Ruby Rana

Landon So much for being the golden boy. Once-fawning press called me the rising star of the NHL. Now they get their rocks off on the viral snap shot of my buck-naked backside mashed up against my penthouse window and between an attention-hungry woman's legs. Goodbye, post-season winning streak. Goodbye, Stanley Cup. Goodbye, dating - not that I was doing much of that before . My agent promises to make the rumors disappear by hiring the best lawyer in Ottawa. But Indira Davé's no longer the quiet, gawky goalie I played with in grade seven. She's all confidence and drive-you-insane curves. And that smart mouth of hers has me thinking about a thousand ways I could shut it up. Or have it scream my name. She doesn’t trust me, but I can't unsee the real Indi. And if she lets me in, I'll never let her go. Indi Nope. There's no way I still have that pubescent crush on Landon Radek. So what if he's outrageously good-looking? I won’t fall for his charm or dimpled smile this time. I'm his lawyer. He's my lying-through-his-teeth client. And I hate him. For reasons I’d rather leave in the past. A half-bottle of red wine has me blurting a precious secret and Landon comes up with a filthy proposition. If I accept it - BIG if with a capital I - I have strict rules. Feelings are an absolute no-go. Both of our careers hinge on the utmost discretion. But the more he proves he’s still the boy I adored many years ago, the less control I have over my well-protected heart.

Wade I’ve been pissing off Gabe Finch since her first NHL press conference. The snarky sportscaster hates my guts—hungry kisses and an unforgettable night don’t change that—and I can’t get her out of my head. When her cheating ex-fiancé won’t leave her alone, a protective instinct possesses me to butt in and pretend to be her boyfriend. Big mistake. Paparazzi capture our exit from the crowded club, and now, our PR teams want us to fake-date for clout. Should be easy. I can do fake. I’ve faked who I am for years. But with Gabe, everything feels too real, and the façade quickly crumbles despite my usual safeguards. Maybe for her, I want it to. Gabe Wade Boehner is a decent goalie, but wholly unserious and far too arrogant. Plus his frontal lobe only reached maturity, like, yesterday. I probably need my brain scanned, too. My impulse control short-circuits whenever the handsome idiot struts around. One angry New Year’s Eve kiss, one night together last summer, and one whiskey-fueled performance as his girlfriend top the list of my poor decisions. Our bosses want to take advantage of the situation, so for the next four months, Wade & I have to play the happy couple without killing each other. Totally doable, if he could keep his yapper shut and grubby paws to himself. But no, the annoying show-off wants hand-holding and lovey-dovey gestures broadcast on the Jumbotron. Worst of all? When we’re alone, he slips me glimpses of the real Wade, and I’m afraid of what I’ll feel if I let myself believe he’s more than a brainless, carefree jock.