Play Thing (The Brighton Family #3)

Chapter 1

1

RONAN

B EST. BL0W-J0B. EVER.

I rise up onto my elbows, struggling to focus my blurry vision on the curvy, dark-haired spitfire kneeled between my thighs.

My strangled groan cracks the humid air of my bedroom as this gorgeous woman makes magic with her warm, wet mouth. She wasn’t lying in her text messages—that tongue trick she’s doing is mind-blowing.

When her sparkling honey-brown eyes tilt up to meet mine, a playful smirk curves her plump peach-colored lips. “You’re looking a little…overwhelmed, Captain,” she says teasingly. “You think I should keep going?”

“Keep going. Yes, Nicky. Fuck,” I command her with a growl. “Don’t you dare stop.”

“That’s what I thought.”

She gives me a little shove backwards and I collapse on the mattress, my shoulder blades sinking into the soft bedding. With a mischievous giggle, she goes right back to work, driving me crazy.

Sassy thing. She knows exactly what she’s doing to me.

I reach down, raking my hand through her cascading mahogany hair. The thick, silky strands coil and tangle around my clenched fingers. My head is spinning. With every twist of her tongue and pucker of her lips, my ceiling fan tilts and wobbles overhead.

Or maybe that’s just my universe spinning off its axis.

Damn—she’s so good at this.

Almost too good to be true. Am I dreaming? Nah. I’m not dreaming. This is real. It has to be real. Right?

Out of nowhere, a random thought pops into my brain—I really like this girl.

Well, I mean…I like her hair.

And I like her eyes.

And I like that swirling thing she’s doing with her tongue.

And I like the way her mouth is curled around my—

“Rise and shine, sleeping beauties.”

A gruff, obnoxious voice cuts through my slumber, trying to disrupt the lifelike movie playing out in my groggy mind.

“Hello? Anybody home?” The annoying voice rings out again, but I hold onto my vision for dear life.I’m not ready to let go of my fiery, little vixen just yet.

It’s not until a loud, metallic clang reverberates sharply in the air that I startle awake completely, my ears ringing.

“Fu-u-u-ck…” I grumble. I peel my eyelids open. My foggy gaze finds the grim face of the portly police officer who’s noisily unlocking the holding cell.

You mean to tell me that was all a dream? Dammit.

And wait—am I in… in jail ?!

Ugh. I’m in jail. Right.

Everything comes back to me at once.

Tonight’s brutal hockey match where my team got our asses handed to us—on home ice—by those cocky dipshits from Toronto. The grimy bar where the guys and I tried to drink our pain away. The wasted knuckleheads in the parking lot and the brawl that started out of nowhere.

And now I’m locked up in a holding cell in the Sin Valley police precinct.

Nothing to see here. Just a typical Saturday night. Well, except for the fact that Darius is going to kill me dead .

I’m cold. Stiff. Uncomfortable. And I’m a little banged up from the hockey game we lost just hours ago. I knew I’d be hurting from the stick I took to the ribs in the third quarter. I just didn’t know I’d end the night napping in a holding cell.

If I could have predicted that that stupid after-party would get us in so much trouble, I would have probably gone straight home.

Okay. Fine. Probably not.

After almost six years in the league, I know that there’s nothing like throwing around a few punches to release some pent-up emotions after a defeat on the ice. And with tonight’s loss being our third back-to-back defeat, I had a lot of bottled up frustration to let out.

I ignore the sharp pain in my side and try to straighten up. Except there’s a heavy weight dragging down the left side of my body.

One of my teammates is slumped against my shoulder, and he’s fast asleep. That wet spot I feel on the upper sleeve of my pale blue dress shirt is connected to the string of drool dripping from the corner of his mouth. Nasty!

“Bro, you smell like a dog’s asshole,” I mutter, roughly shrugging Easton Raines off my side. “Get off me,” I grunt.

The mammoth defenseman straightens, blinking his eyes and looking around as he wipes at his mouth with the edge of his crooked necktie.

He lowers his head to his armpit and takes a whiff of himself. He gags. “Fuck. I do smell like a dog’s asshole.”

The cop slides open the heavy metal bars to the cell. “You prima donna football players wanna get bailed out? Or would you rather stay here all weekend?” He rattles the gate impatiently. The sound rouses all three of my teammates who are locked up with me.

I draw to my feet, yanking on my gray suit jacket and pulling my toque down over my chilly ears. I’m dizzy as fuck. Probably because all the blood in my body is currently concentrated at my crotch, thanks to my latest Nicky Westbrook-induced sex dream.

Terrible time for a boner, by the way. But clearly, my man parts didn’t get the memo.

In any case, I’m ready to get the hell out of here and crawl into a bed lined with ice packs.

“We play hockey. Not football,” I grumble to the officer, discreetly adjusting my crotch as the four of us trudge out of the cell.

The man yawns, clearly unimpressed. “Trust me, my dude—nobody gives a fuck.” He locks up the cell behind us.

Ouch! I wince.

The Sin Valley Saints are the newest franchise in the professional hockey league, and we’ve had more losses than wins on the ice since our inaugural game at the start of the season. We haven’t built a loyal fanbase yet. We haven’t earned the league’s respect. The drama that unfolded this evening definitely isn’t helping our cause. And I have a sneaking suspicion that, as captain of the team, everyone’s about to pin the blame on me.

My teammates and I scamper out of the cell, eager to part ways with that urine-soaked drunk guy who’s crashing on the bench in the corner of the room.

Our starting goalie, Tipton Bridges, ambles down the gray, windowless hallway alongside me. “Bro, who’s Nicky?” he asks.

At the question, my head whips in his direction like a gunshot. “What?”

“Nicky-y-y-y,” he moans exaggeratedly, throwing his head back. “Oh, Nicky. Don’t stop. Nicky, hell yes.” Grinning lecherously, he swings his crumpled navy blue suit jacket over one shoulder. “That’s what you were just mumbling a minute ago.”

Raines speaks up from somewhere behind me. “Yeah, Brighton. I swear I heard you moaning that name in your sleep a few nights back. When we had to share a hotel room after the game in Atlanta.”

Good boy Parker Paige throws a curious glance over his back as he leads the way down the hallway. “You were whispering about her when you fell asleep on the plane home from that game in Vegas, too,” our rookie right winger says with a frown.

Tipton’s arrogant grin grows wider. He elbows me in my injured ribs. “So, captain. Who the fuck is this Nicky you can’t stop dreaming about?”

I give him a shove, pushing him out of my personal space. “Shut up.”

Nicky is none of their fucking business. I sure as hell won’t be discussing her with my idiot teammates.

An image of the dark-haired spitfire floods my mind again. Shit. I haven’t been able to get her out of my head since I first laid eyes on her a little over two weeks back. That was seventeen days ago, to be precise.

Look—I’m used to women throwing themselves in my lap everywhere I go. But Nicky? She wouldn’t even give me the time of day.

I think she has a boyfriend. A douchebag boyfriend. At least that’s the vibe I got the night we met. Any which way, the fact that I’m now saying her name in my sleep is kind of problematic.

But I’ve got even bigger problems at the moment. Namely, the angry as fuck billionaire who’s currently standing at the service counter in the police station lobby, signing paperwork.

“Shit…” I mutter to myself when my brother, Darius, glances across the distance and gives me an ugly stink eye.

I haven’t been his favorite person in a while. To be fair, I’ve given him some pretty solid reasons for being mad at me.

When he’s finished with the documents, he straightens up, slipping his expensive pen into the chest pocket of his expensive business suit. He continues shooting daggers my way as my fellow ‘ inmates’ and I go through the release process.

Finally, the booking officer half-bows and mockingly sweeps an arm toward the exit. “You’re free to go, princesses.”

“Thank fuck,” I hear Parker mumble as he pushes past the other guys, hurrying outside like a kid who’s afraid he’ll miss his school bus home.

The rest of us follow him out of the small building, once again free men. When we exit, the piercing cold Iowa air is a slap to the face and snow crunches under our feet. It’s dark, somewhere in the wee hours of the morning now. And I’m silently wondering what kind of hoops Darius had to jump through to get us out of here so quickly.

I take a fleeting peek at my phone. My notifications are a shitshow. Mostly my three other brothers and my sister blowing up the Brighton Family group chat.

Tonight’s subject of conversation? Me and my latest fuck-up.

Fun times.

I spot a few cars idling in the police station parking lot. I stuff my device into the pocket of my slacks as I watch my teammates pile into different vehicles to be driven home by other members of the team’s staff.

Lucky bastards.

Me? My chariot home is driven by Darius. The brother who hates me. The brother who’ll probably spend the entire forty-five minute ride home to Starlight Falls giving me a piece of his mind.

It’s fucking fantastic.

Exactly what I need after a long day and an even longer night. Especially when all I want to do is ice my bruised ribs and crawl into bed. And stay there for the next forty-eight hours.

But the minute my sore ass lands in the front passenger seat of his luxury sedan, Darius flings a wrinkled printout into my lap. I look down. It’s my mugshot.

I try to keep the mood light. “Not a bad shot, actually. I look pretty damn good, all things considered.”

“Are you kidding me?!” Darius barks. “You’re smirking in your goddamn mugshot, Ronan. Smirking! Showing zero fucking remorse for acting like an idiot. You’ve got some nerve!”

I make another lame attempt to get him to ease off me. “The team’s media training lady told us to always smile for the cameras.” I flash him a broad, pearly-white grin.

His angry veneer doesn’t crack. In fact, his jaw goes tighter as he glares across the console at me.

Defeated, I drop my skull against the headrest and sigh. “I think you’re being a little dramatic.”

“Am I?” He throws his phone into my lap next. “Read this shit. Your parking lot brawl is the biggest headline of the night. The Sports Broadcast Network is hanging you out to dry. They’re questioning your leadership. Hell, they’re saying your behavior is responsible for the Saints’ dismal performance over the last few games.”

I reluctantly pick up the phone and scroll through the article that my brother has open on his screen. Unless someone has something nice to say, I tend to avoid the sports reporting stuff. It’s usually garbage. This blog post in particular is a freaking blood bath. I feel a pinch in my chest when I read the things they’re saying about me.

“To be honest, I’m not all that worried,”I lie.

These sportscasters are the first to squash you like a bug when you step out of line. But when you have one good game, suddenly, all the bad shit is forgotten and you’re praised like royalty.

When I say as much, Darius throws an arm up in exasperation. “Are you kidding me? Ronan, dammit. This whole thing is a PR nightmare.”

“Oh, come on. When the full story comes out, they’ll all see how innocent it was. That waitress’s jealous boyfriend and his dumbass friends were the ones who attacked us. The guys and I fighting back was just self-defense. Any judge would see that.”

The dumbest fights always start with a girl at the center of it. A pretty girl and a jealous douchebag…Which is exactly what happened here.

This debacle wasn’t even my drama to begin with. The waitress at that dirty pub had been all over Tipton, climbing into his lap and sticking her tongue in his ear as she took a bunch of selfies. My poor naive teammate sat there, grinning like he’d just won the lottery. All fun and games, right?

The only problem is, the cute waitress had a boyfriend. And we didn’t find out until after she posted photos of us on social media to make him jealous.

Next thing I know, the douchebag boyfriend and his douchebag friends accosted Tipton in the parking lot and started swinging punches.

Could I have tried to diffuse the situation without violence? Okay, fine. Yes. But where’s the fun in that? I’d already been itching for a fight. So I was eager to jump in and start throwing fists around. The other guys weren’t far behind. The police got involved from there.

But Darius is not trying to hear my explanation.

Because a captain goes down with his ship, and at the end of the day, I’m the one who gets blamed for everything.

No fair.

“Whether you’re guilty or not doesn’t matter. As an athlete, you’re tried in the eyes of the public. You should know that by now,” my older brother lectures on, making his stance clear. “How many times have I told you, you’ve got to stop being so damned impulsive.”

“Burying your emotions is not healthy. That’s what my shrink says.” I don’t have a shrink. But if I did, I’m sure that’s what she’d say.

“I’m not saying to bury your emotions, jackass,” he grinds out. “I’m telling you to get them in check. You wear every single emotion on your sleeve. You let them control you and you end up getting yourself into one mess after the next.”

He’s right and I’m wrong. Typical when it comes to Darius and me.

Yet still, the truth is, my brother isn’t the bad guy here. In fact, he practically handed me this leadership opportunity with the Saints on a silver platter.

A few months back, a rumor started making the rounds that a group of hot shot billionaires were secretly working together to bring a hockey franchise to the Sin Valley area. At the time, I was playing for the New York Troopers, and although I was the team’s star player, I’d been getting overlooked for the captain position for years.

Management didn’t think I was ready. They said I had an ego problem, that I needed to slow down with the groupies, that I had to cut out all the partying. With my stellar stats and my loyalty to the organization, it felt like a slap to the face that they didn’t think I was good enough for the leadership role.

Despite my disappointment over their lack of confidence in me, I loved playing for New York. The last thing I wanted was to be traded to a new team. Especially one with zero track record in the league. But, I didn’t have a choice when I ended up selected as part of the Sin Valley Saints’ expansion draft.

I was livid. Especially when I discovered that Darius was one of the mysterious investors behind the new franchise. But then he sat me down and announced to me that he had cut a deal with his business partners, making me captain of the Saints.

Basically, my brother went out of his way to get me set up with this gig. And I’m ruining it.

Shit. He has every right to be pissed at me now.

“Ronan, you’re the team captain . The organization can’t just let this slide. There will be consequences for your irresponsible leadership.” He sighs. “The past few months, I’ve put my neck on the line for you again and again, but at this point, it’s out of my hands.”

Consequences? Goddammit. What the hell does that mean?

The stressful question consumes me as we’re driving along the winding Starlight Falls mountain road. It stays with me as we pull into the snow-covered driveway of my secluded mini-mansion.

The worrying thought repeats on loop as I step under my high-pressure shower head and wash the jailbird stench off my skin.

I ruminate some more as I slap together a sloppy bologna sandwich at the granite counter of my expansive open concept kitchen.

But the second my head hits my deluxe organic bamboo pillow, a mahogany-haired beauty struts into the theater of my mind.

Her perfect, peach-shaped backside swings with each sultry step. She throws me a glance over her back and with a cheeky grin she slips one bra strap down the curve of her dainty shoulder.

My cock immediately stands at attention, ready for duty. Ah, damn .

My life might be a blazing dumpster fire at the moment, but I just can’t get this woman off my brain.

Who is Nicky Westbrook?

She’s the woman who’s been consuming my head for the past seventeen days. That’s who.

And I can almost guarantee she’s not thinking about me.