A Heart So Wild Read online

  A HEART SO WILD

  by

  Raine Thomas

  Published by Iambe Books, LLC

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Your Free Book is Waiting

  One night of passion could lead to life-altering consequences.

  Television star Gemma Bradford is on the fast track to achieving all of her dreams. Major League catcher Javier Rios is focused on winning another World Series ring. Two simple words could change everything.

  Find out if Gemma and Javy are ready for the curve in this steamy contemporary romance novella!

  Get a free copy of

  Ready for the Curve here:

  RaineThomas.com

  Chapter One

  “Happy birthday, Callan.”

  Callan smiled at his mother’s phone greeting despite her typical unemotional tone. “Thanks, mother of mine. Can you believe your favorite child is thirty years old today?”

  “You’re my only child,” she replied. “I hardly need reminding of your age.”

  His mother had no sense of humor. With a roll of his eyes, he pulled his phone from his ear, tapped the speaker icon, and tossed the phone onto his bed to allow him to talk and finish getting dressed at the same time.

  “I’m sure you’re surprised I made it this far,” he said as he slid into the pressed gray pants he had set on his bed before his recent shower.

  “There have been days,” she agreed dryly. “I assume you have plans this evening?”

  “I do.” Because he knew she didn’t really care about the details, he didn’t bother sharing any. But his devilish side had him adding, “I’ll do my best to keep it out of the tabloids.”

  Her put-upon sigh told him a lecture was forthcoming, probably something about how she hadn’t been able to show her face in the local country club for months the last time he ended up in entertainment news.

  But how was he supposed to anticipate his date hopping up on the restaurant table and starting to strip while everyone around them caught it on their phone cameras?

  “I’m kidding,” he said before she could respond. “This isn’t that kind of birthday celebration. It’s just me and Christian going out for a few drinks.”

  He didn’t bother adding that he fully intended to get his friend laid. Christian had been holed up in his house working on one of his coding projects since the end of their team’s season almost three months ago. Callan had dragged his teammate out a couple of times since then, but Christian hadn’t wanted to make any efforts to hook up, claiming he needed to focus in order to finish his project before the preseason started in September.

  Mystified how Christian could go so long without the pleasure of a woman’s company, Callan had insisted on playing his wingman tonight to rectify the situation. He didn’t need his goalie going into the new season with the worst case of blue balls on record. Christian hadn’t been able to protest since it was Callan’s birthday, which worked just fine for Callan.

  “I realize it’s Thursday, but I’m surprised you aren’t doing something...flashier,” his mother said. “I assumed you would use your thirtieth birthday as an excuse to do all the things that give me migraines.”

  He finished buttoning his crisp white dress shirt, leaving the top button undone. A vivid memory of the party he’d held the previous weekend flashed through his mind, followed swiftly by memories of the night spent with a pair of blondes who had been invited to the party by some of his teammates. His lips curved into a satisfied grin.

  “Maybe I’m maturing,” he said as he sat on the edge of his bed to tug on his socks.

  His mother grunted, an inelegant sound that was quite unlike her. His eyebrow lifted as he glanced at the phone.

  “That will be the day,” she intoned. “In any case, I’m pleased to hear you’re celebrating responsibly. You need to keep a low profile and get ready for the upcoming season. We can’t have any more humiliating talks with management, can we?”

  Callan’s humor vanished. Like they did when he played hockey, his movements became more precise as his mood shifted. He rose and started feeding his belt through the belt loops around his waist, every movement clipped and exact.

  The conversation his mother referenced had taken place in April, shortly after the conclusion of the Atlanta Siege’s first official season as the NHL’s newest expansion team. Because the city had already lost two previous NHL teams to Canadian cities with stronger fan bases, Siege ownership was running a tight ship intent on building a fan base that would support them in the city long-term. Their goal was to win the Stanley Cup within the first three years of the team’s existence. They wanted to prove their dedication to building another successful Atlanta sports franchise, and had invested hundreds of millions to that end. They built a brand-new arena and recruited many of the league’s top eligible players and coaches. But in the end, the team hadn’t gelled enough to even make it to the playoffs.

  Team management held individual meetings with every player after the disappointing season ended. Callan’s jaw tightened as he remembered sitting in the stadium meeting room with the team’s general manager, Doug Wilson, Head Coach Marty Belanger, Assistant Coaches Knox Donaghy and Tony Powell, and the Director of Public Relations, a hard-nosed woman named Vivian Price.

  They started the meeting by reviewing his stats, a moment that had put a dent in Callan’s usual confidence. He was aware his performance had been, at best, mediocre. But, hell, he wasn’t one of the team’s highest paid All Stars. He was a third line left winger with a respectable plus-minus rating and decent shooting percentage.

  “We’re looking for top performers moving into the coming season,” Doug had said, the GM’s words matter of fact. “And I mean top performers at every level of the team, from first line to fourth line. Hell, even players who rarely see any time on the ice.”

  How the hell could those players be considered top performers? Callan had wondered even as Knox said, “That means you have to think about someone besides yourself for a change, Murph.”

  It had taken a mighty act of will not to lean over and knock the smirk from Knox’s fugly face. Knox had played at Callan’s alma mater, Boston College, and had been three years ahead of Callan. As teammates, they consistently butted heads. Knox had been one of the team’s Alternate Captains and he’d ridden the younger players so hard that they couldn’t stand him.

  Callan, on the other hand, was sociable, good-humored, and always ready to have a good time. His teammates revered him, nominating him for captain after only one year on the team. His natural charisma and the team’s incredible talent had led them to winning the championship trophy three of the four years he played there.

  Knox was bitter, both because of that and because Callan made it into the NHL while he hadn’t. His role as one of The Siege’s assistant coaches was Knox’s first NHL coaching job after bouncing around in the minors, and he was being just as big a dick trying to prove himself as he’d been back in college.

  “What Coach Donaghy means,” Marty said with a warning look at Knox, “is we expect to see more of a commitment to this team and your role on it moving into the coming season, Murph. We’ll be considering every level of a player’s performance, both on and off the ice. If we don’t like what we see at training camp and in the preseason, we won’t hesitate to exercise waivers.”

  Which, since Callan didn’t have a no movement clause in his contract, meant the possibility of another team claiming him or, more likely, a bump down to the minors.

  After the meeting, Callan spoke with his agent, who hadn’t done much to ease his concerns. The Siege’s management was perfectly within their rights to set whatever standards they wanted to produce the best team possible. If Callan didn’t meet those standards, he might easily end up playing in the minors.

  Having his mother remind him of that now—on his birthday, no less—made him seriously regret telling her about it. He’d mentioned it out of irritation during a call with her not long after that meeting. She’d been giving him grief about not having played up to his full potential, a common refrain he’d heard from his parents throughout his life. When she started going on and on about how she expected a first line, All Star performance from him in the season to come, he’d made a snarky comment about getting sent to the minors and that he was sure he’d finally make her proud then.

  Fucking idiot, he mentally grumbled to himself now.

  Deliberately ignoring his mother’s statement, he cinched his belt and said, “So is Father Dearest waiting to sing me the birthday song or what?”

  “N
o. He’s at a business dinner. I’m sure he’ll call or text you later.”

  He wasn’t holding his breath. “Got it. Well, thanks for calling.”

  “Of course. I hope you have a nice time tonight.”

  “I’m planning on it. Bye.”

  “Goodbye.”

  After disconnecting the call, he took a minute to roll the stress out of his shoulders. No sense carrying any of that with him to the club, he mused. He had to be in top form to serve as Christian’s wingman.

  And if he happened to get some birthday action himself, he sure wouldn’t complain.

  An hour later, he and Christian stepped out of the private Town Car Callan had chartered for the night and headed past the long line waiting to get into Atlanta’s hottest nightclub, Nightscape. The humidity of the late June evening hit them like a punch to the face as they approached the beefy bouncer stationed at the club’s entrance.

  “Hey, Griff,” Callan cheerfully greeted him. “You holding things down out here, or do you need a hand?”

  Griff issued a deep chuckle and revealed a gap-toothed grin. “‘Sup, Murph?” the bouncer replied, using the nickname Callan had earned in his youth thanks to his last name Murphy.

  He lifted one of his massive hands and Callan reached out to clasp it, allowing himself to be dragged forward and pounded twice on the back by the bigger man before being released. During the contact, Callan slid a hundred to the bouncer, not because he needed to bribe his way in, but because he knew how hard Griff worked and felt he deserved it. Griff casually slid the bill into his pants pocket and gave Callan a chin lift of thanks.

  “You two head on in,” the bouncer said, stepping aside and unlatching the rope crossing the door to allow them entrance. “You want to head up to the VIP area, feel free. Damian’s overseein’ the floor. He’ll let you right up.”

  “Thanks, man,” Christian said, giving Griff a fist tap on his way past.

  “Anytime.”

  Loud, thumping music led them deeper into the club. The sun hadn’t yet fully set on the long summer evening, so the transition into the club’s darker, night-themed interior required a minute for their eyes to adjust. They paused a few feet into the club to get their bearings.

  Tiny pinhole lights glowed from the inky black ceiling like a sea of stars. In the center of the club, the circular, thriving dance floor glowed with a celestial light. Soft tendrils of lightly scented fog swirled among the dancers, the source of it cleverly hidden beneath the floor. Along the walls, cozy, rounded alcoves had been carved to offer curved bench seating around small, round cocktail tables. The pale backlights set in each alcove gave the impression of a series of half-moons around the room. Callan’s quick glance around told him every available alcove was occupied.

  His gaze moved across the club to the staircase leading up to Nightscape’s VIP area. A second bouncer named Johnny stood in front of the stanchion rope secured in front of the stairs. His broad shoulders and ripped pecs nearly filled the width of the staircase. The club’s patrons gave him a wide berth, but Callan and Christian could breeze right past him if they wanted. Nightscape loved entertaining celebrities of all types, including professional athletes.

  “You gentlemen want to head up tonight?” asked a familiar voice from Callan’s right.

  Turning, he spotted Damian Kade, one of the club’s owners and the manager on duty, just a couple of feet away. Although Damian stood a few inches shorter than Callan’s six-foot-three, he cut an imposing figure in his black-on-black suit, shirt, and tie. His ebony hair was perfectly styled, his posture somehow both commanding and approachable. Although he was always cordial and courteous, there was a darkness about him that made Callan wary.

  Since Damian stood with his hands held casually behind his back, Callan didn’t extend his own in greeting. “Nice to see you again, Kade,” he replied. “Actually, we’re going to check out the action down here tonight. I was just about to head to the bar with Christian.”

  “Excellent.” Damian reached up to press the earpiece in his right ear and murmured a few words made unintelligible by the music. “Glenda will have your drinks waiting for you at the bar,” he said a moment later. “When you’re ready to have a seat, just notify me or any of my team members. We’ll be sure you’re shown to a table right away.”

  Callan had experienced too much of Nightscape’s exceptional service to question it now. He didn’t doubt that he and Christian would get exactly what they wanted from the bar, despite not having told Damian their order.

  “Thanks,” Callan said. “Appreciate it, as always.”

  “As do we,” Damian replied with a slight bow. “Enjoy the rest of your evening, gentlemen.”

  He took a few steps to his right and almost instantly disappeared into the club’s depths. Callan blinked over it, then guessed the club’s lighting was playing tricks on his eyes.

  Christian leaned closer and said, “That dude gives off some serious vampire vibes.”

  “No shit.”

  Shrugging it off, Callan jerked his head towards the bar and started in that direction with Christian trailing behind him. He knew most of the bartenders by name and aimed for Glenda, the gilded haired pixie manning the left side of the bar. She greeted them with a smile and a tray bearing a Manhattan for him and a pilsner glass filled with what was surely a locally crafted IPA for Christian.

  Kade never misses a trick, Callan mused.

  He accepted his drink and slid some cash to Glenda. “Thanks, Sunshine.”

  She gave him a cheerful wink. “You bet, Murph. Hit me up when you’re ready for a refill.”

  “Will do.”

  As she moved on to another club patron, Callan and Christian turned to face the energetic dance floor about twenty feet from the bar. They each rested an elbow on the bar and held their drinks in their free hands. Callan wanted to get a beer or two into Christian before they started making the rounds. His friend was a brilliant goaltender, but his social skills were absolute shit.

  “So did you do anything fun for your birthday?” Christian asked after sipping his beer.

  “Not much. Slept in. Went to brunch with Javy,” he said, referring to his friend and neighbor, Major League catcher Javier Rios.

  “Ah. Let me guess. After that, you two headed to the closest bar, picked up a couple of sexy females, and you spent the afternoon in bed with one of them?”

  Callan shook his head. “Nah. Javy had to get to his game. Besides, I think he’s got someone he’s getting serious about.”

  “Really?” At Callan’s nod, Christian’s eyebrows lifted. “Huh. Who knew? I always took him for an even bigger player than you.”

  Callan grinned. “No such thing, my friend.”

  They kept up the small talk through their first round of drinks, then got their second round and started making their way around the club. The women were plentiful, offering them plenty of visual interest. Callan and Christian paused at a few tables to make small talk with some of the women, but moved on when things didn’t click.

  “Anyone in particular catching your eye?” Callan subtly asked Christian as they passed another table filled with laughing, attractive women.

  Christian made a sound somewhere between a sigh and a groan. “I don’t know, man. They’re all starting to look alike to me. Don’t you find this exhausting?”

  Callan shook his head. There was nothing about the club scene that bored him.

  Nightscape exuded sexuality. It was filled with women of all shapes, sizes, colors, and states of dress. Any one of them might be the one Christian connected with, and Callan wanted to find her for him.

  He was a natural wingman. He enjoyed scouting for women who conveyed interest in being approached. He looked forward to making small talk with them, getting to know them and gauging their level of interest in his companion. If those women were there with friends, he was equally enthused about occupying them so Christian could take the lead with the one who interested him.

  Being a wingman was an artform, and Callan prided himself on being a virtuoso at it.

  “If you’re not feeling a draw to anyone,” he told his friend, “let’s just find a couple of ladies and see how things go. There’s no rush.”