Title: The Off Season
Author: Megan Green
Genre: Sports Romance
Release Date: February 1st
About The Off Season:
He had it all…
The day Ian “Tag” Taggart’s world comes crashing down around him, he’s sitting in a fast food drive-thru, waiting for an order of fries. Golden boy of the MLB and shortstop for the Washington Rampage, Tag quickly finds himself losing grip on his superstar life with the use of two awful words: sexual assault.
The only problem? He’s innocent.
Tag’s willing to do anything to prove to the world he’d never commit the crime he’s been accused of. So when his agent suggests taking a break from the spotlight, he listens. The quiet town on Maple Lake is everything Seattle isn’t. And Lexi Barnes is everything he wasn’t expecting to find.
Running from a past she can never escape, Lexi wants nothing to do with her new neighbor. But fixing up an old house takes more work than anticipated, and the new guy in town happens to have quite the set of carpentry skills. She won’t let herself fall for him though. She has no room in her life for love.
If only someone would tell her heart that.
He’s funny and charming. She’s closed off and rude.
Together, they’re like fire and ice.
Prepare to get burned this Off-Season.
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Chapter One
Tag
I’ll never forget where I was the day
my world came crashing down around me.
I wish I had a better story. Something
like, I was volunteering at a hospital, visiting sick children,
when the news first hit. Or, I had just finished saving an old
woman and her forty-two cats from a burning building when my agent
called.
But no. I was sitting in the fucking
drive-through at McDonald’s, waiting for my daily fix of salty
goodness, when the radio newscaster interrupted coverage of the
Seahawks game to drop what would turn out to be the most defining
moment of my life thus far.
“Charges have been filed against
MLB star Ian Taggart, better known as Tag Taggart, of the Washington
Rampage. Our sources say a young woman has come forward with
allegations that Taggart sexually assaulted her after their division
win last season.”
I didn’t hear what he said after
that, my Bluetooth kicking on in my truck as I answered the call from
Ray, my agent.
What had started as a simple stop
through a pick-up window ended up being the catalyst to the worst
period of my entire life. And, now, six months and hours and hours of
turmoil, frustration, and a hell of a lot of anger later, it all
comes down to this moment.
My career.
My life.
My future.
Coach Peters is sitting across from me
with James Shelton, the Rampage’s GM, to his left.
Lucky for me, Mr. Lane couldn’t be
here today. As the owner of the team, he generally tries to stay
abreast of anything involving his players. He’s a little too
involved, if you ask me. I’ve had far more meetings with the man in
the past few months than I ever cared to have in my life. Add in the
fact that he’s a class-A douche canoe, and…well, let’s just
say, there are times when I’ve had to wonder if this is my
punishment for the crime I didn’t even commit. Having to deal with
Tyler Lane on the regular has to be worse than any prison cell could
ever be.
And that’s right; you heard me
correctly. I know that’s the standard answer all assholes give when
they’re hit with a rape charge. And I know, ninety percent of the
time, they’re lying through their teeth. Being a professional
athlete seems to make some guys think they’re untouchable—a fact
I can attest to from the hundreds, if not thousands, of times I’ve
witnessed unwanted advances, unpaid tabs, drugs, and dozens of other
less than savory activities. But I digress.
The fact is, I am not that guy.
I love women. I respect women. Fuck, if I could build a shrine to
women and worship at the altar of femininity, I would. Because, if
there’s one thing in this world I love more than baseball, it’s
the female body. But I would never touch a woman in any way
that was unwanted or untoward.
The night I met Angela Hancock was the
best night of my life.
We’d just won our division
championship—a first in my seven years with the Rampage—and I was
riding high. And I could think of no better way to celebrate than a
night out with my teammates, a few bottles of Jack split between us,
and a couple of willing females to keep us company.
I set my sights on Angela the moment I
spotted her on the dance floor, her short black skirt and low-cut red
top too mouthwatering to resist. When she took a break from her
friends and headed to the bar to refresh her drink, I made my move.
Now, I’m not going to lie and say I
had to work to get her attention. To be totally honest, I’ve never
had any trouble finding a woman to warm my bed. With my muscular
build, tan skin, and fucking adorable smile—you try to tell me
dimples aren’t cute—I know I fit the mold of what women consider
hot. And, before you start to think I’m a cocky asshole, let me
stop you right there. There’s a difference between conceit and
confidence. My teammate Simon Weaver is an arrogant fuckwit. Me, on
the other hand? I radiate a smooth assurance that women can’t help
but be attracted to.
To say getting Angela back to my room
was easy would be an understatement. After one quick dance—if you
could even call it that—we basically just dry-humped the shit out
of each other for three minutes. And, with another shot of Jack for
the road, we were on our way.
I might have had a few drinks, but I
wasn’t drunk. And I can say with absolute certainty that everything
that happened that night was completely consensual.
Angela slammed the door behind us and
had my shirt off and her hand down my pants faster than you could
say, Do you have a condom? I’ve always been a sucker for a
girl who knows what she wants and isn’t afraid to take control.
But, even in my lust-fueled state, I
wasn’t too far gone to stop for protection and to make sure she
understood what this was.
“This is only for tonight. You got
that, right?”
Not exactly the most romantic thing in
the world to hear two seconds before some dude shoves his cock inside
you, but as I said, I like to make sure a woman knows exactly what
she’s getting with me.
She made no bones about my declaration,
and the next few hours were pretty fucking amazing, if I do say so
myself.
In fact, the only reason I remembered
who she was when Ray called me to give me the deets on the woman
pressing charges was because of what a fantastic lay she had been.
Normally, I’m a love-’em-and-leave-’em kinda guy—all their
faces sort of blurring together into one giant blob of sexy times.
Hey, I said I wasn’t a rapist. I
never said I wasn’t a whore.
About the Author:
Megan lives in Northern Utah with her handsome hubby, Adam. When not writing, chances are you’ll find her curled up with her Kindle. Besides reading and writing, she loves movies, animals, chocolate, and coffee. Lots and lots of coffee. She loves hearing from readers, so drop her a line! You can find her here:
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