Title: The
Off Season
Author:
Megan Green
Genre:
Sports Romance
Release
Date: February 1st
About The Off Season:
He had it all…
The day Ian “Tag” Taggart’s world comes
crashing down around him, he’s sitting in a fast food drive-thru, waiting for
an order of fries. Golden boy of the MLB and shortstop for the Washington
Rampage, Tag quickly finds himself losing grip on his superstar life with the
use of two awful words: sexual assault.
The only problem? He’s innocent.
Tag’s willing to do anything to prove to
the world he’d never commit the crime he’s been accused of. So when his agent
suggests taking a break from the spotlight, he listens. The quiet town on Maple
Lake is everything Seattle isn’t. And Lexi Barnes is everything he wasn’t
expecting to find.
Running from a past she can never escape,
Lexi wants nothing to do with her new neighbor. But fixing up an old house
takes more work than anticipated, and the new guy in town happens to have quite
the set of carpentry skills. She won’t let herself fall for him though. She has
no room in her life for love.
If only someone would tell her heart that.
He’s funny and charming. She’s closed off
and rude.
Together, they’re like fire and ice.
Prepare to get burned this Off-Season.
Exclusive
Excerpt:
I’ll never forget where I was the day my
world came crashing down around me.
I wish I had a better story. Something
like, I was volunteering at a hospital,
visiting sick children, when the news first hit. Or, I had just finished saving an old woman and her forty-two cats from a
burning building when my agent called.
But no. I was sitting in the fucking
drive-through at McDonald’s, waiting for my daily fix of salty goodness, when
the radio newscaster interrupted coverage of the Seahawks game to drop what
would turn out to be the most defining moment of my life thus far.
“Charges
have been filed against MLB star Ian Taggart, better known as Tag Taggart, of
the Washington Rampage. Our sources say a young woman has come forward with
allegations that Taggart sexually assaulted her after their division win last
season.”
I didn’t hear what he said after that, my
Bluetooth kicking on in my truck as I answered the call from Ray, my agent.
What had started as a simple stop through a
pick-up window ended up being the catalyst to the worst period of my entire
life. And, now, six months and hours and hours of turmoil, frustration, and a
hell of a lot of anger later, it all comes down to this moment.
My career.
My life.
My future.
Coach Peters is sitting across from me with
James Shelton, the Rampage’s GM, to his left.
Lucky for me, Mr. Lane couldn’t be here
today. As the owner of the team, he generally tries to stay abreast of anything
involving his players. He’s a little too
involved, if you ask me. I’ve had far more meetings with the man in the past
few months than I ever cared to have in my life. Add in the fact that he’s a
class-A douche canoe, and…well, let’s just say, there are times when I’ve had
to wonder if this is my punishment for the crime I didn’t even commit. Having
to deal with Tyler Lane on the regular has to be worse than any prison cell
could ever be.
And that’s right; you heard me correctly. I
know that’s the standard answer all assholes give when they’re hit with a rape
charge. And I know, ninety percent of the time, they’re lying through their
teeth. Being a professional athlete seems to make some guys think they’re
untouchable—a fact I can attest to from the hundreds, if not thousands, of
times I’ve witnessed unwanted advances, unpaid tabs, drugs, and dozens of other
less than savory activities. But I digress.
The fact is, I am not that guy. I love women. I respect women. Fuck, if I could
build a shrine to women and worship at the altar of femininity, I would.
Because, if there’s one thing in this world I love more than baseball, it’s the
female body. But I would never touch
a woman in any way that was unwanted or untoward.
The night I met Angela Hancock was the best
night of my life.
We’d just won our division championship—a
first in my seven years with the Rampage—and I was riding high. And I could
think of no better way to celebrate than a night out with my teammates, a few
bottles of Jack split between us, and a couple of willing females to keep us
company.
I set my sights on Angela the moment I
spotted her on the dance floor, her short black skirt and low-cut red top too
mouthwatering to resist. When she took a break from her friends and headed to
the bar to refresh her drink, I made my move.
Now, I’m not going to lie and say I had to
work to get her attention. To be totally honest, I’ve never had any trouble
finding a woman to warm my bed. With my muscular build, tan skin, and fucking
adorable smile—you try to tell me dimples aren’t cute—I know I fit the mold of
what women consider hot. And, before you start to think I’m a cocky asshole,
let me stop you right there. There’s a difference between conceit and
confidence. My teammate Simon Weaver is an arrogant fuckwit. Me, on the other
hand? I radiate a smooth assurance that women can’t help but be attracted to.
To say getting Angela back to my room was
easy would be an understatement. After one quick dance—if you could even call
it that—we basically just dry-humped the shit out of each other for three
minutes. And, with another shot of Jack for the road, we were on our way.
I might have had a few drinks, but I wasn’t
drunk. And I can say with absolute certainty that everything that happened that
night was completely consensual.
Angela slammed the door behind us and had
my shirt off and her hand down my pants faster than you could say, Do you have a condom? I’ve always been a
sucker for a girl who knows what she wants and isn’t afraid to take control.
But, even in my lust-fueled state, I wasn’t
too far gone to stop for protection and to make sure she understood what this
was.
“This
is only for tonight. You got that, right?”
Not exactly the most romantic thing in the
world to hear two seconds before some dude shoves his cock inside you, but as I
said, I like to make sure a woman knows exactly what she’s getting with me.
She made no bones about my declaration, and
the next few hours were pretty fucking amazing, if I do say so myself.
In fact, the only reason I remembered who
she was when Ray called me to give me the deets on the woman pressing charges
was because of what a fantastic lay she had been. Normally, I’m a
love-’em-and-leave-’em kinda guy—all their faces sort of blurring together into
one giant blob of sexy times.
Hey, I said I wasn’t a rapist. I never said
I wasn’t a whore.
About the Author:
Megan lives in Northern Utah with her handsome hubby, Adam. When not writing, chances are you’ll find her curled up with her Kindle. Besides reading and writing, she loves movies, animals, chocolate, and coffee. Lots and lots of coffee. She loves hearing from readers, so drop her a line! You can find her here:
No comments:
Post a Comment