A city and a sport with something to prove—Meet
the men who take that challenge.
The Black
Jack Gentlemen—Detroit’s expansion soccer team.
They play hard. And live harder.
The Black
Jack Gentlemen
The newest
series by Liz Crowe
Book 1: Man On (August 2013)
Book 2: Red Card (August 2013)
Book 3: Shut Out (September 2013)
And Coming Soon…
Book 4: Set Piece
Book 5: Hat Trick
Man On (Black Jack Gentlemen: Book One)
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.
Free will makes us human.
Official Excerpt-MAN
ON:
His
fingertips grazed a small card in his pocket making him wince at the memory of
his first encounter with the team psychologist. He’d set it up one morning
after booting Terry out the door, along with a couple of girls he’d convinced
to come by for some playtime. His head had been pounding, not so much from a
hangover but shame.
When
he had flipped through his expensive-looking orientation packet the words “team
psychologist” had leapt out at him as if connected to a hand that gripped him
by the short hairs. Not a new thing, all teams had one. But, sick of his
bizarre need for constant physical contact—for fucking, he’d corrected, tired
of even glossing over it in his own stupid head—he had been desperate for
someone to simply listen. So, he made the call. And in the meantime, had
enjoyed the workouts with the trainers, the few times he’d scrimmaged around
with some of the other players. They’d all been contracted but not obligated to
do anything for a month but “acclimate to their new surroundings.”
Part
of that acclimation came with the requisite social networking and attendance at
a some high visibility fundraisers—which is where Nicco had hooked up with
Terrance who’d been attending as personal assistant to some politician. He’d
also been encouraged to look around for a place to live with the assistance of
an eager young real estate agent, an adorable, sexy, woman whose name he had
forgotten within minutes of banging her brains out in an empty mini-mansion.
Par for his course, really. But behavior that made him angrier than ever.
His
first session with the psychologist, an earnest, nerdy-looking guy with square
glasses and a cleft chin, had been brutal. But Nicco had deflected, and to his
credit, the shrink had let him front, and show off like a dumb ass for a full
hour.
Then,
just as he was getting up to leave, convinced the whole thing had been a total
waste, the guy looked up at him, pinning him with eyes so sharp and clear they
made Nicco gasp in spite of himself. “Nicco,” he’d said. “When you’re ready to
face up to your addiction, I’m here to listen. I know you have a problem with
sex. You know you have a problem with sex. I’m glad you made this appointment.
Next time, let’s make it more useful, shall we? And for your information, I did
not support the concept of putting you out there as poster boy for gay rights
or gay athletes.”
The
man had removed his glasses, staring Nicco down as if he could see into his
very soul. “I am gay. I have been with the same partner, a man I love dearly
for six years. I understand, on a certain level, what you’re dealing with. So,”
he’d put the glasses back on and glanced down at his tablet computer. “When
will I see you next?”
Now,
Nicco pulled the card from his pocket and stared at the therapist’s name and
phone number. Then ripped it into small pieces as the rest of the new team
filed into the room. He noted two German players he’d had run-ins with in World
Cup play, a South African player who must have cost the casino owners a pretty
penny, at least three Brits, a Welsh guy or maybe Irish, and two South
Americans whose dark, intense good looks made him shiver with memory.
A
handful of fresh-faced young Americans interspersed in the group made him feel
old. And that pissed him off. What was Inez
thinking anyway? There were two per position in the room, two strong
players 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 before hand. 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.”
Nicco
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 brain that clamored for him to be nice, to take the kid’s hand. To smile
and act like an adult.
Instead,
he smirked, ignored him, 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, instructed them that they were obliged to “tweet” and
“post profile updates” on Facebook at least three times a day. All shit that
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.
He
shifted in his seat, trying to get control of himself, a bizarre combination of
anger and lust spinning around his brain. The room rose, and Nicco joined them
making their way out into the hallway.
A
gaggle of kids and parents awaited them, and the team spent about an hour
signing soccer balls, slips of paper, jerseys, getting photos for camera
phones. Nicco joined in to prove his ability to schmooze like a pro. At one
point he caught sight of his new young coach with his arm around a tall, attractive,
pregnant woman with coal black hair. Rafe caught his eye and beckoned him over.
“Nicolas
Garza, this is Maureen, my wife and her son, Adam.” A dark-skinned teenager
next to the stunning woman stuck out a hand. Nicco took it, noting the kid’s
own club kit and backpack. He took Maureen’s hand, kissed it, and eyeballed Rafe.
“Well
done, young Rafe. What a vision. How did a loser like yourself rate such
beauty?”
Maureen
frowned but her eyes sparkled. “Spare me, Nicco. I’ve heard all about you.”
“I
have no doubt of that lovely lady.” He gave a short bow. “But may I also say,
congratulations on the coming joy.”
She
smiled at him, and he mirrored her liking her already. He valued women who took
no shit from him. He winked at Rafe and made his way back into the teeming
throng after nodding at the woman’s son who didn’t look that much younger than
his mother’s new husband. But when he turned he immediately locked gazes with
the blond American usurper and his throat closed up. The man stared at him wide-eyed
and innocent, and Nicco had to grip the back of a chair to keep from saying
something utterly stupid.
He’d
wager his left nut that young Parker had never been with a man, but the sheer
sexual energy that poured off him was intoxicating. His fresh, clean good looks
spoke of a typical American, upper class upbringing, expensive soccer clubs and
college scholarships. Shit that Nicco usually despised and denigrated.
He
broke the eye contact and set his jaw. The kid had another think coming if he
honestly believed he’d be taking Nicolas Garza’s place on the team. Pure and
simple, no matter how fevered his sudden fantasy over popping the kid’s cherry.
He ran a hand down his face and swallowed hard. Things had certainly gotten
complicated and then some. But he knew that he had a focus now—keeping his
starting spot ahead of the delectable Parker.
Red Card (Black Jack Gentlemen: Book Two) 
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.
Official
Excerpt-RED CARD:
Metin
studied the attractive woman sitting across from him at the huge kitchen
island. Musing that she probably would just as soon pour him a lovely glass of
cyanide as sit and drink red wine with him, he smiled, trying not to overreact
to her unsubtle hostility.
“So,”
she said, sipping and staring at him. “How is Graciella?”
He
forced an ever-wider smile. “Fine, I am assuming. She is on a photo shoot in
Italy for a month. I haven’t talked to her in…a while.” He lifted the glass to
his lips, not breaking eye contact.
Melanie
Matthews Miller could be a model herself. Something he was sure she’d heard
plenty of times. Her dark brown hair was thick, curly, barely contained by a
headband. Dark eyes shone in her angular, handsome face. He noticed that her
hand shook when she put her glass on the granite surface. Unable to resist, he
reached for it. She yanked it back as if he’d touched a lit match to her flesh.
“Your mother must have been a stunning woman.” He said, softly, as if to a
cornered, frightened animal.
“Yeah.
She was,” Mel polished off her first glass. Metin poured her some more. “Spare
me the lecture. I’m not an alcoholic.”
He
looked up, shocked. “I wouldn’t think of calling you that.”
“Sure
you would. I see it in your eyes.”
“The
only thing in my eyes right now is terror.”
She
scoffed, left the newly refilled glass on the counter and propped her chin on
her hands. The defeated slump of her shoulders made the natural caretaker in
him want to soothe. But he knew better than to comfort her, at least at that
moment. He took another drink of his wine, and the silence took on a life of
its own. Clearing his throat, he put his glass down, deciding if anyone could
take him being straightforward, it was this woman.
“I
love your sister,” he said.
Mel
just stared at him, her face betraying nothing. “No you don’t. You’re just a
collector of women. And Alicia is something new and exotic to you. Get over
yourself.” Her hard voice fit her. It was as if she had sharp edges he would
wound himself on if he were not careful. Her face was nearly perfect—high
cheekbones, large expressive eyes. In a different situation, she would be his
type. “I won’t let you hurt her, soccer boy. We clear on that?”
He
nodded, believing silence was the better part of valor at the moment. “Tell me
about him,” he finally said, unable to stop himself. “This man. Your… husband.
Who hurt you and made you into this….”
“Bitch?”
Her laughter hurt his ears.
“No,
that is not what—”
“Yes,
it was. It’s okay. I’m getting use to it now. Scott was the guy who swept me
off my feet, knocked me up, installed me in a house while he went to work at
the bank. I caught him fucking his secretary one day, right in that very house,
when I was supposed to be volunteering at Zach’s school.” She gripped her glass,
gazing into the middle distance. “I left. Came home to my father’s house with
my son. Told him we were through. And started going out, to clubs, bars… you
name it. I was a total slut. As I’m sure you will confirm, being the
traditionalist that you are. Men can stick their dicks in however many women
they want and they are super studs. I go out a few nights, let a few strange men
do that to me, and I’m a whore.”
He
gulped, forcing away that very reaction, reminding himself that this woman’s
life was absolutely none of his business. She glared at him, holding the stem
of her wine glass in a death grip. “And then, bam, I was pregnant again. And Scott
said he’d take me back, wanted me back, needed me back. Blah blah. Whatever.”
“Oh,
um, Tanner is not…”
“No,
Metin. I don’t know who Tanner’s father is. How about that for your traditional
principals? Shocked enough by me yet?” Her eyes darkened.
He
sat up straighter his ire rising at her seeming need to prove how bad she was
for some reason. “I don’t shock that easily.”
“Sure
you do.” She got up to pace. Her wild, curly hair kept escaping from the
headband and haloed her flushed face. In an instant, he saw what appeal she did
hold, when she was not being so bitter.
He
glanced around. The giant house was freezing, empty, positively cavernous. He
couldn’t fathom it. His family was huge, loud, and annoying, but that was a
whole hell of a lot better than this empty, echoing space filled with nothing
but unhappy people.
“Mom!”
An older boy stomped into the kitchen from the laundry room, slamming the
garage door behind him. “I thought you were… oh, hello there.”
Metin
stood and held out his hand. “Hi. I’m….”
“I
know who you are. My mom and aunt have been doing nothing but argue about you
lately.”
“Oh,
well.” Metin ran a hand through his hair, watching the boy’s body language
around his mother. “Sorry, I guess.”
“Nah,
it’s cool. They don’t need much excuse to fight.” He dropped his soccer bag to
the floor of the kitchen. Metin fought his inner neat freak. His mother never
tolerated his soccer kit anywhere but out in their garage. And a cuff to the
head was all it took for him to remember it. He and his three brothers had all
played, which made for a pretty smelly garage.
“Mom,
where’s dinner.”
“Order
out,” she said, her voice low and distant.
“Whatever,
I’m going out anyway.”
Metin
stared as they did their non-communication dance for a few more minutes then
got up before the urge to smack the smartass kid upside the head got too
strong.
“Sorry,
Metin.” Mel’s voice was soft. “We’re hardly the exemplary family. I have no
business being mad at you for judging us.”
“I
am not judging…. Oh, thank god,” he said when Alicia strode in, her gorgeous
face dusted with makeup, amazing curves draped in a silky black dress. “You are
beautiful.”
“Thanks.”
She blushed, which he loved. “You guys getting along okay? Zach, are you being
your usual teenager jerkish self?”
“Sure
thing, Auntie.” The kid grabbed a few cookies from the jar and walked out
without another word to his own mother.
Metin
shook his head.
“Okay,
stud. Let’s go to dinner. Or whatever.” She shot a worried glance at her sister,
but the other woman kept her back to them. By the time Metin realized Melanie shoulders
shook from crying, Alicia was pulling him out of the room.
Shut Out (Black Jack Gentlemen: Book Three)
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.
Official Excerpt-SHUT OUT:
Sophie kept her chair turned from the office door, unwilling to
even acknowledge the next soccer player awaiting her wise words. Sweaty and
exhausted, she had a bitch of an afternoon low caffeine headache. And talking
these over-paid, over-sexed, full of themselves prima donnas through their
final contracts and benefits packages. However, as head of legal for the team
in its third year, she had a new crop of new players to orient—ten to be exact.
And had managed to do so for the last week.
But if one more of them waltzed in here reeking of sweat and
eyeballing her as if she were the last crumb on the cookie tray, their flirty
high beams blazing, as if she would ever be interested in any of their little
boy bullshit... so help her. For the thousandth time, she questioned her
sanity, taking on this utter crapshoot of a project.
Oh, right. She shut her eyes a moment,
closing off the memories. Shutting down her natural reaction to pore over them,
poke at them, rip off the scab that had more or less healed over them in an
attempt to start over.
"Hey," a deep, syrupy-sounding voice intoned, sending
a strange tremor straight down her spine. "Um, am I in the right
place?" It hit her ears as: “’m ah
in the raht playce?”
She swiveled around and shoved her glasses up her nose to get a
good look at the next one standing in her doorway. Her gaze slid from his
jet-black hair, along the strong lines of his stubbled jaw, across his t-shirt
clad shoulders. The Black Jack Gentlemen wore grey when they practiced, in
uniforms provided by a famous shoe company she didn’t recognize with a company logo
emblazoned across the back. And said shirt clung to his sculptured torso in a
way that really ought to be outlawed. All the while, Mr. Southern Accent stood
stock still, as if used to being so frankly appraised.
A drop of sweat formed at her temple. He cleared his throat so
she jerked her gaze back up to a set of the darkest eyes she had ever
encountered. He smiled—a sweet, lopsided thing that imprinted itself on her
retinas in a wholly annoying way. She tried not to swallow her own tongue.
"Hey… uh… I'm Brody. Brody Vaughn." He ran a hand
through his hair and she sensed his nervousness as if there were a neon sign
over his head. Adorable. Her radar pinged like mad. But she forced it to shut
the hell up. She had no business thinking about these…these kids in any way other than purely
professional.
So far they had all been the exact same breed of cocky asshole,
alternating eye-fucking her and extreme boredom in response to her monotonous
drone of legal-ese. Sexy Southern Accent—Brody,
she muttered under her breath—put his hand out, as if to shake hers. His face
reddened charmingly when she raised an eyebrow at his outstretched palm—the
same one he’d just dragged through his sweat soaked hair
She smiled, rising slowly to her feet, needing to be
at his eye level. His eyes widened as he dropped, as if boneless, into the
chair opposite hers without a word. Sophie took a long, calming breath, forcing
her brain to focus in ways she had learned, practiced, utilized for years in
her time as a professional Dominatrix—a woman who took money in exchange for
bringing pain and raw, rough sex to the men who requested her services.
As she shut
the door, keeping her back to the boy... to… Brody…
her pulse kept racing, and her heart continued its disconcerting rhythm, no
matter what tricks she employed—which pissed her off. And that finally, calmed her enough to face him.
“Hello Mr. Vaughn, I’m Sophie Harrison, legal counsel
for the Black Jack Gentlemen. I’ll be explaining the terms of the contract you
or your agent negotiated with our organization.” She kept talking, using words
she’d said a hundred times already. But her own voice echoed around in her
head. She purposely kept her eyes on the paper in front of her, glasses sliding
down her nose. Ignoring the raw, visceral reaction her finely tuned body and
brain were having to the man across from her—Brody, a twenty-five year old man,
she saw on his employee fact sheet.
No, he is a
boy, and you do not play with boys, not anymore.
She compressed her lips together, pretending to find a
non-existent problem with the stack of legal documents pertaining to his
agreement. To his credit, he stayed silent and very, very still, in a way that
intrigued her.
Finally, she met his eyes once more and blinked—then
frowned. “So, another goalkeeper?” she said, fully aware how it would needle
the average, ego-driven high-level athlete. A glimpse at his salary indicated
his golden child status. The keeper that the club had managed to sign, thanks
to the aggressive recruiting activity by their new assistant coach.
She tried out a casual smirk but discarded it. And
the way he just sat, glaring at her as if memorizing her, or hoping to
intimidate her brought a hot flush to her cheeks. God damn it. She straightened
her back, sucked in her gut and forced her thoughts to her next real workout—the
kind she preferred, that involved tight leather, her favorite bull whip, and a
willing submissive.
“You okay there… Miz Harrison?” His voice slithered
around in her brain, nestling in nice and low, gripping the base of her skull
in a way that made her want to jump up and run out of the room. Asshole. She glared at him.
“Of course. I’m fine.” She shoved her glasses back up
nose and slapped the contracts down in front of him, probably a little too
hard, but fuck it. She needed Mr. Brody Vaughn the hell out of her office. She
tried to keep her face neutral, not snarl or growl or snap the poor kid’s head
off.
He shifted in his seat, cleared his throat, and glanced
down at the papers she had pinned under her manicured hand. Which gave her a
well-needed rush of control over the situation. Her spine tingled in a familiar
way but she channeled it—the distinct, loose, fluid feeling of impending need
that she recognized.
“Now, let’s go through this…” She brought her focus
back to the contracts. His hand covered hers. Surprised, she flinched, and a
strange, embarrassing sound emerged from her throat.
“I think you need a drink of water. You seem a
little… done in,” he claimed, his deep drawl coating her brain like the
sweetest honey infused bourbon. She snatched her water bottle, gulped some, set
the thing down and took a breath. Within thirty minutes she had laid out the
terms of the contract, including his non-disclosure and good-behavior clauses,
the health insurance guarantees, all of it. He had asked few questions, his
voice soft, musical and soothing in a way that somehow had the opposite effect
on her nerves. She gritted her teeth against the urge to stand up, lock the
door and yank the kid’s sweaty clothes off.
Jesus, help me. Get him out of here.
He stood quickly, startling her. “Well, if that’s
it.” He leaned back, studying her.
She got to her feet, unwilling to let him stand above
her for some reason, and noted how his chocolate brown eyes darkened at the
sight of her facing him.
“Yes. That
will definitely be it.” She lifted her chin and willed her damn knees to stop
shaking. She would have little reason to ever see him again, unless he landed
in trouble and she had to handle a public relations problem on his behalf.
His physical presence, not that different than all
the others who’d paraded through here in the last few days, compelled her in
ways she refused to acknowledge. At nearly six foot eight, with broad
shoulders, a narrow waist, long, strong legs....he cleared his throats. She
blinked, and the traitorous flush crept up her neck to her face again. His
angular features at that moment were set, and bored, and slightly amused at her
obvious discomfort. She narrowed her eyes. Why hadn’t she noticed it before? Her
pulse fluttered as she put a hand to her throat.
As if reading her mind, Brody Vaughn lifted his chin
slightly, and she got a good long look at it—the inky black chain imprinted on
his neck. A dark circular pattern of interlocking, heavy loops encircled the
flesh at his throat. He smiled again, slow moving, like his drawl, and he
touched it, once, then turned, giving her a breath taking rear view that
included the sight of the chain continuing around the back of his neck. The man
wore a collar, a permanent one, inked right on his skin. But the vibes he threw
her proclaimed one thing loud and clear—the person who’d bestowed the collar no
longer had a say about him at all.
Her mind swooped, whirled, and doubled back on
itself, picturing him—Brody the man—at her knees, bound, and waiting her
command. She shivered and jumped when her assistant appeared at the door. He’d
left. Taking his mysterious aura of vulnerability and strength, and raw sexy
need, with him.
~Author Bio~
Microbrewery owner,
best-selling author, beer blogger and journalist, mom of three teenagers, and
soccer fan, Liz lives in the great Midwest, in a major college town. Years of
experience in sales and fund raising, plus an eight-year stint as an ex-pat trailing
spouse, plus making her way in a world of men (i.e. the beer industry), has
prepped her for life as a successful author.
When she isn’t sweating
inventory and sales figures for the brewery, she can be found writing, editing
or implementing promotions for her latest publications. Her groundbreaking literary fiction subgenre,
“reality fiction,” has gained thousands of fans and followers who are
interested less in the “HEA” and more in the “WHA” (“What Happens After?”)
Her beer blog a2beerwench.com is nationally recognized for its insider yet outsider
views on the craft beer industry. Her books are set in the not-so-common worlds
of breweries, on the soccer pitch and in high-powered real estate offices.
Don’t ask her for anything “like” a Budweiser or risk painful injury.
For more information on Liz
Crowe, please visit her website www.lizcrowe.com or www.brewingpassion.com (her author
blog). She enjoys interacting with her fans on her Facebook author page www.facebook.com/lizcroweauthor. Information for all of her books, including eBook
and print formats (where available), can be found on her Amazon author page.
thanks for hosting me today!
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DeleteLove the covers and the blurbs! Can't wait to read them! I see you have three more winners here!
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