Protective Player – Game On Read Online Lena Little

Categories Genre: Alpha Male, Contemporary, Erotic, Sports Tags Authors: Lena Little Advertisement

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After eighteen years in the hockey league, I’m feeling like an old man.I feel every bump and bruise in ways I never have before.Add to that, my team isn’t playing well, my passion for the game waning, and another run to the Cup isn’t looking likely.But then, in the most unexpected place, I bump into Devon.The most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen, and an absolute firecracker at that. The more I see her, the more I want her.She’s a bigger high than any drug and a thousand times more addictive. I cannot get enough of her.It doesn’t take me long to realize I need to have her. That I need to claim her as my own.Devon has lit a fire in me I haven’t felt in a long time and has reignited my passion not just for the game, but for life as well. She helps elevate my play on the ice, which, in turn, helps my team as a whole play better.Just when everything seems to be turning around, my legs are knocked out from under me when I find myself at the center of a scandal that ties directly back to Devon. A scandal that threatens everything I’ve spent a lifetime building.A scandal that could destroy my legacy.Even worse, somebody is obsessed with her. Someone who mistakes her kindness for something else.I love this sport. I really do.And while I’ve worked so damned hard to get to where I am, none of it matters if I don’t have Devon. None of it.I’m not a guy prone to violence or quick to anger.I generally reserve my aggression on the ice, but when it comes to Devon’s safety…All bets are off.

*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************

1

DAWSON

“Why are you in such a foul mood, man?”

I look up from my beer and frown. “Is there something we should be celebrating tonight? Last I checked, we got our asses kicked.”

Anders Lindgren, probably my closest friend on the team, flashes me a grin. “Hey, you’ve been in the league long enough to know we’re going to have nights like this.”

“These seem to be the only kind of nights we’re having this season.”

Anders frowns and says nothing. It’s not like he can argue with me. I pick up my beer and take a long swallow while I scan the table we’re sitting at. After the game, Anders talked me into coming to the bar with some of the guys to wash the taste of our latest loss out of my mouth. As I look at them, watching them laughing and joking with each other, getting louder and rowdier as the night wears on, I suddenly feel like an old man.

“Kids,” I mutter. “They’re all just kids.”

“Being around young energy is good for you, Dawson.”

I roll my eyes. “Yeah, right.”

I’m thirty-seven years old, have been playing professional hockey in LA for the past eighteen years, and I’ve never gone through a season like this before. Halfway through the season, we’re sitting nineteen points out of a playoff spot, and I don’t think we have what it takes to close that gap. It’s not that we don’t have the talent. I just don’t know if we have the heart. It’s more frustrating to me than sitting in this damn bar right now.

The only reason I came back for this season—largely at Anders’ prodding—is because we’ve got a strong, young nucleus. I believed we were in a good position to make a run at my fourth Cup after which, I’d planned to skate off into the sunset. For whatever reason though, we haven’t found that spark. We’ve flashed now and then, but we just haven’t put it all together and can’t seem to stack the wins together. Which is why we’re sitting near the bottom of our division.

This is honestly the first time in my career that I’ve felt my age. I feel every hit. It takes me longer to recover, and I just don’t feel like I’ve got that spring in my step I rely on. Once upon a time, I was one of the most electric players in the league. I was on ESPN, making highlight reel plays almost every night, and made a career out of making opposing players look silly. Nobody could touch me. I was in a class of my own.

Now, I feel like a shell of myself. Calling myself half the player I was would be overly generous. For the first time in my career, I feel like an old man playing a young man’s game.

“You okay?” Anders asks.

“Yeah. Fine,” I reply. “Just pondering my hockey mortality.”

“You realize we’ve still got half a season to go, yeah?”

“And if it plays out like the first half, we’re going to need to make vacation plans sooner rather than later.”

“That’s what I love about you, Dawson—that sunny, optimistic demeanor of yours.”

I laugh grimly. “You realize you’re nearing the end of the road too, don’t you? You’re thirty-eight, brother.”

He waves me off. “Speak for yourself, brother. I’m in my prime.”

I laugh and drain the last of my beer and get to my feet. “I’m going to get out of here.”

“Come on, stay a little longer,” Anders argues and gestures to the room around us. “Look at the chicks in here. You really want to pass up a chance to take that blonde over there home? Or that brunette? Hell, why not both?”

“Nah. I’m good,” I reply. “I’m beat and want to get some sleep.”

“Wow. You really are becoming an old man.”

“I tried to tell you.” I point to our younger teammates. “Make sure the kids don’t get themselves into trouble.”

“If you leave, who’s going to make sure I don’t get into trouble?”

I laugh. “See you on the ice tomorrow.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

I say goodbye to the guys and tell them to keep their noses clean then make my way through the bar. The one good thing about playing pro hockey is that we’re largely anonymous. We’re not like football or basketball players who get recognized and pestered for autographs or whatever by fans everywhere.

Our fan base is every bit as passionate and zealous as the other major sports but is smaller. Hockey, though growing, is still considered a niche sport here in the States. Our fans know who we are but nobody else does. It’s nice, honestly. I like still being able to go out and have a drink without being mobbed.

I step through the front doors and take a deep breath of the cool autumn air as I pull my coat on and pull it tight then laugh softly at myself. It’s in the high fifties tonight, which is chilly by Southern California standards, but is nothing compared to winter back in my hometown in Montana. I've gotten spoiled by the temperate climate here and have gotten pretty thin-blooded. Or, as my older brother likes to say, I’ve become a pussy. Asshole.

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