Page 4 of The Book Club Boyfriend
“Looks like it’s just you and me for the summer, bud,” I say, glancing down at my dog, Rip. He blinks up at me, completely uninterested in my personal crisis, before flopping onto the floor with a sigh.
I smirk, bending down to scratch behind his ears. “You’d make a terrible therapist, you know that?”
He thumps his tail, then immediately rolls onto his back, demanding belly rubs.
I shake my head. “Needy.”
Not that I can talk. My team’s been on my case about this wholemarketabilitything since the playoffs ended. I get it—I really do. The Stampede want a captain they can slap on billboards and use in commercials, and apparently, my reputation still screamsreckless playboy who doesn’t take anything seriously.
It doesn’t matter that I haven’t been that guy for a while now. The narrative has already been written, and if I want that letter sewn on my sweater next season, I need to change it.
Fast.
I grab my keys and pat Rip on the head. “Begood. Try not to eat the couch again.”
He yawns in response.
I roll my eyes and head out, ready to meet Bennett for a beer. Maybe I’ll get some actualadvicefrom the guy, considering he managed to turn his whole image around last year.
Or, at the very least, maybe he’ll buy the first round.
When I arrive at the bar, I immediately spot Bennett at a high-top table near the back, nursing a pint and watching me like he already knows I’m in a mood.
“Look who finally decided to show up,” he calls, smirking as I drop onto the stool across from him.
I scowl. “Relax,Dad. I’m, like, three minutes late.”
Bennett lifts his beer. “Three minutescloserto me watching you spiral over this whole ‘grow up and be responsible’ thing.”
I grunt, waving down the waitress for my own drink. “I’m not spiraling.”
“Right.” He takes a sip. “That’s why you look like you just found out Santa isn’t real.”
I flip him off, and he grins.
“Let me guess,” he continues, clearly enjoying himself. “The team’s on your ass. Your agent won’t stop calling. And somewhere in that cluttered brain of yours, you’re wondering if sleeping with thehead of PR would just make this all go away.”
I snort. “That last partisn’ttrue.”
Bennett raises a brow.
“…Probably.”
He laughs, shaking his head. “Look, man, this isn’t complicated. You want to clean up your image? Show the team you’re leadership material? Do what I did. Play nice with the book club crowd.”
He’s talking aboutThe Stampede’s Romance Book Club—a ridiculous PR stunt that turned into athingtwo years ago. What started as a way to make the team more marketable to female fans ended up blowing up in the best way possible. The league ate it up, the fanslovedit, and Bennett—who was supposed to be the face of the whole operation—went and fell for Lucy Quinn, the snarky sports blogger who gave him hell at every turn.
Now, once a month, a group of professional hockey players get together toseriouslydiscuss romance novels with the readers, complete with livestreams, viral memes, and more fan engagement than the damn Stanley Cup Finals.
Itshouldbe embarrassing.
But somehow? It’snot.
And worse? Bennett’s right. It did wonders for his career.
The dude’s an absolute golden boy in the league now. Practically walks on water.
I scowl. “Yeah, well, I don’tneedsome fakePR romance book club to fix my rep,” I mutter, taking a sip of my beer.
