Page 9 of Second-Rate Superstar
Bursting into the room, I remember the relief that stole over me. She seemed fine. Weak, but fine.
Then, the doctors asked me to step into the hallway for a moment. That’s when they told me that she had advanced cervical cancer that had spread to most of her vital organs, and she didn’t have much time left. Perhaps, if they’d caught it sooner, they could have done something tosave her, but it was too late now. All that was left to do was make her comfortable in her final days.
When I walked back into that hospital room, having learned the truth that my mom was going to die, I broke down in tears. Beckoning me to her side, she allowed me to crawl into the bed as she whispered against my hair that it would be okay.
Nothing would ever be “okay” again.
Three days later, she was gone, and in every way that mattered, I became an orphan.
So why would I choose to write romance after witnessing such a tragic “love” story for my mother?
The answer was simple: I wanted to honor her memory by giving my characters the happy ending she never got.
My pen name was even an homage to her. I took my initials—D.D. for Dakota Danielson—and added my mom’s first name, Morgan, for the last name. Her legacy and belief in love, no matter how misguided, would live on through my work.
I wanted to make her proud, so if that meant putting on my big-girl panties and walking straight into the lion’s den, then so be it.
Hockey house party, here I come.
Chapter 3
Braxton
Jeez. We’ll be luckyif the cops don’t show up tonight.
Levi hadn’t been kidding when he said Coop would spread the word to the college girls about tonight’s party. The house was overflowing with young girls, and I had my doubts whether most of them were of legal drinking age.
I can just see it now. Disgraced Braxton Slate, being arrested for supplying alcohol to underage girls.
My dad wouldlovethat.
The booze was set up in our barely finished basement. And by barely finished, I meant there was drywall up, but the floor was still concrete with drains visible. At least that made for an easy cleanup come morning. If I made it that long.
Half of me wanted to bail and hole up in a cheap hotel for the night just in case shit went down, but the other half knew someone had to stay and be responsible. Because Levi wasn’t even around, and when he got here, I knew he wouldn’t be held accountable.
That meant I was walking around with my head on a swivel, ensuring girls weren’t being taken advantage of in dark rooms by the few handsy guys who’d shown up. The odds were in their favor if they were looking to hook up with a drunk chick because women outnumbered the men ten to one.
It wasn’t the free booze that had brought them in; it was the three of us who lived here, and I wanted no part of it. Blake, however, was last seen disappearing with three girls into his bedroom.
I was probably the only professional athlete alive who wasn’t interested in the easy hookups that came with the territory.
Whatever. To each their own.
Dragging my ass back down to the basement after a full sweep of the upper levels, I kept a watchful eye over the crowd. I might want to separate myself from Jaxon, but there was no doubt he would be doing the same thing right now. He had always been the poster boy for responsibility but was even more so now that he had a family—and a teenage daughter.
A shudder rolled through me, thinking of my niece, Amelia, attending a party like this someday. I wanted to believe she was smarter than that, but peer pressure was a powerful force. The idea of someone taking advantage of her, plying her with drinks until her inhibitions lowered—or worse, drugging her—had both fists clenching by my side.
That thought alone almost had me pulling the plug on the whole damn thing and kicking these people out of our house. It wasn’t worth it.
Just as I was about to shut it down, I caught sight of a girl seated at the gaudy tiki bar along the wall. She looked so out of place that I couldn’t help but stare, instantly intrigued by what she was doing here.
The first thing that tipped me off that she didn’t belong was her clothing. There were two styles among the women in attendance tonight—a skintight mini-dress so short that if they moved thewrong way, they risked indecent exposure, or ripped skinny jeans paired with a barely-there sparkly top, breasts on full display. This girl, however, was in plain black leggings and an oversized Connecticut Central hoodie that extended almost to her knees.
She peered up, scanning the room, biting her lip before turning back to the bar. It was a brief glimpse of her face but enough to see she wasn’t wearing a stitch of makeup. Yet another glaringly obvious difference from the rest of the girls gathered tonight.
Her dark hair was pulled into a ponytail, but it was plain to see she fought against natural curls—loose tendrils had escaped, framing her face.
Intrigued, I found myself drawn to her, making my way across the room.
