Foreplayer (A Rookie Rebels Novel): Rookie Rebels, #4

By Kate Meader

She's got game everywhere but the bedroom. Enter the player who knows exactly how to grade her curves . . .

 

After a very public breakup and a viral post that declares him the villain, power forward Cal Foreman is taking a timeout from women and relationships to focus on hockey. When Chicago Rebels captain and old friend, Vadim Petrov, "volunteers" him to help train Vadim's sister Mia, Cal figures he can do a favor for a pal and get ready for the season with his new team. But the imperious Russian would slice a skate blade through Cal's internal organs if he knew what lessons Mia really wants.

 

Yeah, not that kind of stickhandling.

 

Hockey phenom and Olympics hopeful Mia Wallace needs help seducing the man of her dreams. That man is most definitely not Cal Foreman: notorious playboy, thorn in her side, and her brother's bestie. But surely a guy with his reputed skill set has a few tips on how she can nail her target—which makes him the perfect foreplayer.

 

Cal knows Mia sees him as merely the warm-up act in her grand plan to win another man, but as they spend more time together, he wonders if that's enough.

 

If they could be more.

 

And if he could convince her he's worthy of the starting line-up . . . in her heart?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kate Meader
• Release date: Dec 29, 2020
• ISBN: 9780998517889

Kate Meader

Originally from Ireland, Kate Meader cut her romance reader teeth on Maeve Binchy and Jilly Cooper novels, with some Harlequins thrown in for variety. Give her tales about brooding mill owners, oversexed equestrians, and men who can rock an apron, a fire hose, or a hockey stick, and she's there. Now based in Chicago, she writes sexy contemporary romance with alpha heroes and strong heroines (and heroes) who can match their men quip for quip. Visit her at KateMeader.com.

Book preview

1

Ah, weddings. Who didn’t love them?

Not Mia Wallace, that was for sure. She loved the spectacle, the dancing, the romance of it all.

She loved the cake. (Especially the cake.)

She wasn’t a fan of heels, though, and at five feet ten, she usually went without. But Harper Chase, her sister-in-law’s sister—say that ten times fast—had suggested heels would make her outfit pop, whatever that meant. So here she was at the wedding of one of her brother’s teammates, popping like a spent bubble and towering over half the men here. The other half were the Chicago Rebels hockey franchise.

Not that she was interested in impressing one of that lot. She wouldn’t touch a hockey player with a well-taped stick. Her brother was one—a player, not a stick—and she spent much of her time around them because she spent much of her time around her brother. Despite not being too shabby on the ice herself, she didn’t get a whole lot of respect, or ogles, from that corner. Which was fine because ew, David. She’d rather give herself a root canal with a skate blade.

No. She had her sights set a little higher than some bang-and-bolt puck chaser.

Standing at the bar, she had a good view of the dance floor fringed by the tables. This wedding was set under a marquee tent on the grounds of Chase Manor, home of Harper and Remy DuPre, the franchise’s soap opera super couple of CEO and retired player. Hosting a Rebels wedding here had become quite the tradition. All the Chase sisters and the general manager had married at the Manor. Now Levi Hunt, the NHL’s oldest rookie, was tying the knot with Jordan Cooke, ace sports reporter. Simply magical, and a perfectly inspiring place to launch her plan.

Operation Seduction.

So the title needed work. Hell, the plan needed work. Because she didn’t really have a plan beyond wowing her target with … hockey stats? What else could she talk about? After twenty-four years on this green earth, she still felt like that same sheltered girl raised in half-hiding by her single mom, playing dress-up with the big girls. Definitely not the kind of woman who would attract a man so suave, so sophisticated, so urbane … so she’d obviously swallowed a thesaurus. But he was all that and more.

And he was coming her way.

Mia, you look amazing! Tommy Gordon, sports agent to the stars, and the unwitting love of Mia’s life gave her an appreciative look up and down. A non-leer, perfectly on brand. I didn’t recognize you with all the … He made a general hand wave that encompassed … her dress? Her hair? Her makeup? (Which felt shoveled on a la garden trowel. Curses, Harper!)

I figured I wouldn’t get away with sweats here.

He smiled kindly. Her heart swooped. With a sexily-held index finger to the bartender and a head tilt her direction, he asked, Need a drink?

The bar was open but it was nice when a guy asked all the same. I’d love a champagne cocktail.

You got it.

She wasn’t a fan of champagne, but beer-swilling seductresses weren’t in this year. She would sip, flirt, and win the prize.

Tommy looked out of this world—and her league—in a gorgeous black suit that must have cost thousands of dollars. It shaped his broad shoulders to perfection and made her tingle all over. With his copper brown hair and clear blue eyes, he was the embodiment of sex in a smart, refined package. Only problem, other than the pesky he-barely-knew-she-existed one, was that he was a tad older than her. Ten years to be precise.

Oh, and he was her brother’s agent.

Not exactly a conflict of interest, she had insisted to herself, repeatedly, for the last six months. But she could imagine easily the mighty Vadim Petrov’s reaction. Something angry, negative, and incomprehensible in Russian. That Tommy might not want to damage a relationship with one of his most lucrative clients was a distinct possibility. Her brother did more modeling than skating these days, and those endorsements earned Tommy a nice ten percent. But that would be the ultimate test, wouldn’t it? If he was interested in her, he wouldn’t care what her stupid brother had to say about it.

Here you go. Tommy passed off the flute of sparkling liquid to her and raised his own glass. Likely whiskey or scotch. Maybe she should feign an interest in top-shelf distilleries. Men loved talking about that kind of thing.

Anxious to keep his attention, she went on the conversational offensive. Great wedding, wasn’t it?

Those dreamy eyes flashed with surprise at her gush. Or, that’s the interpretation her fragile ego clung to rather than the alternative that he might feel trapped in her presence.

Definitely. Levi’s one of my clients, you know.

She did know. She also knew that guys liked to drop knowledge on the ladies. Oh, really?

Yep. Such a transcendent story, sacrificing his NHL career to enlist in Special Forces, then losing his best friend in Afghanistan, and now marrying that same friend’s widow. Tommy smiled, appreciating Levi’s journey before another, less pleased expression took over. Of course, he could have capitalized on it more with an in-depth interview or a long-form story on ESPN.

I heard he doesn’t like to talk about his military service. Dull, so dull. She searched for something more positive to say. Are you close to signing anyone right now?

Now, Mia, you know I can’t talk about deals in progress, but … He leaned in and his aftershave almost gave her an orgasm on the spot. I have a couple of irons in the fire.

She mirrored his body language, a move she’d read about on Bustle this morning. My lips are sealed.

He wagged a finger which made her think of all the things she’d like that finger to do. No can do. So how’s the training going?

Good. I’ll be getting serious about my regimen next week on the rink. An amazing honor, she had been invited to try out for the US Women’s Hockey Team as they chose the players heading to the Olympics in February. She couldn’t wait to prove her mettle after two years away from competition. So long.

Too long. The bitterness that threatened to engulf her every time she thought of her exile hazed like a red rash before her eyes. Tommy was saying something and she struggled to focus through the anger and pain. So much for being over it.

Vadim said you wanted to coach girls’ youth hockey for a while … He paused and took a good look at her. But he seems confused by that decision. Can’t say I blame him. Would’ve thought you’d want to build on the momentum of your great play at NCAA level.

Yes, that would have been preferred. But we don’t always get what we want.

I like coaching the little ones, especially girls. But now I’m ready to get back into it.

Heard you parted ways with your agent. More like was dumped. He looked sympathetically blank, and she wondered if his poker face was as good as her brother claimed.

Not a lot of money in youth hockey. She smiled sweetly while inside, her heart screamed: back off from this line of questioning!

"That’s what I told Vadim. A woman with your, well, resources doesn’t need to fight for a place on a hockey team that’s paying a pittance. Only—a word of advice, Mia. He leaned in close, his ocean-blue eyes steady and caring. The Olympic committee isn’t going to look too kindly on a girl who comes off as less than committed."

Desperate to stave of the tightening of her throat and telltale prick of tears, she dug her nails into her palm. Of course, that’s what it looked like. Mia Wallace, youngest winner of the Patty Kazmaier award, a family legacy of hockey greatness, girl-most-likely-to-play-anywhere-she-damn-well-pleased had given up her dream to go pro for what looked like no good reason at all. Now she was inching her way back by trying out for Team USA, but all anyone would see was a trust fund baby who didn’t need hockey like she needed her next breath.

This is what I want and I’ll do whatever’s necessary to get it. Too many people had tried to smash her dreams. She was taking charge and now it was her way or the highway.

A smile teased his lips. That’s what I like to hear. I’ve always thought you have an amazing future ahead of you. Maybe we should talk about that over lunch soon.

She swallowed, shocked at her unexpected success. That would be great.

He handed her his card. Call me anytime.

She rubbed her thumb across the embossed lettering. Tommy Gordon, Sports Agent, and his number. Not that it would have been hard to get, but a personal card delivery when she was looking semi-decent seemed much more meaningful. Surely, a sign.

I’ll definitely be in touch. Thanks, Tommy.

You’re welcome. Listen, I need to chat with that guy. It was great catching up with you!

He glided away in Italian loafers, leaving Mia—and her heart—floating on a puffy, romance-lifted cloud.

Cal Foreman wished this wedding would hurry up and die.

Though he’d been teammates with the groom, Levi Hunt, in college, he didn’t know him all that well. But it would have looked odd if he hadn’t shown his face. Traded in four months ago, Cal had spent most of that time on the Rebels injury reserve with a rotator cuff injury. Now, with training camp starting in six weeks, he was fighting fit and ready to play. Hanging with the team socially was a good way to psyche himself up for the season to come.

But weddings. Suffering Christ, not his bag at all.

Babe, get me some champagne, would you? Tara squeezed his thigh and moved her hand north, a sure sign she’d had a little too much of the fermented grape already.

Tara, there are children here.

She frowned, then seemed to remember that frowning wasn’t good for her forehead. People should leave kids at home. It completely changes the vibe.

I don’t mind kids. He loved kids. He winked at the one who had been sneaking furtive looks his way for the last two hours. Lauren Yates, the twelve-year-old sister of Gunnar Bond’s date, Sadie, was a wicked fast hockey player who had recently put in a few weeks at the Rebels’ youth hockey camp. A video of her zig-zagging around boys twice her size was currently doing the rounds.

Especially ones who get too many desserts for one person. He leaned over and grabbed a mini lemon mousse from his tweener table mate.

Hey! Lauren said, eyes wide. Get your own desserts.

He swallowed the tiny pastry whole. Doing you a favor. You won’t be able to skate if you eat too many of these.

"They’ll have to roll you onto the ice," she said with a cheeky grin.

She’s right, babe. Tara regarded him critically. You’ll be in full training soon. Need to watch your weight.

I need 3000 calories a day so I don’t lose any muscle. He patted his stomach, which admittedly might not have been as hard as he would’ve liked. He’d get there. Leaning in to Tara, he added in a tone not meant for children’s ears, And anything extra can be easily worked off.

Tara giggled before remembering that giggling wasn’t good for the tiny lines around her mouth. She pouted instead, which apparently was neutral.

Last night, she’d told him about all the various expressions that had a negative impact on her facial muscles and skin tone. Smiling, frowning, just being. Cal didn’t care—he liked a few laugh lines—but Tara didn’t, so he listened like a good boyfriend. Well, not boyfriend. They were dating. Casually.

It had started one night when he came in from Montreal to play the Rebels in Chicago back in February, just before his trade. They’d hit it off at a bar after the game, hit each other hard, and then hooked up again a few weeks ago after he’d moved to Chicago. He’d fallen into a regular thing with her without too much effort. Sometimes it was easier to go with the flow.

For the last five years he’d been going with the flow.

This move to Chicago was supposed to be his opportunity to focus on his career and by extension, his personal life, in a way that was purposeful. Yet the first thing he did was fall into bed with Tara. She was fun, sexy, easygoing, and for the most part, not much of a challenge.

Just thinking that pulled him up short.

It wasn’t that he didn’t want a challenge. More like he didn’t want to have to think too hard about why any woman he was with wanted him. Not conventionally handsome or a sparkling conversationalist, he did have one thing going for him: he was a nice person, usually top of the list whenever some wag wrote anything about good guys in the NHL. But he liked to think there was more to his success with women than not being a dick. Honesty was his watchword. He was always up front about the trajectory of any relationship, meaning it usually traveled a straight line on an even keel to a mutually-agreed uncoupling. Five or six dates max, built around his training and playing schedule.

This was his fourth date with Tara, and she had already dropped hints that she’d like them to be more serious. Something about meeting her family and setting aside an entire dresser for her stuff when he hadn’t intended to give her a single drawer.

The end was nigh, another one in the books. Fun while it lasted, but no woman would be depositing a spare toothbrush in Cal Foreman’s mug. Never again.

The back of his neck prickled and he turned to find the one person in the world who might cause a casual observer to doubt Cal’s reputation for niceness.

Tommy Fucking Gordon. He represented a few of the Rebels players, so Cal shouldn’t have been surprised to see him. The man was perfectly entitled to occupy whatever spaces he wanted, but Cal didn’t have to breathe the same air.

Gordon gave the chin jerk of acknowledgment as if they were old teammates or army buddies. That decided it.

Cal touched Tara’s leg, thinking one more tangle in his sheets would be a nice way to end things. How about we get out of here?

Sure. But the word was barely out of her mouth when her attention was snagged elsewhere. Oh, first I need in on that action! She jumped up and raced to the front of the tent, where the bride was preparing for that age-old ritual: the tossing of the bouquet. Tara was eyeing the best spot for a catch, but first she looked over her shoulder and gave him a thumbs up. No smile, though, because … lines.

Lauren caught his eye and added in words and tone wiser than her years, You’re in trouble there.

Yes. Yes, he was.

2

Mia headed back toward her table, one eye on the floor so she wouldn’t trip—stupid heels—and another scanning for Tommy. She needed to do more research. Find out what he liked. His interests, hobbies, favorite books.

He looked like a historical biographies kind of guy.

Was she the kind of woman who liked a historical biographies kind of guy? Did it matter?

He had certainly formed an opinion about her, though he was likely taking his cue from her brother. She had disappointed Vadim, which was the last thing she’d ever want to do. He expected she’d take women’s hockey by storm when she graduated two years ago. Live up to the hype that surrounded her as a prodigy when she entered Harvard.

It didn’t turn out the way she’d hoped. The way anyone hoped. She’d trusted a guy, who had taken her self-worth and shredded it like mini-wheats. Whose actions set her on the wrong path and blocked her from playing the sport she loved. Vadim had no clue what had happened.

He would burn it all down if he ever found out.

Despite the fact she could occasionally skate rings around him, her brother had always thought his little sister in perpetual need of his wide, protective wingspan. A childhood cancer survivor, Mia found it hard to escape the fragile tag Vadim had labeled her with since he’d come into her life during her teens. But escape it she would.

She would fix her career stumble her way. Like her mission to win Tommy Gordon, she had a plan to earn her way back into the pro hockey fold. Getting a spot on Team USA would be her redemption.

Feeling empowered by all the positive thinking (and a second glass of champagne), she skirted a crowd of guests gathered near the dais at the top of the tent. Someone yelled, Incoming! Her amazing reflexes on alert, in a split second, she assessed the situation and snatched the puck—no, the bouquet—out of the air.

Yes! She called out above disappointed groans. Her reaction was more the thrill of victory at doing something semi-sports-inspired at a wedding rather than the action of catching a bouquet. Sure, she loved weddings, but she didn’t love them that much.

Nice work, she heard in her sister-in-law’s voice.

Isobel Chase was more like a sister to her. Once the former hockey great had hooked up with Vadim, there’d been no doubt that Mia would always have a close female friend to rely on. She hadn’t always had that growing up. Her mom was wonderful, but she was her mom, and had kept her sheltered, worried that Mia’s father would try to get custody and move her to Russia. Then the worry continued when Mia became sick at fifteen. Even though she’d rebounded from all that, she’d missed out on forming some of those more long-term female friendships, the ones that kept a girl anchored.

Right? Maybe I’m in the wrong sport. You think the NFL or MLB are looking for people?

Isobel chuckled. Stick to what you’re good at. Only … it looks like making friends and influencing people isn’t one of them.

Mia checked over her shoulder. A crew of unhappy-looking women were sending her looks that weren’t exactly pleasant.

She gave a tentative smile. I could throw it again?

One of the disappointed stepped forward, an absolute stunner with a big blond up-do and amazing green eyes. Those eyes were now looking at Mia like she was something on the sole of this woman’s very high designer shoe. You weren’t even here intentionally, she bit out.

I wouldn’t say that. I’m at this wedding intentionally. I’m on this earth intentionally. I live a very intentional life.

The woman who looked like she might have been intending her entire life around catching this bouquet was unimpressed.

Here. Mia held it out. She didn’t even want it. You have it.

You can’t do that. The woman was getting agitated now, but in a weird way. Like she was trying to scream while her mouth was sewn shut.

It’s just a bunch of flowers. Lovely pink and orange ones, but Mia didn’t know anything about flowers so couldn’t comment more than that. This woman looked like she knew about flowers. She looked like she had very specific ideas about flowers, such as where she’d like to deposit this particular bunch.

Anxious to extract herself before this escalated further, Mia offered it again to the woman, who took it—finally!—and glared at a point over Mia’s shoulder.

She ruined it! The woman spoke to someone else, someone who would likely offer more sympathy to her situation. Mia wasn’t even sure why this was a situation.

Mia turned, her skin prickling with awareness.

Callum Foreman. Cal, to his friends, including her brother. Vadim and Cal were tight.

She didn’t know him well. Until recently he had played on Vad’s old team in Montreal, the Quebec Royals. Amiable, nice guy Cal, according to just about everyone, though Mia didn’t see it.

Sure, she recognized the roughhewn attractiveness, like he’d been carved out of something. Not a classical marble like Tommy Gordon, but granite, perhaps. A coarser, more weathered stone. With his sable brown, close-shorn hair, square jaw, once-broken nose, and a couple of thin white scars above his left eye, he had the look of a street fighter.

He dated a lot. She knew that much. But not so much that he would ever be called a manwhore. Something nicer and more old-fashioned, perhaps, like a playboy—which was just another way to label a man’s behavior so he was viewed as harmless, his conduct largely victimless. Chicago was his fourth city and at the grand old age of thirty-two, when most players were married and starting families, no woman had managed to pin him down. Foreman was what happened when college players with asshole coded in their DNA were drafted and allowed to flourish unchecked.

Mia had met a million Cal Foremans.

Still, there was something about the man she couldn’t put her finger on. It was if he were playing a part, acting the way people expected with his Southie energy mixed with man-about-town. More likely her unease around him stemmed from the fact he hailed from Boston, a black mark against him given that she’d grown up in New York. Ye olde enemy.

He had nice eyes, however. Golden-brown ones that often danced with amusement. Only not right now.

Tara, what’s wrong?

The woman—Tara, Mia assumed—who didn’t want the bouquet because Mia had contaminated it promptly burst into tears. She practically shoved Mia aside and fell into Foreman’s arms. I was so ready for it. So. Ready.

Something like panic flashed on Foreman’s face. This should be good.

There, now. It’s not the end of the world.

Oh, so you agree with her now?

Uh oh. This had the makings of a trap, one that any man would need to navigate carefully. Cal patted Tara’s back, his big hands splayed in such a way they almost covered her entire width. What a tiny thing she was. Beautiful, too.

He caught Mia’s eye. Something had changed. She didn’t know what but Foreman was thinking, and Mia didn’t like it one bit.

Come on, Foreman. Do what you need to do to make your girl feel better.

"It is just a bunch of flowers."

No.

No no no.

Cal’s gaze had morphed to … was that calculating? Impossible. He was a clueless, self-absorbed jock, like every hockey player she knew. Like her ex. Sure, Drew had screwed her over but even then, she wouldn’t have considered him manipulative. That would come later when other people became involved and reshaped the narrative.

Mia shivered, not liking that reminder. Not here where she was supposed to be launching her grand plans to win a man and get her life back on track. Neither did she want to watch Cal Foreman bamboozle his girlfriend. No need to witness another dickhead winning.

It’s … Tara eased back from Foreman’s broad shoulder. It’s not just a bunch of flowers. It’s a symbol of love and commitment and tradition, the tradition being that whoever catches the bouquet is next in line.

While Mia didn’t subscribe to that notion, she appreciated that faith in romance when she heard it expressed by someone else.

Cal smiled. Sort of patronizing, Mia thought. Or maybe Mia was just realizing she’d never looked closely at him before. It doesn’t mean anything, Tara. Sure Mia caught it, but does anyone think she’s likely to be the next person down the aisle?

Tara turned, her lips in a sexy pout, having possibly forgotten that Mia was there. It could happen! Anything could happen.

Thank you, Tara. You are now on my Christmas card list.

Foreman grimaced. Yeah, it could. I suppose.

He shot a quick, semi-sympathetic glance at Mia because obviously the idea that Mia Wallace, big-boned Amazon, girl-least-likely-to-score-with-a-hot-sports-agent would have a shot at matrimony was the joke of the season. So Mia knew she was as close to marriage as Harper and Remy’s toddlers, but no one liked to be used to make that point.

Zoltar the All-Knowing continued. What I’m trying to say is that you shouldn’t put so much stock into this tradition and that. It doesn’t mean a thing. And then because he was a total idiot—or maybe an absolute genius—he murmured, I agree with Mia on this one.

Enough of this nonsense. Mia refused to play the fall gal here. Don’t drag me into this, Foreman.

You did say it was just a bunch of flowers.

But it means different things to different people. She faced Tara. I’m sorry I wasn’t paying attention and instinctively reached up to catch it. It’s a thing I do: act first, regret later. Another shiver ran through her. She’d done exactly that and paid the price.

Tara gave

Reviews for Foreplayer (A Rookie Rebels Novel)

[Deb Pden · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

I enjoyed this read. It took me a chapter to get into what was a "wordy" first few chapters but once I got into the rhythm it was enjoyable. Good bantering. Great characters. Page-turner. PG 13