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was the country’s number one sportscast, and they made their headlines by turning me into the league’s whipping boy. I was a masochist for their daily defamation.
    It was reporter Ainsley Ruport who decided I was the cause of the game’s ethical and moral failings, but the slimy bastard caused more drama in the association than any of my late hits.
    His smug grin filled the screen with a row of white teeth, too perfect for his graying hair and perpetually arched eyebrow. I’d have bet money someone once clocked him good and knocked out every last tooth in his head.
    I’d have shaken the hand of the son of a bitch who did it…then paid his bail.
    The show blinked with a highlight reel of my best hits of last season. “ With two days remaining until the season opener, it looks like the Atwood Monarchs will be starting their All-Star outside linebacker, Cole Hawthorne, despite rumors of an altercation during practice this week .”
    Was it really a rumor if Sports Nation had played the clip of Coach Scott reaming me out on loop for the past three days?
    “ This latest confrontation is just another example of Hawthorne’s troublesome record on and off the field. My question for the panel today: Is Cole Hawthorne the dirtiest player in the game?”
    Fucking bullshit. It wasn’t the first time someone accused me of it, but I’d never wanted to believe it. I’d ignored the nagging voice in my head, warning me that the league was justified in their punishments.
    A dirty player wanted to hurt other people.
    That was never my intent.
    On or off the field.
    “ This game is plagued by enough men of ill-repute—mostly in the form of trouble-makers, womanizers, and Jack Carson,” Ainsley said . “But is the association disregarding the safety of the players by allowing a man like Cole Hawthorne to play? It isn’t a question of if but when he will seriously injure a hundred-million-dollar quarterback. And, mark my words, President Frank Bennett will be held accountable when it’s revealed that he refused to handle the Hawthorne problem.”
    I readied to hurl the remote into Ainsley’s sweaty face.
    He was saved by the knock at the door.
    I hadn’t bothered repairing the doorbell. I didn’t get visitors. No friends. No family. No teammates. My maid cleaned while I was at the field, and my private chef delivered meals for the week on Tuesdays.
    No one was dumb enough to drop by for a visit.
    Except her.
    I paused the newscast. No use ignoring Piper—the woman probably came equipped with a police battering ram to get inside.
    She waited at my front door, casting a practiced smile with a pocket full of confidence or pixy dust or whatever the hell gave her the courage to face me.
    “Mr. Hawthorne, I hope I’m not interrupting your evening.”
    “If I said you were; would you go away?”
    She thought about it for all of a split-second. “Probably not.”
    “Let me know what I can do to make it a certainty.”
    Piper sighed. “So I take it you’re going to be difficult?”
    “I’ll make you earn your commission.” I glanced her over, admiring the way her skirt clung to those swaying hips. “Think I get a discount for having a pint-sized agent?”
    Piper drew herself up to her full-height, a scrape over five feet. “The best things come in small packages, Mr. Hawthorne.”
    Yeah. In them—and on their ass, tits, and face.
    “I guarantee you’ll be satisfied with my services,” she said.
    “In that case, I’ll have a beer, a massage, and head—you pick the order.”
    “If we’re wishing on a star, I’d love to have a full eight-hours of sleep tonight.” Piper arched an eyebrow. “But we can’t always get what we want.”
    “Then I’ll just take the head.”
    She hummed. “I hope you never propositioned my father like this.”
    “I’m a bit more discerning than that.” I had no idea why I was smiling, but she was fun to tease. “I have a taste for the beautiful ones.”
    “ So