Brooklyn Bruisers Bonus Material

Sarina Bowen

Contents

1. Rookie Move Bonus Epilogue

2. Emailed Love Note from Nate to Rebecca

3. Deleted Scene from Brooklynaire

4. Superfan Bonus Epilogue

Also by Sarina Bowen

1

Rookie Move Bonus Epilogue

In Which Leo Chats With All His Harkness College Friends

(And they give him a hard time.)

The Scene: Leo’s apartment. Soon to be Georgia’s apartment, too.

It’s just before midnight, a few days after the ending of ROOKIE MOVE.

Spoiler alert: You may wish to wait until after you’ve read ROOKIE MOVE to read the bonus scene.

* * *

Leo pressed Georgia into the sofa. He slid a hand across her tummy, his fingers itching to undress her. They’d just gotten off the team jet from a road trip, and it was damn good to be home.

“Mmm,” Georgia sighed beneath him.

“Mmm,” he agreed, lowering his hips onto hers. “You’re wearing too many clothes.”

“Leo,” she breathed. “We have to Skype.”

“Why?” he asked between kisses. “Let’s save the phone sex for a road trip.” He reached for the buttons of her blouse.

But she grabbed his hand. “It’s really almost midnight.”

“I’m not tired.” He smiled down at her.

Pretty eyes blinked up at him. “You said you had a video chat to do.”

A beat went by while his synapses struggled to fire in spite of the fact that all his blood had flowed south the minute the apartment door closed. “Fuck!” he said, scrambling to sit up. “Sorry, babe. I need you on this chat.”

“With my clothes on, I hope?” She smiled at him, her pale hair mussed.

“Uh, yeah.”

She laughed. “Give me a minute, then. And you might want to, um...” Georgia pointed at the tent he was making in his wool trousers.

“It can’t be hidden, honey. Too sizable.”

She rolled her eyes and swung her feet onto the floor, standing up. “Actually...” she stopped. “I need to understand what kind of party I’m crashing. You video chat with your old teammates every Sunday night?”

“No baby,” Leo said, smiling at his girl who was already too damn far away. They’d been engaged for only a few days, and he couldn’t seem to keep his hands off her. “It’s like...every few weeks. When one of us has some news or just needs a pick-me-up, we email the others and let ‘em know to be ready at midnight.” Leo popped his laptop open on the coffee table and checked the time. “I’m going to start logging in, okay? It’s five minutes ’til twelve. Come closer.”

She sat down again on the leather surface and peered at the screen while he added names from his contacts list into the software. There was Adam Hartley, Bridger McCaulley, his brother D.J., John Rikker.

“You skipped somebody,” Georgia said, pointing at the name Mike Graham.

“I know,” he said, adding a couple more names. “Graham is with Rikker tonight. In fact I’m probably interrupting an epic sex fest to tell them my news.”

“Huh,” she said, kicking her slender feet onto his coffee table. “Two of your teammates are a couple?”

“What? Like that’s weird?” he teased. “You know, I hope nobody is naked when they log on.”

“Wait, is this even allowed?” Georgia hopped off the sofa suddenly. “Am I breaking some kind of guy code by crashing the dude chat? Maybe you should just tell them our news by yourself.”

“No, baby,” Leo assured her, tapping on his keyboard to connect the chat. “How about this—I’ll start by myself. First I’ll make sure everyone is decent. I’ll tell them there’s somebody they need to meet. But then they have to see your smile.”

“Why?”

Leo chuckled, shaking his head. His college friends had never approved of his girlfriends before. But they hadn’t met Georgia.

“Wait, seriously?” she said in a hushed voice. “They were all as bad as Amy? D.J. wasn’t kidding about that?”

He winced. Poor Amy. She wasn’t a very nice person, but they were doomed as a couple from the first moment they met. It had only taken Leo two years to realize it. “Let’s just say they’ll find you refreshing.”

“But no pressure.” Georgia combed her fingers through her hair. “Where are you going to put that thing? The camera shouldn’t be pointed up at us. We’ll be all chin.”

Leo spun around to look at her. “Are you nervous, Gigi? Don’t be. These are my good friends. They’ll love you, because I do.”

She laughed. “And yet they never liked any of your other girlfriends.”

“There’s a difference, honey. They weren’t you.” Finally he saw her pretty face relax. “Don’t worry. Grab yourself a beer or something while I say hello.”

Just as she ran off toward the kitchen, the first box in the screen illuminated and two faces appeared—Rikker and Graham, their heads side by side as they peered into Rikker’s phone. “Hey!” Rikker said with a smile. “This better be important...”

“I know,” Leo said, waving a hand to dismiss their concerns. “I’ve interrupted the gold medal round of the sexual olympics. Hey—are you two decent? There’s someone I want you to meet.”

Graham looked down at himself and his boyfriend. “All the important parts are covered. So we’re good, unless we’re meeting the queen.”

Rikker grabbed his chin and hissed his jaw. “I thought I was the queen, here.”

“Rein it in, boys,” Leo laughed. “Here come the rest.” Squares illuminated for Hartley, Bridger, Orsen, DJ and Pepe.

For a moment there was chaos as everyone spoke at once. Leo had to make the “time out” sign with his hands to get everyone’s attention. “Guys, I need to tell you something, okay? It’s important.”

“Are you going to tell them we’re kicking your ass next month when our teams meet up in Boston?” Hartley asked. “Dude, don’t give up until the third period.”

“Ohhh!” someone gasped. “This could get ugly.”

“Look at Trevi in ‘ees tie!” Pepe crowed. “Fancy man.”

There was a chorus of laughter and a few taunts. It continued even as Leo said, “We will not be losing to Boston. But I’ll save my gloating for after the game, Rik. Listen everyone, okay? It’s important. I’m getting married.”

In the history of group video chats there had never been a silence so profound.

For a long moment, every face staring back at Leo’s went slack with worry. Every face except one, and it belonged to Leo’s brother DJ, who began to cackle. “Gawd, I just took a screen grab of that. I’ll show it at your bachelor party. The face of fear, by Harkness Hockey.”

Leo groaned. “Really, guys? Let’s try this again. I’m getting married.”

“Congratulations,” Hartley said quickly. “But we’re dying to know—who’s the lucky girl?”

DJ was still laughing in his corner of the screen. “You can all relax. Leo’s fiancée is the best ever. I promise. She’s nicer than Leo. And smarter. And better looking...”

There was a chorus of relieved noises, but Leo was still a little annoyed. Had his college girlfriends really been that bad? He took a second to tick through the not-so-long list. And, hell. His boys had a point. “Okay, fine. So I’ve wised up a little this year.”

“Thank you!” His brother grinned at him from the corner. “And I just want to say that...”

That’s when all his friends burst out laughing at once.

What the heck? “...That I would love for you all to be there when...”

Once again, they erupted.

“What is so funny?” he snapped. Everyone on the screen pointed at him, so he turned around to find his teddy bear standing on the back of the sofa behind him. And dancing. He grabbed the bear and got Georgia’s hand, too. “Aren’t you hysterical. Come over here.”

She stood up, face flushed. “Sorry. It’s just I’ve always wanted to prank the boss’s video chats at work. This was my big chance.”

“You still have that stuffy?” Orsen howled from the screen.

“The bear is lucky, okay?” Leo huffed, tossing teddy into the corner of the sofa. “Guys, this is Georgia Worthington. Sit down, Gigi?”

She walked around the sofa and sat down. “Hi, guys,” she said with a little wave. “Hey, DJ!”

“Hi, gorgeous. If my brother doesn’t treat you right, you have my number.”

Leo sighed. He’d lost control of this conversation from minute one, and now he realized he didn’t even mind. “So there’s this wedding on the fourth of July. I want you all to come. The end.”

“Will the bear be there?” Bridger asked.

“Yes, in his tux,” Leo conceded. He put an arm around Georgia’s shoulders and kissed her cheek. “You’ve been a bad girl,” he whispered in his ear while all his friends hooted.

The look she gave him said, punish me, then. But out loud she said, “Here is the beer I opened for you.” She handed him a bottle with a wink, and his friends went nuts.

“Keep her!” “We love you already, Georgia!” “Marry me instead!” “Next time do that fake-walk-down-the-stairs thing.”

In the midst of cacophony, Leo just smiled. Georgia waved at the screen and asked to hear everyone’s name. “And then you can quiz me afterward,” she offered. “You two go first.”

Leo drank his beer and listened to Georgia charm the pants off all his friends. Six years was a long time to wait to introduce her to them. Maybe it took him a little too long to figure all the good stuff out, but it had finally happened.

Now he was the luckiest guy in the world.

2

Emailed Love Note from Nate to Rebecca

Re: February 14th

Bec—

Last year I spent Valentines day at a conference for nerds in Silicon Valley. Immediately after the presentation, the men ran home to have dinner with their wives.

I thought, “suckers.”

Then I flew back to New York for the Bruisers game against Calgary and probably spent the whole night trying not to get distracted every time you walked by.

People write these magazine articles about me and say I’m a genius. I guess I’ve got them fooled!

So thanks for proving I’m a dumbass. It’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me. When I get home tonight we’re going to cook a couple steaks and drink your favorite bottle of wine. I asked Mrs Gray to prep everything, because I don’t want you to lift a finger on Valentine’s day. I’d take you out to a restaurant, but I’d rather have you alone.

Speaking of which…

Feel free to open this box ahead of time and try on what you find in it. I chose it myself yesterday, and the lingerie department saleswomen were highly amused by my lack of knowledge of lingerie. I mean–I know what I like. I just don’t know what it’s called. Also, the shop was very busy. The place was like a grocery store the night before a blizzard, GRAB THOSE LACE TEDDIES QUICK! We might not survive this thing!

I love you, Bec. I’ll see you in a few hours. Tonight I’m happy to be that guy who says: Gotta run! Time to spend Valentines Day with my girl!

I can’t wait.

Love,

Nate

3

Deleted Scene from Brooklynaire

Rebecca

Sunday morning I’m facedown in Nate’s giant bed, naked against the million thread count sheets. My eyes are closed, but I hear him bumping around somewhere nearby. I should get up and say good morning. But it’s Sunday, Mrs. Gray isn’t working, and even Nate doesn’t have anywhere he has to be.

The coffee scent get stronger. “Wakey wakey,” he says. “There are fresh bagels. And bacon cream cheese.”

“Really?” I open one eye. “I love a man who will run out for bagels and bacon cream cheese.”

Nate winces.  “Then I guess you’ll have to confess your love for Ramesh.  Because I sent him out.”

I laugh into the pillow. “Oh Nate. Of course you did.”

“He’s on duty right now, though. And I’m not dressed.”

I look up as he sheds the bathrobe he was wearing. And it’s true. I watch his perfect, naked body walk around to his side of the bed. He sets a bakery bag and a tray holding two cups of coffee onto the nightstand, and then slips back into place between the sheets. A warm hand lands on my bare back. “Breakfast in bed? I know it’s been a long time since I needed to know this, but that’s what couples do on Sunday, right?”

“That’s part of it,” I say slowly, my gaze lazily taking in his perfect chest. He’s leaning against the headboard, his hair rumpled. God, the view around here is spectacular.

He smiles at me, and his hand wanders into my hair. “What’s the rest of it? Refresh my memory.”

Stretching out an arm, I run my hand down his perfect abs. Looking at this man, you would never know he has an office job. It’s all the hot yoga he does, and the fact that he takes conference calls on his treadmill.

Crawling forward on my elbows, I move until I can kiss that tummy. His skin is soft against my lips, and he lets out a sigh of pleasure.

Touching Nate is a constant reminder that life really isn’t fair. Some people are gifted with a superior intellect, money and also abs. Nate is rich in ways that aren’t tallied up by Forbes and Fortune.

“There’s coffee, too,” he says, stroking my hair. “That’s a big part of Sunday. No—of everyday.”

I trace his happy trail with my tongue. The hand in my hair goes still. As I nose my way lower, his erection bumps my chin. It’s taken him about sixty seconds to get hard for me, and that’s a huge turn on. Flicking the sheet away, I lick the entire length of him, root to tip.

“Sweetheart,” he groans, his hand tightening in my hair.

“Mmm,” I reply. And then I open my mouth and take the tip inside. He shivers. I take more, and then give a nice, hard suck.

“Jesus.” He pushes back against the pillows and takes a deep breath, but then his stomach tenses as I work him over. He strokes my hair and groans.

I raise my eyes to his and suck, so that my cheeks hollow out. And his eyes darken as his mouth falls open on a moan.

This is powerful stuff, and I love taking him apart. His free hand is grasping the edge of the comforter. Mr. Bossy Boss loses his grip on the world. Brought to you by Rebecca Rowley.

I bring my A-game, sucking and licking and teasing him until his thighs clench. “Sweetheart,” he says, nudging me. “Come here.”

Two other times this week I’ve gone down on him, but he never lets me finish him off. Right about now he always flips me over and climbs on top of me.

I like that a whole lot. But sometimes a girl wants to see things through to the end. So I don’t stop, even as he tugs my hair. “Bec, I’m close.”

As if I didn’t notice.

He growls as I suck him harder. And I love that sound. Nate and I have had a lot of good sex in the past ten days. But I still get the feeling that he’s treating me like a delicate flower. Even though I’ve never been one in my life.

Reaching a hand between his legs, I cup his balls and stroke them with my thumb.

“Becca…” he groans.

I finger his taint, and he comes down my throat on a shout, his abs locked and rippling, his thighs like steel beneath me.

And I bury my smile in the juncture of his hip and thigh.

“Jesus christ,” he pants as he finally relaxes against the bed.

Biting my lip, I lift my face. “Did you say something about coffee?”

With a snort, he puts a heavy hand on my head, pushing my face back down onto his body. Then we both laugh.

* * *

As it happens, bagels with bacon cream cheese in bed are divine. I am living out some kind of fantasy Sunday in bed with Nate. I’m reading his copy of the New York Times Magazine, while he scans his giant phone for technology news.

Then it rings in his hand. “Fuck, I’m sorry. Have to take this.”

“Go ahead.” Nate runs a global business empire. Calls on a Sunday are the price he pays.

When he answers, I can hear the other guy’s voice. It’s some guy named Mitchell, and I gather that he’s an investment banker. He’s called with a bid on Nate’s router division.

I’m pretty sure this is good news.

“Tell me about the long term contract,” Nate says, though. I have known him so long that I can tell it will be a hiccup. He has a way of zeroing in immediately on the relevant facts.

The guy starts yammering in his ear, facts and figures. I drop my newspaper and look around. There’s a legal pad and a pen on the nightstand next to me, so I grab these and hand them across to him.

He gives me a startled, grateful smile and starts jotting down numbers.

The call lasted only a few minutes longer, with Nate agreeing to meet the bankers first thing in the morning. Then he hangs up with a sigh.

“There goes your Sunday?” I guess.

He shakes his head. “Not really. But there goes my Monday.”

“Ah.” And our boys are playing game one of the third round in Detroit tomorrow night. The playoffs wait for no man.

“I need to make some changes to my week.”

He hits another button on his phone, and I realized he’s called Hugh Major, the general manager of the Bruisers, and my direct boss. Self-consciousness makes me pull up the sheet. As if that makes it any less weird that Nate is talking to my boss while we’re both naked in his bed...

You can get all the non-deleted scenes at: Amazon | iBooks | Kobo | Nook

4

Superfan Bonus Epilogue

Silas

The Grammy awards are right in the middle of February. Which, in turn, is right in the middle of hockey season. But somehow I don't have a game that night, and my team is headed to the West Coast anyway.

Which means that it's not impossible for me to attend my wife’s big night. Only very inconvenient.

And I probably wouldn’t be the least bit annoyed by the extra two charter flights in and out of L.A. Except that I find myself standing still while two strangers fuss over my outrageous designer tuxedo.

“Are we done here?” I mumble while one guy brushes invisible bit off me, and another polishes my already gleaming shoes.

“You look hot in that color,” Delilah says. She’s smiling at me from a few feet away. Or at least I think she is. There are no fewer than three stylists crowding her, too.

“Thank you,” I grunt. “But it's green. Who wears a green tux?”

“You do,” she says with a chuckle.

“It’s bottle green,” pipes up one of the stylists fussing over me. “It brings out your eyes.”

“Uh huh. Thanks.”

“Sixty seconds!” Someone bellows from the doorway.

The stylists suddenly step away from both of us. That’s when I get my first look at Delilah in all her finery. She turns to face me, and I forget how to breathe.

The dress is made of a shimmering, champagne fabric that does a criss-cross at her bust before sweeping artfully to her ankles. The design is cool, but that’s not why I can’t catch my breath. It’s the way she glows. Delilah looks happier than I’ve ever seen her. Not just tonight, either. All the time.

I like to think I’m partially responsible.

Two months ago, I flew both Dee and my mom out to our game against Las Vegas. Where, on the following night, with my teammates as witnesses, Delilah and I were married by an Elvis impersonator.

A week later we took the world’s shortest honeymoon to Miami Beach during professional hockey’s annual holiday hiatus. It was only three nights, but I’m still feeling the glow from that, too.

Bow tie aside, I don’t have a thing to complain about. Even though our jobs are crazy, we have a big life and a lot of fun. I’m playing good hockey this season. But the family career award definitely belongs to Delilah. The launch of Lucky Hearts was bigtime. Delilah has already charted with two singles. And the Grammy nomination was just icing.

“What?” Delilah asks softly, snapping me back to reality. “You’re staring.”

“Jesus Christ you’re beautiful.” I give her a big smile. “That’s all.”

“You like it?” She runs her hands down the dress. “Should i wear this to your game tomorrow night?”

“Be my guest. No—wait.” I shake the cobwebs from my head. “On second thought, it’s a terrible idea. I can’t save a thing if I’m staring at you.”

She tilts her head and smiles at me. “You’re a good sport, Silas. This is a lot of fuss.”

“Oh I live for fuss. Let's go walk the red carpet.” I offer her my arm. “Who am I wearing again?”

“Vincenzo Gabarelli,” say at least three people in unison.

“Gabarelli,” I repeat. “G is for green.”

“G is for gorgeous grumpy goalie,” Delilah takes my arm. “Let’s get this over with.”

“Right this way to the car,” Delilah’s bodyguard Avivit says. She’s looking extra alert tonight, protecting my wife against zealous fans.

And while I’m glad Delilah is well-protected, we don’t worry as much these days. Our primary foe is behind bars—metaphorical ones, anyway. After pleading guilty to a a few of the charges against him, Brett Ferris was sentenced to a minimum security facility. But he’ll be there a while.

I don’t think of him very often. Although I hope he’s watching from jail tonight as I walk Delilah up that red carpet.

Together we step out from the stylists’ tent, where a black sedan is waiting to drive us a few hundred yards around the corner, where we’ll “arrive” at the awards ceremony in style.

I really don’t understand pageantry, but Avivit is holding the car door open for us. So I step up to the vehicle. “Me first, right?” I ask. “So the cameras get Delilah and not me?”

In answer, Delilah pats my hip, nudging me toward the open door. “I hate this part. Climbing out of a car in a gown while people stare.”

“Is this the worst part?” I climb into the car.

“Of course not. The worst part is trying to look calm and happy while they announce the winner for my category.” She sits down beside me, and the door is shut. Avivit knocks on the window, and the car slides away.

“Did you practice your wave?” I ask. “All the best famous people have a signature wave.”

“Really? What’s yours?”

“It’s a carefully refined excerpt from the chicken dance.” I put my hands under my armpits and flap for her.

She lets out a hoot of laughter. And she's still laughing as the car stops again.

Another gentleman offers a gloved hand for Delilah to grip while she extracts herself from the limo.

“Here we go!” I say, a hand on her lower back. “I’m right behind you. I promise not to slip out to the bar when you’re not looking and take off this bottle green bowtie.”

She hoots again, which means that tomorrow we’ll find photos of Delilah’s exit from the car where she’s laughing like a banshee. And it will be all my fault.

But there’s no time to worry about that now, as a hundred flashbulbs pop in our faces. “Jesus lord, make it stop.”

I’m practically blind, now. But my hand finds Delilah’s. At least now I know why red carpets are red. If it were any other color, I wouldn’t be able to spot it.

We move forward anyway with big muppet smiles on our faces. As if this were actually a good time.

At the end of the carpet, a perky TV personality waits, her microphone in hand. I walk Delilah into this woman’s orbit and step aside so the star can have her moment.

“I’m so excited to be here, such an honor…” etc. I know Delilah well enough to hear the subtext. These shoes are terrifying but at least they sparkle. If Adele wins again I’ll be both pissed off and impressed.

“And who are you wearing this evening?” the host asks, thrusting the mic into my face.

Uh oh. What was his name?

It starts with a G…

“Vincenzo Gabarelli,” says Delilah smoothly. “Don’t you think the color makes his eyes pop?”

Ah well.

At least we’re done on the carpet, now. We smile one more time and step into the theater, where usher shows us to our seats. My eyesight has almost recovered from those camera flashes.

“Ooh, an aisle seat,” I whisper to my famous date. “Is that significant? Does it mean they expect to call you up on stage?”

“Omigod, stop,” she hisses. “You’re going to make me even more nervous.”

“Sorry,” I say, sobering my expression. “I’m really not trying to make you crazy. Take the inside seat as a countermeasure against my jinx.” Goalies know all about superstition.

“It doesn’t really matter if I win. It’s nice to be nominated.”

“You say that very convincingly.” I sit down and then squeeze her hand. “So when does this thing start?” I pull out my phone. “Not for a few minutes.”

“Distract me,” Delilah says, squeezing my hand twice as hard as I squeezed hers.

“Baby I need privacy for that.” She gives me a poke. But I do, in fact, have something I can show her to distract her. “Hang on.”

When I unlock my phone, I see a dozen text messages from teammates. Dude, is your tux GREEN? Jason asks.

I’m told it makes my eyes pop, I reply. Then I close the app before he has time to send me a laughing emoji. There’s something else I’m looking for anyway. “Okay, I have a distraction for you.”

“What?” Delilah grabs my wrist, and I see tension in her eyes.

“Hey,” I whisper. “You okay?”

She swallows. “I will be. I just want this over with, so I can watch you play Colorado, and then go back to my guitar and my bunny slippers.”

“Hang in there.” I lean forward and kiss her on the nose, so I don’t mess up her lipstick. “And—this is going to give you de ja vu, but there’s a listing I want to show you. For an apartment.”

“An apartment? Where?”

“Look familiar?” I hold up my phone to show her a photo of tall windows, wide floorboards and the exposed bricks of a very familiar converted warehouse.

“Our building?” she squints. “But why would you want me to look at a one-bedroom apartment? That’s smaller than the one we have.”

“Yeah, I got that.” I chuckle. “This one is apartment 308.”

“Next door? The one where nobody lives?”

“That’s right. It’s for sale as of yesterday. And since it’s next door, this is a once in a lifetime kind of moment, which is why I’m bringing it up.”

“Um…?” Delilah takes a deep breath. “Can you just spell it out for me? I’m too nervous to do the math on why we’d care about the neighbor’s place.”

I reach over and pick up her clammy hand, massaging it with my own. “Sometimes in New York people buy adjacent apartments and then combine them into a bigger unit. In this case we’d have to break through the alcove wall. You’d put your studio in the new space, freeing up a bedroom. Or, if we’re not ready to tackle the renovation, we could just rent it out to hockey players while we decide if we need more space.”

“More space for…” Delilah gives a slow blink. “Oh.” Her expression goes soft. “Oh. Another bedroom.”

“Yeah,” I clear my throat. “In case we ever needed one of those. There are other apartments in Brooklyn, though…”

“Wow, okay. I haven’t given this a lot of thought—”

“I know,” I say quickly. “And I wouldn’t either. Except the apartment came up for sale…”

“Excuse me!” says the usher in the aisle. More glitterati have arrived to sit further down our row. Delilah hands my phone back so she can stand and make room for them to pass.

My timing is terrible, of course. But that’s the thing about Delilah and I now—timing is no longer our worst enemy. We can resume the discussion whenever we’re ready.

She gives me a warm smile as we sit down again. And then the lights dim.

* * *

Awards ceremonies are long.

This one is made even longer by the fact that I’m getting nervous for Dee. Each time a winner is announced, one ecstatic artist or group takes the stage to make a speech, while four or five others all paste on brave smiles and applaud.

We’ve all been there. I mean—every time I make a mistake at work, a red light goes off on the net and ten thousand people stand up and curse. I know public disappointment well.

But that’s not what I want for her.

On stage, Adele is just finishing up a song. A fabulous song about heartbreak and loss. Everyone in this room is feeling lucky to be here, a few yards from one of the most celebrated female performers of our time.

And I’m dying inside. It’s like watching Pebble Yell perform at the Coconut Club, knowing Delilah is competing against her for an award. My hands are sweating and my bottle green bowtie is choking me. But if I loosen it, the designer’s stylist will yell at me later.

“Ladies and gentlemen, tonight’s final category is the award for Best Pop Vocal Album. And the nominees are…”

Delilah’s hand finds mine, and we grip each other in quiet solidarity, careful smiles on both our faces. And when they announce her name, I let go of her hand, lift my fingers to my mouth and let out the most obnoxious hockey stadium wolf whistle you ever heard.

My wife laughs and gives her head a playful shake. “You can take the boy out of hockey…”

Time seems to slow down, though, as two celebrities open an envelope together. Really, how many people does it take to announce an award? When they pull out the little folded sheet of paper, my gut clenches.

“And the winner is…Delilah Spark for Lucky Hearts!”

“Oh my God,” Delilah gasps. We turn to look at each other, forgetting that the camera is focused on us. We don’t kiss or whatever it is people are supposed to do right now. For a moment, we just gape at each other with identical, shocked expressions.

Someone clears a throat behind us, and that’s when we remember to blink.

I give her the fastest kiss in the world. “Girly, you have a speech to give. Where is it?” I grab her clutch off her lap and hand it to her.

“Gah!” With shaking fingers, she opens the bag, but then snaps it shut again. “No need.” She hands me the sparkly clutch, stands up and makes her way toward the stage. Everyone is still clapping. There’s music playing. I just want to stand up and dance.

But I do the invisible husband thing and stay quiet. This is her big moment. I watch while the celebs hand her a gold statue, and a million cameras erupt in flashes.

When the music quiets, my girl steps up to the microphone. She looks poised as ever up there. I still don’t know how she does that.

“I have so many people to thank,” Delilah begins. “Every musician who ever helped me. My best friend Becky. My terrifying manager Charla Harris. All the sane people at MetroPlex…”

The crowd laughs, because they’re in on the joke. Delilah’s troubles with Brett Ferris and his subsequent incarceration are well known.

“It’s a big day. But between the big days are a whole lot of ordinary days. And this past year and a half I’ve learned that those smaller days are everything. So I should probably stand up every night in our kitchen at home and give a thank you speech to Silas Kelly, my husband.”

A flash of heat washes over my face. I give Dee a watery smile. But she’s not done yet.

“Baby, thank you for propping me up when it all seems like too much. And thank you for believing in me since the first day we met. But the thing that’s most impressive is that you never stop being you. God, I love you so much. You have no idea.”

And, yup. I’m tearing up on national TV. The audience applauds and whistles. And I have to lift one hand to my face and pinch the bridge of my nose.

The texts are probably already hitting my phone. I’ll never live this down, and I couldn’t care less.

* * *

Delilah

Silas moans into my neck as his hands wander lovingly down my body.

It’s four in the morning. After the awards’ ceremony ended, I did interview after interview. Then we drove to the airport for a charter flight to Denver, where we checked into the team’s hotel. Silas has a morning skate in a few short hours.

But my boy does not care. He jumped me the second the hotel room door closed. I feel like a dirty princess all spread out on the bed, naked beneath him. I weave my hands into his thick hair as his cock nudges my legs further apart.

“Now, girly. Need you.”

Need you, too. I don’t get to say it aloud, because Silas steals the moment by filling me completely. And I can’t even catch my breath as he sets an urgent pace—hips pumping, body working, lips worshiping my ear.

And I told him already tonight, anyway. I told the whole world. I’m all in with Silas. He’s happy but wry. Bossy but sweet. I never knew a guy I didn’t need to hide some part of myself from. Until him.

There’s no hiding now. I arch my back and offer myself a little more completely to him. He gives a sexy groan and then chuckles, probably at himself. I don’t need to ask what’s funny, because it doesn’t matter. When someone has your back like Silas has mine, you already know everything is okay.

That’s why I’m not completely freaked out that he basically admitted tonight that he wants to get me pregnant. “You want little babies,” I gasp now as he fucks me.

“Not right this second,” he pants. Then he kisses me.

“But someday,” I say against his mouth.

He stops moving suddenly. “You want to talk about this right now?”

“Maybe.” But I’m only half sure. My pussy clenches around him, desperate for more.

He grins against my lips and then gives me a slow thrust. “Well? Talk.”

“You’d be an amazing daddy.”

I get a kiss for saying that. “And?”

“I never had a mother, Silas. I’m worried that I wouldn’t know what to do.”

“All you have to do is love them. There’s books for the rest.”

“Oh.” I pull him a little closer. “Well, if there’s books. Then sure.”

He laughs. “Can we talk about this later?” He kisses me. “Right now I have other needs.”

“Yeah?”

“I need you to come on my cock.” He thrusts for emphasis, and my entire night is forgotten. What award?

“Mmm. Do that again,” I breathe. “And I’ll consider it.”

He does. And I do.

* * *

Thanks for reading the Brooklyn Bruisers!

If you have questions about upcoming books, please see this page of the website!

Also by Sarina Bowen

THE BROOKLYN BRUISERS

Rookie Move

Hard Hitter

Pipe Dreams

Brooklynaire

Overnight Sensation

Superfan

TRUE NORTH

Bittersweet

Steadfast

Keepsake

Bountiful

Speakeasy

Fireworks

THE IVY YEARS

The Year We Fell Down #1

The Year We Hid Away #2

The Understatement of the Year #3

The Shameless Hour #4

The Fifteenth Minute #5

Extra Credit #6

GRAVITY

Coming In From the Cold #1

Falling From the Sky #2

Shooting for the Stars #3

HELLO GOODBYE

Goodbye Paradise

Hello Forever

With Tanya Eby

Man Hands

Man Card

Boy Toy

With Elle Kennedy

GOOD BOY by Sarina Bowen & Elle Kennedy

STAY by Sarina Bowen & Elle Kennedy

HIM by Sarina Bowen & Elle Kennedy

US by Sarina Bowen & Elle Kennedy

Top Secret by Sarina Bowen & Elle Kennedy