Sports-themed romances are one of my favorite themes which is why I'm excited by the recent release of Hat Trick by Liz Crowe. Keep reading to get a tantalizing taste of this fourth installment in the Black Jack Gentleman series, along with a glimpse of the previous books in this series too, and then add it to your bookshelf! In celebration of this release make sure to fill out the form below for the chance to win a $20 GC and winner's choice of an eBook from Ms. Crowe's backlist too!
LET'S GET TO KNOW MS. CROWE.....
-How did you come up with the idea for this story?
I’m a huge fan of soccer, at almost every level, since my daughter plays at the National league level with her team full of 17 year old girls and we subscribe to every soccer channel available to us. Living in Europe for several years had a lot of influence on that too but honestly, it’s the game with the hottest dudes, so….yeah. I figured, Detroit needed a team and it would be a team full of misfits and outcasts.
-Is there a message in your novel that you want readers to grasp?
In the Black Jack Gentlemen series there is a “message” or at least a “point” to each book. Man On deals with homosexuality in pro sports. Red Card with (initially) the gender inequality in pro soccer. Shut Out is about two people badly scarred by the super popular BDSM fetish. Hat Trick (the newest book) deals with pro athletes with hot tempers and graspy groupies.
-What are your current projects?
Finishing up The Love Brothers, currently my best selling series with FAMILY LOVE, the final novel, releasing September 2, 105. Also, looking ahead to a 6th revision of my thriller novel PRECIOUS VESSEL. Plus a couple of hot RE (Real Estate) romance novels coming end of the year: APPRAISED & CONTINGENT.
-What is for you the perfect book hero?
A guy who has a real job, has worked damn hard to get where he is, and is proud of his ability to be not “alpha,” not “beta,” but “gamma.” As in “the whole package.”
-Tell us something that people would be surprised you know how to do.
I am a kick ass singer and can still sing some church hymns by heart.
Detroit’s expansion pro team has a hot star forward, fresh from the English Premiere League. Thanks to a series of fatal misunderstandings coupled with his famous temper, Declan MacGuire only has one thing left to him—soccer—and he’s determined not to make the same mistakes in his new life stateside.
Emily Keller, an accidental low-level PR flunkie for the team watches as Declan gets sucked into a whirlwind romance with Cassandra Dean, the team’s Queen Bee groupie, trying not to be jealous while the woman maneuvers him into a sickeningly familiar situation.
When things escalate, the team is forced to take sides, and Declan faces the toughest choice of his life.
Her ex-husband held out her keys. Emily grabbed them and made her way inside, slipping out of her shoes and dropping her purse on the hall table. When she turned, she was shocked to find him still in the doorway, hands tucked in his pockets.
“Well, what are you waiting for?” She waved a hand, anger slowly but surely replacing her lust. “It’s your damn house. Come on in. Kiss me. Fuck me. Whatever it is you’ve decided you want to do."
He stood still, head tilted, giving her a curious, searching look. “Is that what you want me to do, Emily?” His voice, normally low and gravelly and bone-chillingly sexy, had gone flat and neutral. Not shifted into seduction mode as she figured he’d do the second they dropped Michelle off for the night.
She crossed her arms over her wrinkled work blouse. “I don’t know, to be honest. But I’m…shit.” She turned away from him and headed for the kitchen. After a couple glasses of expensively filtered water, she turned, not at all surprised to see him there, taking up more space than should be allotted to one man, in a room he’d once spent so much time in, with her, with them, as a family.
A rogue tear slid down her cheek. In a blink he was there, wiping it away, running his hands up her arms, into her hair, pulling her up so their lips met for the first time in a year, but in such as a way it was as if he’d never left. His mouth was firm, in control as his tongue breached her lips, probing, slowly, questioning how far she wanted to go. Emily’s body lurched into high alert, skin pebbling, scalp prickling, nipples hardening under her utilitarian cotton bra.
Everything about him filled all her senses—the crisp fabric of his bright white shirt under her hands, the soft silkiness of his thick hair between her fingers, the rich, starchy, leathery smell of him in her nose. He kept his hands in her hair. Didn’t roam around, grab her boobs or her ass or anything—just kept them connected via the most mind-blowing, toe-curling kiss in her memory.
He broke it off softly, leaving her gasping and gripping his biceps before snaking her hands up around his neck. She wanted him so badly at that moment—wanted a connection with somebody who knew her, understood her, that she didn’t have explain herself to—it manifested as an actual physical pain in her chest. But he took her arms and pulled them from around his neck, kissed both her cheeks, her nose and her lips once more before taking a step away from her.
She nearly fell over into the space he created between them. Her eyes went straight to his crotch, noting the obvious indication of his desire to take this a step further. And why not? They were consenting, formerly married adults. They knew each others’ buttons and could press them, get off, itch scratched, and move on. At that moment Emily wanted nothing more than for Marcus to scratch her damn itch, two or three times.
Shoving out thoughts of Declan and the sound of her own conscience, she lunged for Marcus, determined to get him undressed and between her thighs as fast as possible. He moved away, running a hand across his lips before reaching down to adjust his zipper. She bit her lip, curious, frustrated, and so horny she could taste it in the back of her throat.
“What?” she said, her voice croaky. “I thought you came in here for a reason.”
“I did,” he said, putting a hand on the counter. “But…we can’t. I can’t.”
“Why not? Run out of Cialis?”
He winced, then smiled. “Ah, Emily, I have missed you, even your smart mouth.”
“Well, let me remind you what I can get up to with my mouth.” She reached for him but he grabbed her wrists and stared at her, pissing her off and turning her on even more.
THE PREVIOUS BOOKS IN THE BLACK JACK GENTLEMAN SERIES....
MAN ON (Book 1)
Bad boy of European football, Nicolas Garza is about to hit American shores with a vengeance. Signed by the Detroit Black Jack Gentlemen as lynch pin for their expansion club, Nicco only half believes he’s making the right move. But with a past full of ghosts and rotten behavior chasing him from his homeland, he has no real choice.
Parker Rollings is a college soccer superstar, but his parents’ plans for their only son do not include professional athletics. When the Black Jacks approach him to finalize their roster, Parker leaps at the chance to keep playing, leaving behind medical school, stability and his first and only college sweetheart.
Nicco and Parker face off as bitter rivals for a coveted starting spot at midfield and are forced to channel their negative energy into something positive for the sake of the group—and themselves.
All eyes are on the fledgling team in its debut season. It’s crucial that the Black Jacks prove all the doubters wrong. They must make a good showing in the league and with new fans. But player drama, club dynamics, and misplaced priorities may tear it apart before it even begins.
A handful of fresh-faced young Americans interspersed in the group, which made Nicco feel old. Which totally pissed him off. What was Inez thinking anyway? There were two players per position in the room, two strong contenders for each spot—except his. He sipped his water bottle and glared at the Germans. Nervous tension gnawed at his gut but he kept his face calm. Finally when their temporary coach showed up and flipped the blinds closed, he relaxed.
So everyone in the room has to fight for their spot except me? That works.
He dropped his feet to the floor at Rafe’s pointed glance and propped his elbows on the table prepared to ignore the forthcoming pep talk.
He’d already made plans for the night and wanted to rest up beforehand. This goofy welcome pep talk would be as good a time as any. Letting his thoughts wander to the nightclub catering to gay men and promising full discretion, he made himself stop obsessing over the failed therapy session.
The door clicked open and all eyes landed on the tall, blond man who walked in, backpack on his shoulder, dressed to play. Nicco’s scalp tingled at the sight of him—strong torso, long legs, firm jaw covered with several days’ worth of fuzz. Good Christ but he was a perfect specimen. Nicco kept his casual stance but startled when the kid’s bright blue eyes and huge white smile landed on him.
He resisted the urge to smile back. Something about the man made Nicco distinctly uncomfortable but horny at the same time. He suddenly wished he’d held onto the shrink’s business card.
“And Parker will be working with you, Nicco.”
He sat up, knocking his water to the floor as Rafe’s words got his immediate attention. What the fuck? He stared at the polite hand the kid stuck in his face then over at Rafe. His throat closed up between the proximity of the impossibly handsome man and realization of the fact that the vision of masculine perfection he’d lusted after for the last few seconds wanted to take his spot on the field.
Oh hell no.
He leaned back again and ignored his inner polite self. Instead, he smirked, ignored the punk, and turned to face their coach as if suddenly fascinated by what the guy had to say. Parker stood a minute, and Nicco watched his face turn red before he sat in the one empty chair nearest the door.
Rafe passed out new phones, reminded them of their obligation to “tweet” and “post profile updates” on Facebook at least three times a day. All shit Nicco already knew. Rafe’s hot young lady assistant issued key cards to the ones who’d just arrived, including the kid Nicco studiously ignored but whose very presence was making the front of his jeans uncomfortable.
RED CARD (Book 2)
Free will makes us human.
Choice makes us individuals.
Love makes us unique.
Metin Sevim has it all. At the pinnacle of international soccer playing success, he has managed to craft a perfect world for himself along the way.
When fate strips him of free will and the ability to choose his own path, he retreats from everyone and everything, destroying his hard-won career in the process.
Dragged back from the brink by his desperate family, Metin reluctantly agrees to coach the Black Jack Gentlemen Detroit soccer team but remains debilitated by memories and loss. When a surprising friendship emerges, it renews his passion for life, providing much needed solace… and extreme complications.
A saga of family dynamics and gender politics that cuts across cultures and circumstance, Red Card illustrates the human capacity for forgiveness through the life of one man as he attempts to rebuild his shattered existence.
“It’s your hips that are the problem.”
Alicia started at the sound of his now-familiar, sing-song accent. She’d been kicking a line of balls into the net, one after the other for about fifteen minutes since she’d been early in her haste to get the hell out of her house and away from her sister’s violent disapproval.
Taking a breath, she crossed her arms and studied him. Metin wore a pair of dark blue soccer shorts, plain heather-gray shirt, and cleats, as easily as he’d worn the dress pants and crisp cotton shirt the night she’d met him—the night you fucked him, you mean.
He stood, loose-limbed, at ease in his element. His teeth glowed against his dark skin. The eyes she had melted into not forty-eight hours ago shone with something she couldn’t identify—happiness? Sarcasm? Lust? Who knew? Hoping to hide her frustration, she bent down to tie her laces tighter so he couldn’t see her face flush when her gaze hit the front of his shorts.
She rose, determined to resist the take-me-now aura the guy threw her way. He probably didn’t even realize he did it. Not anymore. “Okay, I’ll bite. What’s wrong with my hips?”
“Come at me.”
She blinked, confused. “Um, huh?”
“Attack, make like you want to score. You know? Like you do in games?”
“Oh, right.” Dropping the ball tucked under her arm, she glanced over his shoulder at her target. He let her, trotting backward a few steps, then made for the ball. She feinted, maintaining possession before dribbling a few more feet.
He came out of nowhere as she was about to make her final scoring charge, stripping her of the ball and sending her crashing to the turf.
“Ow. Shit,” she muttered, getting to her feet, a familiar, angry competitiveness stripping all the horniness right out of her head. “I still don’t get what….”
“Do it again.” He kicked the ball toward her, harder than necessary, but she stopped it and placed her cleat on top contemplating a different strategy.
Shifting to the side, she danced past him, using all the speed she could muster, and made straight for the goal. And there he was again, taking the damn ball away from her as if she were a rookie.
She tried to shield it, putting her back to him and sensing every inch of his warm, perfect physique against her skin. Forcing herself to focus, she landed a hard elbow to his midsection and escaped his trap then traveled down the field alone, turning on all her motors, no longer hearing anything, way into her zone.
And then, the damn man appeared in front of her again, batting the ball between her legs and taking off in the other direction, hand to his side where she’d nailed him.
“God damn it, Metin. What is your point? You’re a pro. I’m an unemployed college graduate. You’re a man. I’m not. You make money at this, and I never will. What the hell are you trying to prove?” Her legs hurt from her workout the day before and she could barely catch her breath. She was, in a word, miserable. But the sight of him a few yards away, messing with the soccer ball while he stared at her, brought visions of tackling him, holding him down, and kissing him right to the front of her overheated brain.
“Once more.” The soccer ball smacked the back of her legs so hard she yelped. “That’s your fucking yellow card for the elbow. One more and you’ll sit.”
SHUT OUT (Book 3)
A submissive once, a submissive forever?
A man on the run from the only life he’s ever known, Brody Vaughn is poised to accept the Black Jack Gentleman’s newly vacant goalkeeper’s position. It’s a desperate move, but one he must take to regain his emotional equilibrium. Reeling from his Mistress’s rejection and on the ragged edge of a total breakdown, he arrives in Detroit. Numb with thinly veiled grief, he walks into the club’s front office completely unaware that an encounter with true destiny awaits him.
Sophie Harrison has seen it all--as Domme, sub, and victim. Now that her complicated circumstances have landed her as legal counsel for the expansion Black Jacks team, she holds herself aloof in body and spirit. Nothing and no one gets past her fiercely guarded walls. Until the day she looks up to greet the new goalie standing in her doorway, his raw combination of vulnerability and strength making her breathless.
Two people, horribly scarred by the excesses of the BDSM lifestyle and hiding from their true selves, meet across a desk over a simple contract. All bets are off.
“Vaughn! Goddamn it.”
Brody sat, staring at his feet, ignoring the usual post-match noise and bustle around him. Most especially he hoped to hide from the voice of Rafael Inez, the club’s manager. Reminders of how poorly he’d performed today were not going to help him. He’d been playing soccer in some capacity since he walked, since he had memories of anything. And today had been among his worst, ever.
From the streets of Nashville and the hills of East Tennessee, he’d been on teams, in clubs, trained by himself, trained by pros, the whole goddamned nine yards. He’d seen every sort of match condition, coaching, officiating misstep, and parental overreaction. He realized what it meant to suck serious ass—he’d done so today. And he understood why, too—hence the dark clouds draping his consciousness.
“Fucking… shit.” The team manager drew closer, his deep voice joined by another, as a sort of bonus, really. He leaned against the dark wood lining the walls in the over-the-top, fancy locker room.
Metin Sevim, the Turkish coach, once a Spanish league phenom, had had the world at his feet until a horrific tragedy struck, leaving him drunk and useless for years. Apparently recovered, he had a look on his face Brody Vaughn caught loud and clear—the “we lost and it is pretty much your fucking fault” glare that coaches the world over affected.
Exhausted in mind and spirit, sick of the chewing out before it even started, Brody gazed at both men. Rafe’s snapping eyes reflected the same expression as Metin’s. He opened his mouth first, but the Turk put a hand on his arm. The men regarded each other as the swirl of post-match activity came to a loud peak.
Players in various stages of undress wandered in and out of the main locker room, grabbing towels, pulling on the dress pants, shirts, and ties the club required of them when entering and leaving the facility. One thing Brody would say about the former-hot-headed, player-turned-failure-turned-
coach, Metin knew when not to talk. He tilted his head, still pinning Brody with something that faded from this is your fault to what the hell is wrong with you?
Then he sighed and, to Brody’s surprise, dropped onto the chair next to him, leaned forward, elbows on knees, and seemed to examine the expensive, rubberized floor. Brody hadn’t even made it to the shower yet. He felt so weighed down and lethargic, just lifting his arms to put his head in his hands took more energy than existed on the planet. He understood why, along with the fact that there wasn’t a thing to be done about it.
How would he even begin to describe his… issue? Heart pounding, legs aching, shoulder screaming where he’d landed on it, hard, then waved away the trainer at the sixty-fifth minute. By that time all of the players were pretty gassed from the late summer heat, but held on, toe-to-toe, with the Canadian national team in a friendly. The stupid, sneaky forward had seen him wincing, favoring his left shoulder, and drove the ball right in on his newly weakened side. It had been a simple fifty-fifty ball; face to face. He had blown it, him and his overpaid, lame ass, wobbly self.
Thanks to his one quick encounter with the front office legal woman, he’d been left in a quivering, useless, uncertain heap of need. Fuck that. He had to get a grip.
Amazon best-selling author, mom of three, Realtor, beer blogger, brewery marketing expert, and soccer fan, Liz Crowe is a Kentucky native and graduate of the University of Louisville currently living in Ann Arbor. She has decades of experience in sales and fund raising, plus an eight-year stint as a three-continent, ex-pat trailing spouse.
Her early forays into the publishing world led to a groundbreaking fiction hybrid, “Unconventional Romance. Worth the Risk,” which has gained thousands of fans and followers interested less in the “HEA” and more in the “WHA” (“What Happens After?”).
With stories set in the not-so-common worlds of breweries, on the soccer pitch, in successful real estate offices and at times in exotic locales like Istanbul, Turkey, her books are unique and told with a fresh voice. The Liz Crowe backlist has something for any reader seeking complex storylines with humor and complete casts of characters that will delight, frustrate and linger in the imagination long after the book is finished.
Don’t ever ask her for anything “like a Budweiser” or risk bodily injury.
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