 by Kristen Proby.jpg)
Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 82951 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 415(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82951 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 415(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
I don’t like my new boss. Not at all.
London Ambrose is a spoiled billionaire’s daughter. And now she’s the new co-owner of the Seattle football team, but that doesn’t mean that she knows diddly squat about football.
There’s nothing I hate more than having someone micromanaging me, shadowing my every move, and giving me their two cents on Every. Little. Thing. as I coach MY defensive line.
I don’t care about new team jerseys and branding or answering her million and one questions about how I do my job. But, I can’t help but come to her defense when an old flame shows up and starts harassing her. I’m a Montgomery. We don’t let anyone mess with women.
Now, I’m suddenly in a fake relationship, pretending to date the gorgeous billionaire and learning so many surprising things about this captivating woman that I just can’t seem to stay away from her.
When the lines between our fake relationship and real relationship blur, and my initial distaste for her turns into desire, I find myself coaching the most important game of my life - do I let my guard down or do I let London Ambrose walk away forever?
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
Prologue
Drew
Five Years Ago
* * *
“How many fingers am I holding up?”
“Two.”
The doctor narrows his eyes on me. “But how many can you actually see?”
I want to lie and tell him that I only see two fingers. That I’m not dizzy as fuck, nauseous, and seeing double of every damn thing.
But I don’t lie because my mom would kill me.
“I see four.”
He purses his lips as he types into his computer. It’s been a week since I took a hit on the field during the fourth quarter when we were up by three points.
Thanks to my pass before the hit, we won by nine.
But I got hit hard enough to give me one hell of a concussion. It isn’t my first, but I hope like hell that it’s my last, though football is a tough sport, and quarterbacks get hit hard.
My uncle Will taught me that from an early age when I realized that I didn’t want to follow in my dad’s footsteps by joining the Navy. Instead, I wanted to play professional football.
“What’s the prognosis, doc?” Dad asks. He’s sitting in a chair in the corner of the small exam room. I had to have him drive me to the appointment since I can’t see well enough to drive myself.
“Brain injuries are always a mystery,” the doctor replies as he closes the laptop and turns to address the two of us. “Unfortunately, it’s going to take time for your brain to heal, Drew.”
“I have a game tomorrow night.”
“No.” The doc shakes his head slowly as he looks me square in the eye, his own eyes hard and serious. “You don’t.”
“Don’t tell me that I’m out the rest of the season.”
Dad shifts in the chair, and I scowl at the two older men.
“Come on, it’s just a concussion.”
“This one isn’t minor,” the doc replies. “It’s your third this year, Drew, and it’s bad. What did you have for breakfast the morning of the game?”
I sigh in frustration. I can’t remember. That entire day is completely gone from my memory, and it frustrates the hell out of me.
“At least I can play for my senior year next fall.”
The room is quiet again until the doctor clears his throat. “Drew, it’s time to walk away from football.”
“Fuck that.”
“Drew—” Dad begins, but I shake my head and then immediately regret the movement when the room spins and my stomach revolts.
“Football is my life. I’m damn good at it, and I’ll be going pro. There are already scouts watching me. You can’t tell me that I’m done. That’s not possible.”
“Another concussion could lead to neurological issues, permanent memory loss, and personality changes. You’ll be at higher risk of early-onset Alzheimer’s and Parkinson’s disease.” Doc sighs grimly. “I know that football is important to you, Drew, and that you’re a damn good player. But your life is worth more. I’m sorry to deliver this news, but your days on the field are over. I’ll want you back here in a month for another CT so I can see how your brain is recovering.”
He shakes our hands, and then he’s gone, and before I know it, I’m sitting in the passenger seat of my dad’s truck, headed toward my childhood home in the suburbs of Seattle.
“I’ll get another opinion,” I mutter as I close my eyes and will the dizziness away. Christ, being dizzy is the worst.
“That was the second opinion,” Dad reminds me gently. “Drew, switching career tracks when you’re twenty-one isn’t the end of the world.”
“What am I going to do?” I demand. “You and I both know that I was never expected to perform well academically. I’m a jock, the star of the team, and I’m expected to win games. No one gives a shit about my grades. I’ll have a degree in business, but I couldn’t even tell you how to fill out a spreadsheet. It’s a joke.”
“You can coach.”
I scoff at that and turn my face to the window so he doesn’t see the tears in my eyes.
“I can’t coach quarterbacks. Not when I want to be doing what they are. When I know that I’m better than they are.”
“Well, your ego is healthy.” Dad reaches out and pats my leg. “You get that from me. Look, sometimes the right choice isn’t the one we think we want to make. Leaving the SEALs fucking sucked for me. I didn’t want to do it. I didn’t know anything else, and I liked my job. Sure, it was hard, but I was good at it.”
“Then why did you?”
I look over in time to see him swallow hard.
“You never told me why you left the SEALs.”
“Injuries.” He shrugs. “And I was getting older. I’d seen a lot of shit, and it messed me up in the head some. Coming home was the right thing, and then I met your mom and your sisters, and I knew that it was the way my life was supposed to go.”