Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 81281 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 406(@200wpm)___ 325(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81281 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 406(@200wpm)___ 325(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
Locke Donovan has a reputation carved in blood and penalty minutes. The league’s most dangerous defenseman, he’s an angry, unapproachable loner who fights harder and refuses to let anyone in. The Portland Wildfire only took him because no one else would, and Locke seems determined to prove every rumor true. He doesn’t do teammates. He doesn’t do relationships. He barely does conversation.
Dr. Livia Cross is quiet, brilliant and controlled. Officially, she’s the Wildfire’s new high-performance consultant. Unofficially, she’s been embedded by the league to evaluate one player.
One risk.
Locke.
Her job is observe him, test him, and determine whether he’s safe to stay on the ice, or too volatile to keep playing. But the man she finds beneath the scowl and silence isn’t what she expected. He’s sharp. Watching. Walled off for a reason. And when sparks ignite where there should only be professionalism, Livia’s carefully built boundaries start to crack.
Locke doesn’t trust easily yet he lets Livia closer than he ever intended, long before he learns she isn’t who he thinks she is. And when the truth comes out, it won’t just shatter their fragile connection… it might end his career.
Dark, emotional, and electric with slow-burn chemistry, LOCKE delivers a gripping workplace romance between a guarded enforcer and the woman sent to evaluate him—until desire becomes danger, and the lines between loyalty and love blur beyond recognition
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
Chapter 1
Locke
Iknow before I even throw a punch that I’m going to get ejected from the game.
No one is going to want to hear a justification because there isn’t one. There’s no heat of the moment and there’s nothing instinctual. I simply see Morrow coming off the boards with that annoying curl to his lip, disdain for anyone in his way, and heading straight for me.
Christ, he fucking pisses me off.
Nashville’s agitator Leo Morrow is their team’s designated problem-maker, and we’ve played against each other enough to know the other’s secret tool kit. The elbow on the cycle or the slash across the back of the knee when the refs’ eyes are elsewhere. We’ve been chirping at each other the entire game, quiet enough that nobody else heard it. It’s a given that we’re going to drop the gloves. I should probably wait for him to instigate but fuck it.
I feel like fighting now because yeah… I don’t like that curl to his lip.
It’s the third period and the game is tied at two. The Portland Wildfire fans are going crazy, the arena practically shaking from the rafters downward. It’s been loud from the drop of the opening puck—new franchise, new arena, fans who are getting a team of their very own. They’re all here for the violence mixed within the sport, or at least that’s part of my justification for what I’m about to do. These fans aren’t generational loyalists who inherited the team because it’s who their father, and their father before them, rooted for. These people are on the inaugural ride of this crazy train and I’m about to deliver.
Morrow tries to circle past me, but I don’t let him. I ram my shoulder into him, knocking him off balance, and before he can even turn to give me that What the fuck look, I’m throwing my gloves to the ice.
The crowd roars with approval, the desire for blood whipping them into a frenzy. I let that fuel me—a reasonable justification even Coach would have a hard time arguing with—and I have one hand on his jersey, the other balled into a fist that connects with the side of his helmet before he can even get his gloves off.
Morrow’s good, just as big as me, and he strikes back with a vengeance. His knuckles clip my jaw, snapping my head sideways, and I taste the copper tang of blood.
Delicious.
Twenty-two thousand people who came here tonight to watch something happen are getting exactly what they wanted. Some might say I’m a fucking hero.
I manage to tuck in and drive my fist upward, catching the bottom of his chin and popping his head back. Morrow grunts but before he can retaliate, the linesmen get between us.
“That’s enough. Break it up.”
I don’t listen, trying to get my hands free to throw one more punch. The crowd screams out its approval.
“Enough, Donovan,” the official bellows. Morrow is trying to pull loose but I’m not letting him go.
“Jesus, you fucking psychopath,” Morrow snarls as I push hard against all of them.
Unfortunately, my skates slip out from under me and the momentum has me falling. Morrow somehow twists us and he lands on top of me, knocking the air from my lungs.
And then he’s gone, both linesmen pulling him off. He’s skating away from me before I can even get back upright.
“You fucking pussy,” I call out to the retreating Badger.
“Enough, Donovan,” a ref says as he skates up to me, laying a hand on my shoulder.
I shrug it off violently, pulling out my mouth guard out so he can hear me loud and clear. “I’ve played in front of better officials at a peewee tournament, you worthless piece of shit.”
His face mottles red and he points to the door that leads to the locker rooms. “That’s it… you’re out of here.”
“Peewee tournaments,” I snap back, pointing at him. “I’m sure you were fire there.”
The ref ignores me and skates to the glass where officials are eagerly awaiting the call. “At 12:34 of the third period, to Portland, number 18—five-minute major penalty for fighting. Number 18 also receives a two-minute minor penalty for instigating. And a game misconduct for abuse of officials.”
The crowd boos its disapproval, calling the refs blind and biased, although the language is a lot more colorful. I appreciate their devotion to me, but no doubt I deserve the penalties.
I slowly skate across the ice, taking my time. The crowd continues to jeer the refs. I glance up at the center-hung scoreboard—a massive four-sided video board that drops from the ceiling and makes you feel like you’re inside the play. I watch the replay of me attacking Morrow. LED ribbons running the full circumference of the lower bowl pulse in the team colors of burnt orange and forest green while rock music blares, indicating they’re cutting to a commercial.