Today we are celebrating the release of KIT by Brenda Rothert by participating in the blog tour! This is a contemporary romance, and it is the eighth, standalone title in the Chicago Blaze hockey romance series. Join Brenda’s Reader Group for exclusive details about the series.
Molly Lynch isn’t like any woman I’ve met before. The pretty, ball-busting reporter has a penchant for asking questions that dredge up memories I’d rather keep buried. I answer them, though, because I’m so intrigued by her—a mix of shy and bold, so set in her ways that the slightest change knocks her off kilter. The closer Molly gets to my dark truth, though, the more I try to shift her focus to what I want most—her total surrender to me in the bedroom.
I finally have the life I’m meant for. Predictable. Boring. Safe. NHL player Kit Carter upsets the stability I crave when he looks at me with his dark eyes, wounded and guarded, but also swirling with desire. I can’t let him figure out who I truly am—driven not by ambition but by anxiety. Unable to let go of my control, even for a second. There’s something about Kit that draws me to him so powerfully it’s no longer a choice, though. I need to give in, even if it costs me everything.
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“Don’t let this guy scare you, man,” Porter tells Josh. “He’s big and kind of intimidating, but he also wears scrunchies around his man buns. We call him Fabio.”
I shrug and say, “I’m not ashamed of my scrunchies. Rubber bands always get tangled in my hair, man.”
“Or you could just get a fucking haircut like the rest of us,” Easy says, shaking his head.
I gesture at him with my thumb and tell Josh, “Don’t listen to him. He’s just jealous of my lustrous man mane.”
“Hey.” Our team captain Anton calls out to us from the other side of the room. “If you guys ever wonder what the difference is between the first and second lines on this team, it’s that you guys run your fuckin’ traps while we work out.”
I give him the finger and look over at Victor, who’s lying perfectly still on an exercise mat.
“Yeah, looks like Vic is really busting his ass over there.”
“I’m resetting my chi, asshole,” Vic yells.
“Can we start the ropes now?” Josh asks, standing nearby with the end of a thick black rope in each hand.
“Alright, man,” I tell him. “Some advice. You’re in charge of our training right now, okay. Don’t ask us, tell us. Say, ‘Get your asses over here and do ropes.’”
Josh swallows and says, “It’s time for ropes, guys…how was that?”
Easy, Porter and I stand in a line, all of us crossing our arms. I shake my head no.
“Deep breath, man,” Easy tells Josh. “And then, tell us what to do like you’re the boss and we’re just a bunch of little bitches.”
Josh smiles, clearly nervous.
“You can do it, Josh,” Anton calls out from a treadmill on the other side of our team gym.
After a deep breath, Josh looks back at us with a stern expression and uses his deepest voice to say, “Get your asses over here and do these ropes.”
Porter looks at me and nods, impressed. The three of us walk over and watch as Josh uses the ropes while in a sitting position with his feet in the air, then one arm at a time while in a plank position.
“And then we’ll side plank,” he says, showing us how. “And I’m going to set up more ropes so all three of you can HIIT train with them at the same time.”
The ropes circuits he makes us do are fucking hard. He follows that up with cardio, then more rope circuits. We end with stretching, my shirt so completely soaked through with sweat that it pools on the mat beneath me.
“That was brutal, man,” I tell Josh, my abs still burning with exertion.
“Yeah?” He grins and claps his hands as we all stand up while groaning. “I’ve got something even better planned for tomorrow.”
“Yo, I’m not sure I’ll be able to move tomorrow,” Porter says.
“We’ve got a game tomorrow night,” I remind Josh. “You don’t want to burn us out on a game day.”
“Oh, that’s right. I’m actually not working with you guys at all tomorrow, unless you want me to stretch you out. But the day after that, be ready for a challenge.”
“We’re on, but only if you call us by our nicknames,” I say. “I’m Fabio.” I gesture at Easy. “He’s Frenchie. And this guy’s Big Pussy.”
Porter scowls. “No one has ever called me Big Pussy, dickface.”
“We all call you that behind your back.”
Porter looks at Easy, the silent question in his gaze.
“We sometimes do call you that,” Easy confirms.
“What the fuck?” Porter grumbles.
“It’s because you make the same face that Big Pussy from The Sopranos makes,” I tell him. “And also because you’re a big pussy.”
About the Author
Brenda Rothert is an Illinois native who was a print journalist for nine years. She made the jump from fact to fiction in 2013 and never looked back. From new adult to steamy contemporary romance, Brenda creates fresh characters in every story she tells. She’s a lover of Diet Coke, chocolate, lazy weekends and happily ever afters.