was still singing at the top of her lungs.

  Billy Joel.

  “Philadelphia Freedom.”

  And then we were spinning.

  And then there was darkness.

  Chapter One

  It’s a picture-perfect summer evening in Midtown, New York City. Warm enough to go strapless, but cool enough to still wear your hair down without it getting frizzy. Times Square is packed with tourists, the bars are packed with the locals, the bustling traffic is being policed by New York’s finest, and you can just feel the energy crackling in the air.

  It’s palpable.

  It’s perfect.

  In fact, this is the kind of night that makes working for the most narcissistic man I’ve ever met all worth it. We’ve got two important events on deck for tonight, and I’ve made sure to dot every i and cross every t in preparation for them, except I have uncharacteristically forgotten one important thing.

  Shoes.

  When I finally remembered that I didn’t have
a single decent pair to go with my scarlet red evening dress, I realized I only had three hours left to get ready. Yet thanks to my boss’s trusty American Express black card, I was able to zip into Neiman Marcus and quickly buy a pair that works. Well … they sort of work.

  I am now the proud owner of a pair of brand-new, seven-hundred-dollar, nude stilettos that miraculously elongate my stubby legs but hurt like all hell. I’ve come to the conclusion that whoever invented high heels was a man who hated women. I’d rather wear a pair of chucks any day.

  “Hey, Courtney.”

  My phone is ringing off the hook today. Seems like every assistant in town is trying to secure a spot on our guest list.

  “No, you should be fine for tonight. I’ve got you down for four in the VIP section. Just give the door your name. You’re welcome.”

  Another call comes in as I wait for the car to pick me up.

  “Hi, Millicent.”

  “Ursula, I had to make a few adjustments to the seating at the last minute. Mr. Barnes is still in the first row of course, but I’ve shifted him and his parents, specifically, about five seats over and had to put the rest of you in the seats directly right behind him.”

  “He wanted the entire first row.”

  “I know but that doesn’t work for the camera angles and all of that jazz. They wanted the seats all centered.”

  “What?”

  That makes zero sense.

  “I’m sorry but you know I don’t make those decisions. The production team has a way of doing things that works for them. I just go with it.”

  I see my car pulling up and even with the slightly tinted windows, I can tell that my boss is already inside, so I need to end this conversation. It’s my job to keep mistakes and missteps from him. All he wants to worry about is football. Nothing else.

  “You know we don’t like last minute changes, but I trust you, Millicent,” I say quickly wrapping our call up. “I’ll see you in a few.”

  “Thanks, love. See you in a few.”

  I try to hide it, but I can’t help but grimace, as I painfully slide into the back seat of Coop’s black SUV. His full-time driver, Tito, never misses anything and notices. He gives me an extended look of concern in the rearview mirror and then silently nods hello.

  “Hey, Tito,” I say with a smile and then I address my boss. “Hey, Coop.”

  Since he doesn’t even acknowledge that I’m in the car (as per usual unless he’s bitching), I decide to grab a moment of relief and slip my feet out of my heels. The structured leather of the shoes has already begun rubbing the back of my left ankle. Scraping it raw.

  I’m in some pain, but I don’t really have time for it. This is going to be another long night serving the man I work for. Tonight’s “Athlete Influencer Of The Year” award winner—Cooper Barnes. Superstar tight end for The New York Nighthawk national football franchise, philanthropist, television personality and according to Forbes Magazine—one of the wealthiest men in America under the age of thirty.

  This particular award is one he’s wished and waited many years for, and tonight is a night that I’ve worked tirelessly to make happen.

  Believe it or not, these awards aren’t just randomly given out. The selection is not made by a committee but a group of his peers. So, you have to actually campaign for it, although you can’t be blatant about it, and nobody “quietly” campaigned as hard for their athlete like I did for Coop.

  I didn’t just work this hard to get him this award because it’s my job, but because it’s my last hurrah. I want to go out with a bang. Leave my mark. Because once this night is over—I’m out of here.

  I quit.

  “What’s up with the feet?” he asks me. Finally taking a moment to look away from his phone. A phone that drives him to complete distraction. All day, when he’s not playing football, he checks texts, tweets, snapchats, Facebook, Instagram and any other form of social media that may make mention of him on a daily basis. Funny how he rarely uses the thing to actually talk to people.

  “They hurt.” Obviously.

  He raises an eyebrow at my response but not out of concern. I’m sure that he’s thinking that somehow my sore feet are going to affect his big night—a night that I had everything in the world to do with making happen for him by the way— and he doesn’t like it, not one bit.

  “Relax,” I offer before he says something that’s going to make me want to karate chop his neck. “I’m going to run into the store and grab a Band-Aid and some Neosporin.”

  “How long is that going to take?”

  I roll my eyes (to myself of course) then plaster on one of my trademark smiles. I’ve used this smile for the last three years to get through many tough days as Coop’s assistant.

  “Five minutes tops. You won’t be late. You can start walking the red carpet while I fix myself up in the car.”

  Coop places his phone down in the space in between us, looks at me with determined eyes, then to Tito.

  “Pull over.”

  Chapter Two

  “You are my date for this event, Owens. I can’t walk the red carpet without you.”

  I hate that I almost blush when Coop says the word date. He says it in that signature deep and demanding voice of his. The voice that makes every man want to fight him and every woman shiver way down deep in her panties. He’s entirely too sexy for his own good, and it’s even worse because he knows it.

  I had to admit to myself long ago that while there’s nothing I can do about my indefensible attraction to Coop, there’s also nothing that I’d ever want to do about it. I know the man better than most people on this planet, and from what I’ve learned about him over the last three years, he is the last guy on earth that any woman should get involved with—at least not with her heart.

  This attraction or whatever you’d like to call it isn’t even something that I feel all of the time. Most times I don’t even give him a second glance, but occasionally he may say or do something in a way that makes me catch my breath for a moment. The tone of his voice. A smile he may give me. The feeling is fleeting though, and then I totally forget that it ever happened, which is why I’ve never bothered to mention it to anyone including my sisters. God knows that they’d make way more out of it than it is or ever would be.

  “No one is going to care if your assistant takes a few minutes to catch up,” I say. “The media and the fans are all here to see you. It’s only important that you get out there on time. Not me.”

  “I fucking care.”

  For some reason tonight those three words rattle me. Maybe it’s because this is such a huge night for Coop, and I’m feeling a little sentimental, or maybe it’s because I know I’m going to be quitting soon and I feel a little guilty.

  Wait a minute though. I know better than to be shaken by his empty declaration. This isn’t about him genuinely caring, or desiring my company, or giving me the chance to enjoy a night that I spent a lot of time making happen. This is solely about him not wanting to show up to the biggest night of his career alone.

  It’s been almost six weeks since Coop dumped his latest flavor of the month, Megan Ross. I didn’t think the woman had much substance, but I guess good conversation doesn’t matter when you’re a popular Instagram model with a huge butt, fake breasts, and over five million followers. In fact, I’m pretty sure that the two of them didn’t do too much talking at all.

  I’ve attended public events with Coop before, but we’ve never strolled the red carpet together. It’s clear though that he’s dragging me along as his “date” to show Megan or maybe even to show the world that he’s fine without her. In my opinion, he’s trying too hard. Everyone knows he doesn’t do anything serious.

  “You’re doing too much,” I say.

  “What did you say to me?” he asks in a steely cold voice. Once upon a time that voice used to make me shiver and shake in fear, but that’s no longer the case. I’ve since learned that it’s just one of Coop’s many strategic tools to keep people at
a distance or to control them.

  He uses his size, his voice, and sometimes his coldness to intimidate his opponents on the field and in business, but it doesn’t work anymore on this girl here. I know better.

  “I said that you’re going through an awful lot to prove that you’re over some woman that you dumped by the way. It’s pitiful. If you miss Megan so much, just tell her you made a mistake. Get back together. I’m sure she’ll jump at the chance.”

  “You think this is about Megan?”

  “What else would it be about?”

  “We were never serious. This isn’t about her.”

  “Of course, it wasn’t serious, but whatever this is about, I think it would be smarter if I didn’t walk the red carpet with you. Just so there won’t be any misunderstandings.”

  “Such as?”

  “Such as Megan and whoever else thinking that I’m actually with you tonight. This is a big night for you. Other than the Super Bowl, I’d say that it’s the biggest night. Some people might jump to the wrong conclusions.”