 by Samantha Whiskey.jpg)
Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 81083 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 405(@200wpm)___ 324(@250wpm)___ 270(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81083 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 405(@200wpm)___ 324(@250wpm)___ 270(@300wpm)
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
CHAPTER 1
Ethan
The sound of clay chips knocking against each other filled the private room in the back of the hole-in-the-wall restaurant, which served the absolute best burgers in the city.
I’d already devoured my favorite—a beast of a meal with their signature barbecue sauce slathered all over it—before the game started. Gareth had two before we’d even sat down at the poker table.
Hang gliding over Folly Beach did wonders for our appetite, even though the event was less strenuous compared to our normal monthly adventures. I’d take sailing through the air over hiking a volcano any day, even when Wes gave me shit about not following through on the lava-chasing any chance he could.
“Is no one going to bring up the massive shit-show Berkley is in?” Doyle O’Brien—the most recent and unwanted addition to our monthly game—asked while Asher dealt the cards.
Anger spiked in my blood, a low simmer that often built to an outburst. My anger issues weren’t a secret, and there was shit all I’d been able to do about it…until now.
“Figured you got all you needed to know from the media coverage,” I said, shooting him a glare across the table.
“I’ve watched the video at least a dozen times,” the prick said, his chest puffing out as he chuckled. “I just want to know what the innocent fan said to set you off.”
I swallowed hard, gripping the chips I’d been playing with a little too hard.
Innocent fan my ass. He’d shot a derogatory slur at one of my players, not that anyone cared to report on that. All the media wanted to do was crucify me as the asshole they’ve always painted me as. And yeah, I have a fucking short fuse and maybe words aren’t supposed to be met with physical violence, but sometimes the situation calls for it.
“Back off,” Crossland warned from his seat right next to Doyle.
Gareth didn’t need to voice a warning, he simply leveled a don’t-fuck-with-me look in Doyle’s direction to get his point across. Asher and Weston remained quiet as they watched the scene, but I knew they had my back—our little chosen family was a tight-knit one, even with the newest addition of Asher’s fiancé, Daisy. Their support helped quell the growing anger in my chest, and I took a steadying breath. Doyle definitely wasn’t worth the effort.
“How is Declan handling the coverage?” Asher asked as he finished dealing the cards.
The coverage was my friend’s very polite way of referring to the video captured of me climbing over the Hurricanes’s stadium walls and breaking a fan’s jaw. There were at least a hundred different videos of the incident circulating across social media sites right now, all showing different angles of me knocking the guy out.
I flexed my right hand, my knuckles still sore.
What the video didn’t show was what he’d called my player.
“He’s handling it in the way any publicist handles these things.” I shrugged, glancing discreetly at the cards I was holding. A pocket pair of kings.
“Has he prepared a statement for you?” Weston asked, sharing a concerned look with Asher on his right.
“He tried,” I admitted. “But I wouldn’t approve it. It wasn’t the truth. And he said my statement would only make the public hate me more than they already do. They’re already calling for my head, let alone my position.”
The public couldn’t unseat me as owner of the Charleston Hurricanes, but the league commissioner sure as hell could, especially if our sales dropped because of any bad press I brought down on us. Plus, the other MLB owners had a say too.
I’d really fucking stepped in it this time.
“So what’s the strategy?” Asher asked.
I sighed. “I have to complete anger management therapy with a life coach or whatever they’re calling it now. And be super public about it.”
Wes and Asher nodded, the others sending much of the same sympathetic looks my way. All except Doyle, of course. He stared at his cards like he wanted to toss them. Fucker was easier to read than the daily news.
“When do you meet this life coach?” Crossland asked.
“Tomorrow morning,” I answered.
“Maybe it’ll be a good thing,” Asher said, always the optimist.
“Sure,” I said. “Maybe he’ll snap his fingers and I’ll suddenly not be who I’ve always been.”
“I didn’t mean it like that,” Asher said.
“I know,” I said, sighing.
It wasn’t any of their fault. I’d gotten myself into this mess, and despite my firm belief that the fan deserved what he got, I knew it was wrong. Didn’t undo the situation. For the first time since becoming the Hurricanes’ owner, I kind of wish I was like the other MLB owners and just stayed in my box where I belonged. But I was involved and committed to my team in a way that demanded my time be spent closer to the action. Not always, but most of the time.