CHAPTER ONE
Ashton
Ten Years Later
Ashton “Ride ’em hard” Carmichael strikes again! Exclusive photos of the hotel orgy that could ruin his career!
I groaned as I read the latest article in a magazine that had basically built its career on trying to ruin mine. My eyes scanned the pictures…me passed out in bed…alcohol all over the room…three women in various states of undress, with blurred spots hiding the goods. Obviously, the fourth—my ex—was behind the camera. The reason I knew that was because: 1. I’d gone to the hotel room with her, and 2. She filled me in on the leak before it happened, giving me the chance to stop it for a hefty sum of money I’d delivered upon.
But as my eyes scanned the article, my pulse sped up and sweat dripped down my face, because holy fuck, this was really happening…not that it was the first time for this sort of thing. I had a bit of a reputation, but it was the first time it happened right before contract negotiations and not long after my agent told me my team—the Los Angeles Avalanche—were worried. Loose cannon they’d called me, which of course I’d argued, but oops, they were right.
“Fuck,” I cursed, rubbing a hand over my face just as my cell rang. There was no doubt in my mind who the call was from. I was pretty sure my agent, Andrea, had radar notification of any time I fucked up, which unfortunately was quite a bit. But it was so damn hard to be good. Why didn’t they understand that?
For a moment I thought about ignoring her, but I knew there was no point. Andrea was likely calling from the road while she drove to my place, and nothing would stop her once she got there anyway. “I—”
“I told you, Ash. I fucking told you something was up with Bridget, but you never fucking listen when a fake pair of tits is involved.”
Well…that was a little unfair, wasn’t it? “I’m more of an ass man, myself.”
“What?” she spit out. “Now isn’t the time to be funny.”
I wasn’t being funny; I was being honest.
“You’re a free fucking agent, Ash. Your team didn’t offer you a contract…no one else has either. If you haven’t noticed, you played like shit last season.”
I winced, feeling her words like a kick to the groin. It hadn’t been a great year for me. It would be impossible not to notice that, because every time I turned around, someone was reminding me—reporters, coaches, teammates, social media…myself. Everyone always had an opinion and thought they had the right to share it. “Way to bust my balls, Andrea. And what’s with all the F-bombs?”
She ignored my attempt to lighten the mood. “You don’t pay me to lie to you, Ash; you pay for brutal fucking honesty. You’ve had a shit year, a shit couple of years, but this was the worst. You make headlines for all the wrong reasons, and you’re a loose cannon with a bad attitude, who doesn’t take anything seriously and cares more about putting his dick in someone than winning games.”
“Hey! I resent that. I have a good attitude, and it’s always smart to be serious about where one sticks their cock.”
When she sighed again, I added, “I’m taking this seriously. My life has been about football for ten years. I’m just not freaking out right now, unlike someone else I know.” My stomach was in knots, but I didn’t know the actual reason for it yet. I was still trying to work through it all, which should have been a huge flashing neon sign for me. The reason I should be stressed out right now was my career, getting signed…only I felt like I should care about that more than I actually did care about it. After living and breathing football for so long, it was scary as fuck that it wasn’t what fueled my lungs anymore…that I didn’t know what did.
All I knew was I was tired…so damn tired. But I was also Ashton Carmichael. Football was my life. It always had been, even back to my dad teaching me how to play. It’s who I was.
Andrea sighed again. I had a knack for making her do that. “You need to listen to me, Ash, really listen. Avalanche aren’t excited about you anymore. When you first started, you were their golden boy, their star quarterback, and now you’re—”
“I get it, Andrea, I get it.” How could I not? Leaning forward, I put my phone on speaker, set it on the table, and rubbed my temples. “If not Avalanche, who else do we have? The Storm?”
“No.”
My stomach dropped. “Houston?”
“No, Ash. We have feelers out…but no one is taking the bait.”
My head swam, and I got dizzy. How was that possible? I was Ashton Carmichael—first-round pick, Rookie of the Year, MVP, the leader of a championship team. I was born to play football.
“What the hell were you thinking?” she asked again.
Excuses tangled in my brain—lies as well as the truth. What was wrong with consenting adults having sex? Even in groups. I didn’t have an orgy. I was being blackmailed. But as I opened my mouth, I knew none of it mattered. “There’s nothing I can do here, is there?” I asked, because what else could I say? Andrea was a miracle worker, but I could feel it in my gut—my football days were numbered.
“I don’t know,” she replied. “I’m going to try and work some magic. Elliott is out of the country, but Dax is going to meet me at your place.” Elliott and Dax worked for the PR firm that represented me. Elliott was usually my guy, but Dax had been known to jump in from time to time.
“Okay,” I replied. “Dax is a good man and good at what he does.” If anyone could get me out of this, it was Andrea and Dax.
“I’ll see you in a few minutes. Don’t leave your damn house. Don’t call or talk to anyone until we can figure out how to spin this. And if there’s anything you can think of that’ll help us here, for God’s sake, share it with me. I know how proud you are sometimes. Now doesn’t need to be one of those times.”
“I know, I know,” I replied. “See you in a few minutes.”
The second she ended the call, I fell back into the armchair. “Fuck, Bridget.” If she’d needed money, why hadn’t she just come to me? Asked me? Why go through the risk of blackmailing me with the photos when I would have helped her regardless? And why, even after I paid, did she leak them?
The more important questions were: Why hadn’t I told Andrea about the blackmail? Why didn’t I plan to? And how had Bridget known that no matter what, I wouldn’t? Not even to save my career.