Discover 1001 Dark Nights Collection Four

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ROCK CHICK REAWAKENING by Kristen Ashley

A Rock Chick Novella

ADORING INK by Carrie Ann Ryan

A Montgomery Ink Novella

SWEET RIVALRY by K. Bromberg

SHADE'S LADY by Joanna Wylde

A Reapers MC Novella

RAZR by Larissa Ione

A Demonica Underworld Novella

ARRANGED by Lexi Blake

A Masters and Mercenaries Novella

TANGLED by Rebecca Zanetti

A Dark Protectors Novella

HOLD ME by J. Kenner

A Stark Ever After Novella

SOMEHOW, SOME WAY by Jennifer Probst

A Billionaire Builders Novella

TOO CLOSE TO CALL by Tessa Bailey

A Romancing the Clarksons Novella

HUNTED by Elisabeth Naughton

An Eternal Guardians Novella

EYES ON YOU by Laura Kaye

A Blasphemy Novella

BLADE by Alexandra Ivy/Laura Wright

A Bayou Heat Novella

DRAGON BURN by Donna Grant

A Dark Kings Novella

TRIPPED OUT by Lorelei James

A Blacktop Cowboys® Novella

STUD FINDER by Lauren Blakely

MIDNIGHT UNLEASHED by Lara Adrian

A Midnight Breed Novella

HALLOW BE THE HAUNT by Heather Graham

A Krewe of Hunters Novella

DIRTY FILTHY FIX by Laurelin Paige

A Fixed Novella

THE BED MATE by Kendall Ryan

A Room Mate Novella

NIGHT GAMES by CD Reiss

A Games Novella

NO RESERVATIONS by Kristen Proby

A Fusion Novella

DAWN OF SURRENDER by Liliana Hart

A MacKenzie Family Novella

Discover the World of 1001 Dark Nights

Collection One

Collection Two

Collection Three

Collection Four

Bundles

Discovery Authors

Blue Box Specials

Rising Storm

Liliana Hart's MacKenzie Family

The Player

By K. Bromberg

Coming April 17, 2017

Click here for more information

Baseball has never been sexier in an all-new novel by New York Times Bestselling Author, K. Bromberg.

Easton Wylder is baseball royalty. The game is his life. His passion. His everything.

So, when an injury threatens to end Easton’s season early, the team calls in renowned physical therapist, Doc Dalton, to oversee his recovery. Except it’s not Doc who greets Easton for his first session, but rather, his daughter, Scout. She may be feisty, athletic, defiant, and gorgeous, but Easton is left questioning whether she has what it takes to help him.

Scout Dalton’s out to prove a female can handle the pressure of running the physical therapy regimen of an MLB club. And that proof comes in the form of getting phenom Easton Wylder back on the field. But getting him healthy means being hands-on.

And with a man as irresistible as Easton, being hands-on can only lead to one thing, trouble. Because the more she touches him, the more she wants him, and she can’t want him. Not when it’s her job to maintain the club’s best interest, in regards to whether he’s ready to play.

But when sparks fly and fine lines are crossed, can they withstand the heat, or is one of them bound to get burned?

* * * *

Scout

Each thump of Easton’s stride on the treadmill irritates me more than the last.

Every grunt of exertion adds to it.

And then there’s the beep. The one that tells me his thirty minutes of high intensity running is complete, and now it’s my turn to complete the session.

Lucky me.

I’m irritable. Pissed off. And I’m not sure if my current mood stems from exhaustion after spending too many hours last night Googling Easton Wylder or that it seems he was doing the same about me.

“So are you actually going to touch my arm today, or are you only good for telling me treadmill, thirty minutes, level ten? If you wanted to avoid me, then maybe you should call in sick for the next few months.” Sarcasm drips from his voice. His obvious disdain for me, more than evident, and that even keel I thought we might have found yesterday, seemingly nonexistent.

I need to turn around, to face him, but I stall. The images from Google last night are seared in my mind. The charity calendar pictures where he’s wearing nothing but a strategically placed baseball glove. The ESPN body issue where he’s batting—naked—the twist of his legs hiding his package. The three-piece suit at the ESPYs. All of them are there, floating around, reminding me how all those hard lines and toned edges look like in person.

And it would take a dead woman to not be affected by him.

So, I steel myself for the visceral impact of looking at him—hot, sweaty, relaxed—but it doesn’t help when I turn around. I’m not sure anything could. Because even in his sweat-dampened T-shirt, he’s still breathtakingly handsome with his mixture of All-American and rugged outdoorsman. He still exudes that tinge of arrogance. And the odd thing is, today, when I look at him, after I’ve stared at pictures of him for hours last night, somehow the arrogance adds to his appeal.

And then he smirks, and I shake my head and question my own sanity.

“So you actually want me to look at your arm? You mean you’ll trust me with it? And here I was under the impression you thought I was just a trophy trainer.”

“Come again?” he chuckles.

Time to clear the air between us. Being handsome doesn’t override being an asshole. “You know, trophy trainer —someone good for you to look at, but incapable of much else.”

“If the shoe fits.” He shrugs.

I take a step closer to him, his sarcastic comeback igniting the embers of my temper he lit yesterday. “Don’t be a jerk. If you want to find out if I’m qualified for the job—capable of getting you back in top form—then you ask me for my credentials. You want a resume? You want references? I’d be glad to hand you a list of them, so don’t go snooping around, making phone calls, and questioning everything about me without talking to me first. Got it?”

Our eyes hold as he worries his bottom lip between his teeth to combat the smile he’s fighting as he takes a step toward me. “You want me to take my rehab seriously, right? Then don’t chastise me for making sure the person charged to do it is up to par and has the right experience. I don’t trust my body with just anyone, let alone a rookie trainer still learning the ropes. Got it?”

“ Touché,” I murmur as we wage a visual war of defiance and misunderstanding. “We’re wasting time. Let’s get started.”

Maybe if we begin I’ll forget about the phone calls I’d received last night. The ones from previous clients and personal friends I’d rehabbed letting me know I was being vetted. I was glad for the friends letting me know, and pissed at being questioned.

I grab the ultrasound cart and wheel it toward the table, but he’s still standing there like yesterday, still questioning me. Obviously, the point is not moot, but I shrug it off, knowing after my rebuke of him, he was bound to either respect me or test me, and by the current standoff, I’m guessing it will be the latter.

“Yes?” I finally ask when he doesn’t budge.

“You wanna tell me where Doc is?”

“He’s got a packed schedule on the East Coast right now. As you know, injury happens without warning.” I hold his gaze and hope he doesn’t see through the lie.

“Uh-huh.” He just nods, but I can tell he’s not convinced. But there must be something in my eyes he sees—the something I’m trying desperately to keep together—that prevents him from digging deeper. “ He’s the best there is.”

“Agreed.”

“Shouldn’t I be worried then?”

“About?” I prompt.

“If he’s the best, then doesn’t that mean you’re second best?”

His remark serves its purpose and hits closer to home than I’d like, but it’s his body, his career, and his right to ask.

“Second best to Doc Dalton isn’t a bad place to be. I learned everything I know from the man. I assure you, he’s the last person I want to let down, and therefore, you’re the beneficiary of that fear... so...” I quirk my brows. “ Lucky you. ”

“Lucky me,” he murmurs but still doesn’t move. “The problem is I still don’t know shit about you, and yet you’re standing there ready to work on my arm.”

“What do you want to know?” I’m getting impatient. Another day, another round of bullshit and once again, time is wasting away. But at least he listened and is asking me and not snooping around.

“What were your stats in the Major Leagues?”

“ What?”

“I asked your stats. Errors. On base percentage. Batting average. Fielding percentage. You know, statistics.”

“I know what statistics are,” I respond dryly.

“But if you’ve never played in the Majors, how is it you know how my arm’s supposed to feel so that you can get it back to one hundred percent?”

He’s neglecting the fact that no other trainer has played in the Major Leauges either... but I have a better way to shut him up. “Have you ever been a woman?”

“ What?” It’s his turn to be surprised by an unexpected question. “Of course not. I’ve got plenty of proof that I’m a man?”

I roll my eyes, half-expecting him to grab his crotch and equally relieved that he doesn’t. “Well, if you’ve never been a woman, how is it you know how to please one in bed? How do you know if you’re hitting the right spot? Getting her off?”

He fights back the bark of a laugh, but eventually lets it escape as he just shakes his head at me. “Touché,” he repeats my words back to me.

“If you’re going to bust my chops, Wylder, you should know that I can give as good as I get.”

“Point taken. But since you’re the one singlehandedly charged with busting my balls in rehab over the next three months, you’ve gotta admit, it was a valid question.”

“It was,” I concede, “but it’s your job to talk to me, tell me how it feels, where it hurts, and when it feels good, so I can make it better.” An unexpectedly shy smile slides on his lips when he gets the correlation between what I asked about how to please a woman and my answer.

“Just like sex.”

“Perhaps.” I smile; it’s all I can do as heat flushes my cheeks and the room around us becomes too small for him and this innuendo-laced conversation. “Some men have all the tools in the world, but if they don’t know how to use them, they’re useless. It’s the same with my job. You’ve gotta know how to use your skills, and I assure you, I do. So, if the I-don’t-trust-you-because-you-have-a-vagina-card has been exhausted, can we get started?” I point to the table behind him as he chuckles, and then I begin to adjust the machine.

“You drive a hard bargain, Kitty. ” He sits down and pulls off his shirt, discarding it to right of him.

“You ain’t seen nothing yet.”

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