Excerpt

Oxford was the country’s top selling men’s magazine where Lincoln—and most of Cole’s other closest friends—worked.
But more important, it was also where Cole worked.
Well, sort of.
He would work there. Just as soon as he found the asshole who was after his job.
Cole
wasn’t going to pretend that he didn’t have a competitive streak. It
was a prerequisite for someone whose bread and butter came from knowing
the nuances of professional sports.
And it was rare that Cole
felt a personal investment in a competition. But tonight? Tonight, it
was definitely personal. Cole was the competitor.
The prize?
The title of Senior Sports Editor at Oxford.
The
magazine was finally getting a real sports section. Their token
two-page spread on fantasy football squeezed in between cologne reviews
and the proper way to wear a tie clip was being expanded to a multipage,
multitopic sports section.
A section that needed an editor.
Cole
was the right man for the job. The only man for the job. Not only had
he been writing for Oxford as a freelancer for years, but the editor in
chief, Alex Cassidy, was one of his closest friends.
When Cassidy had come to Cole and explained that he wanted to make Oxford a serious
contender for the Sports Illustrated readers, Cole had been damn sure that Cassidy was offering him the job.
Hell, Cassidy had been begging him for months to join the team, and Cole was finally ready—ready for a steady paycheck.
Ready to belong to something.
Because,
although Cole wasn’t exactly dying to buy a house in the ’burbs and
settle down with a nice girl, it wasn’t just about Cole.
It was
about Bobby, and the fact that Bobby’s care was getting more and more
expensive. His brother needed more than Cole’s occasional freelance
checks could provide.
Cole wasn’t just ready for this job. He needed it.
And that’s when Alex Cassidy had dropped his bomb.
The job wasn’t Cole’s for the taking.
So, goodbye to Easygoing Cole. Hello, Gladiator Cole.
Because, really, what the fuck?
Cole
hadn’t minded that they’d had to publicly post the position. He
understood there were HR boxes that had to be checked. But never had
Cole thought there’d actually be competition. Not only were the Oxford
guys practically his family, but Cole was the best damn sportswriter in
the city.
His application should have been a formality. Their
request that he update his résumé and submit a portfolio should have
been just a matter of documentation.
The position was his, damn it. Cole was the Oxford sports section.
Except he wasn’t. Not yet anyway.
Cassidy had called him yesterday to inform Cole that he was a finalist. A fucking finalist.
Pissing
Cole off even further, Cassidy wouldn’t tell him who his competition
was. Cole had named every worthwhile sportswriter in the city, but
Cassidy wouldn’t so much as grunt in confirmation.
Damn Cassidy and his unshakable professionalism.
His friend hadn’t left him completely in the lurch, though.
Cassidy
had pointedly mentioned to Lincoln that the other candidate had been
invited to the suite reserved by Berkin’s Hospitality Group for
tonight’s Yankees game.
Lincoln had, of course, told Cole.
So here they were, trying to sniff out the competition.
It was the only reason Cole would be caught dead in the luxury suite. Cole hated luxury suites.
This
wasn’t what baseball—or any game—was about. Baseball was about the
peanuts, the rowdy crowds, the overpriced beer. It was about the sound
of a fastball smacking against the catcher’s glove, the satisfying crack
of a wooden bat when a rookie pinch hitter really got hold of one.
For
Cole, watching baseball was about sitting with his brother in the
stands, watching Bobby’s face go positively ecstatic every time they did
the wave, and the way his brother never, ever got tired of the
seventh-inning stretch.
That was baseball.
And Cole wanted
nothing more than to be an anonymous part of the rowdy crowd,
preferably on the third baseline, watching the Yankees hopefully trounce
the Blue Jays.
Instead, he was stuck here with a bunch of fools who wouldn’t recognize a line drive if it hit them in the ass.
Adding
insult to injury, it was all for nothing. There was no sign of his
competition. Cole knew every decent sportswriter in the city, and none
were here tonight.
It was possible, he supposed, that Cassidy was
considering some out-of-town jock for the position, but a quick scan of
the room showed only familiar faces, all corporate bigwigs.
“Let’s get out of here,” Cole said to Lincoln, downing the rest of his beer in three gulps.
“You don’t want to wait for Cassidy?”
“Nah, I’ll catch him tomorrow.”

Lauren Layne is the USA Today Bestselling author of more than a dozen contemporary romance novels.

Prior to becoming an author, Lauren worked in e-commerce and web-marketing. A year after moving from Seattle to NYC to pursue a writing career, she had a fabulous agent and multiple New York publishing deals.

Lauren currently lives in Manhattan with her husband and plus-sized Pomeranian. When not

writing, you’ll likely find her running (rarely), reading (sometimes), or at happy hour (often).