Necessary Roughness Read online

  Necessary Roughness

  Curves For the Boys Series

  Jenna Rose

  Copyright © 2019 by Jenna Rose

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  About the book

  She’s out for the story, but she’s gonna get the whole scoop.

  I know my reputation: cocky, playboy, Adonis…NHL superstar.

  I know that’s why she doesn’t like me.

  I know that’s why she wants to hurry up and get the story; get in and get out.

  …well, at least we’re on the same page with that…

  But I have no intention of letting Natalie go.

  If she wants the scoop on me, she’s going to have to play the game – my game.

  Now all I have to do is prove to her I’m more than just my reputation.

  Now I have to win the most important game of my life – the game to win her heart.

  And this might call for some necessary roughness.

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  Contents

  1. Natalie

  2. Bobby

  3. Natalie

  4. Natalie

  5. Bobby

  6. Bobby

  7. Natalie

  8. Bobby

  9. Bobby

  Epilogue

  Going Deep Sample

  Foreword

  1. Red

  2. Red

  1

  Natalie

  “Great stuff, Hitchens, great stuff. Now we can guarantee the full blown depression of half the student body.”

  My editor, Charles, holds up his iPad with my latest piece on it: an article on the plight of Somalian refugees living in New England.

  “There’s some good reporting in there, Charles,” I reply, crossing my arms as I stand in his office. It’s late. I should be out at a party or with my boyfriend, but I’m here working my butt off as an underappreciated writer for the Daily Press, Boston University’s on-campus paper.

  “Sure is.” Charles nods, setting his tablet aside. “And if I wanted to enter your name for a Pulitzer, I’d tell you to keep writing just like this. But I don’t, Nat. I want readers.”

  “So what do you want?” I ask him. “Stories on the best beer to drink at parties? Or maybe what the best porn sites are? Or how to get your girlfriend to have a threesome without being creepy?”

  “No to the first,” he replies. “Yes to the second and definitely yes to the third. Guys would love to hear that from a girl’s perspective.”

  “I’m not going to pander, Charles. They deserve real news.”

  “I’m glad you see it that way.” Charles smiles. “Because I’ve got an assignment for you.”

  Here it comes. After his last one, where he asked me to cover a female alumnus who was making six figures on Onlyfans, I can’t even imagine what this will be. He turns his monitor and I see a picture of a big, dumb, hockey jock drinking some kind of alcohol out of a Stanley Cup replica. He’s shirtless, with two fake-boobed blondes on each arm. I know exactly who it is.

  “Bobby Brodeur.” Charles smiles.

  “I know him. So what? He doesn’t do interviews.”

  “Exactly!” Charles replies. “If there’s anyone who can get him to, it’s you.”

  “Give it to Marshall. He’s into sports.”

  “I’m giving it to you,” Charles says. He’s almost forty, but still has boyish good lucks that help him get away with being so brash. “And you’re going to get it. You know why?”

  “Why?” I ask, not really wanting to hear the answer.

  “Because Natalie Hitchens gets her story.” He smirks. “He’s got a game tonight and I want you there. Oh, and because he’s an alumnus of this college, and if you play your cards right, will open right up to you.”

  I frown. “Are you asking me to…flirt with this Charles?”

  “I’m telling you to do whatever you can to get this story,” Charles says as he stands and grabs his bag. He turns off his desk lamp and walks past me. “And I know you will, because you are a great reporter.”

  “Charles—”

  “See you on Monday, Hitchens!” he says as he walks backwards out the door, flashing me double finger-guns as he does. “Oh, and try to have some fun this weekend, will you? You’re young. Don’t waste it!”

  My shoulders slump forward and I groan as he leaves me standing in the dark office all by myself. Everyone else has gone home for the evening, and I’m here arguing with my editor over covering a story most girls would kill for.

  Bobby Brodeur is a BU alumnus, NHL star for the Boston Bruins, ladies’ man and legendary big man on campus. People still talk about the parties he threw, the girls he slept with, the goals he scored and the games he saved. He brought BU two championships and the Bruins one his first year. Oh, and did I mention he also looks like a male model?

  But that doesn’t matter to me. Jocks are jerks and Bobby is a big one. The things I’ve heard about him make my skin crawl. I guess if I was a sorority girl or someone who liked to party and drink, I might feel differently. But I’m not. I’m a hard worker, a focused woman, a career woman. I don’t have time for guys who think life’s a game simply because God granted them with the gift of athleticism and Herculean genetics.

  Besides, I have my own boyfriend. His name is Rick, he’s a senior and he’s going to be a lawyer. He comes from a great family in Connecticut, and most importantly, doesn’t pressure me to have sex with him. Yes, that’s right: I’m still a virgin. Twenty-two years old and still haven’t given it up. It’s no secret that BU is a party school, and I like to keep my sexual status on the down-low to avoid being looked at like a lunatic.

  I’m on my way to Rick’s dorm when I realize something: he has a formal tonight that I’m supposed to be at.

  “Oh, no,” I groan as I slide through the propped door and make my way to his suite. It looks like the boys have already started pre-gaming. Wayne and Tim are lounging in suits and ties on the couch while sipping Pabsts. I give them a curt wave and go find Rick, who’s getting ready in his bedroom.

  “Baby!” he says with a smile. “You made it. What do you think? Purple or pink tie?”

  He holds one up and then the other. Honestly, I don’t like either. But I don’t want to get into it.

  “Purple,” I tell him.

  “Really?” he asks, eyeing me strangely. “I think I like the pink.”

  Of course he does.

  “Hey, listen,” I tell him. “I can’t make it tonight. Charles gave me a story.”

  “Nat! It’s the big formal tonight! I told you weeks ago!”

  He did, and I’ve been dreading it ever since. As a girl with “a few extra pounds,” the last thing I want to do is squeeze into a dress and parade around with all the other girlfriends who look like they belong on a runway.

  “There’s nothing I can do, babe,” I tell him, giving him a quick kiss on the cheek. “I’m sorry!”

  “Nat!” Rick calls after me, but I’m already out the door and back outside. I have a job to do tonight, and the last thing I need right now is an argument. I need to be focused if I’m going to survive doing a story on Bobby Brodeur.

  As I get into my car, I realize that for the first time in a long time while getting ready for an assignment, my heart is racing. I’m nervous
…

  I was nervous for my first few assignments, but I got over it quickly. To use a sports analogy, I just dove right in headfirst, deciding it was the best way to learn how to swim. But for some reason, as I pull out of the parking lot and head for the arena, I’m nervous. I’m actually nervous, and I know what the reason is.

  Bobby Brodeur.

  2

  Bobby

  “Bobby-motherfucking-Brodeur! How many goals you gonna score this season?”

  I glance up at Ray as I pull off my helmet. He’s grinning like a skull as he gives me a fist-bump and takes a seat beside me. I had a hat trick tonight—that’s three goals for those not in the know—and two of them came from assists from Ray.

  “Let’s say….three times more than you?” I suggest. Ray was the biggest scorer on the Bruins until I showed up; now he has to play backseat to me, but together we’re an unstoppable duo. Out on the ice, when we’re in sync, nothing can stop us.

  “Yeah, well, I get three times as many girls,” he scoffs, smacking me on the shoulder as he pulls off his glove. I grin and knock the helmet off his head.

  “Problem is they all look like my grandma!”

  The rest of the boys roar with laughter. Spirits are high; we just stomped the Flyers 4-0. We’re undefeated this season, and if I keep playing like I have been, I’ll be leading the boys to another Stanley Cup this year.

  It’s safe to say that hockey is my thing. I may not have been the best student; I may not be able to paint you a picture or play the piano, but if you get me on the ice, I’ll give you a show you’ll never forget.

  I’ve been in skates since just around when I learned to walk. Pops got me started early. He played himself but blew a knee right out of college. He managed to play a couple more years, but he was never the same. Every time I go out there, I’m thinking of him. He passed away the summer after I graduated from college—never even got to see me play in the NHL.

  “Still on for the bubble bath tonight?” Lance asks, standing completely naked in front of me. I glance at him and shake my head.

  “You really did it, you madman.”

  “Damn right I did!” Lance laughs. “I’m as smooooooth as a butterfly.”

  “Butterflies aren’t smooth, dipshit,” Jordan says, shouldering him out of the way. But Lance doesn’t care; he told us two days ago that he was going to wax his whole body to bring out the definition in his muscles, but none of us thought he’d actually go through with it.

  “You look like a canned ham,” I tell him as I get to my feet and head for the showers.

  The bubble bath he’s referring to tonight is one of my famous parties we’re having on the rooftop of the Revere. It started my senior year at BU; you get a whole bunch of bubbles, a bunch of half-dressed chicks, some music and some booze, and party until the sun comes up.

  Come on. Can you blame me? I’m having the time of my life. Why would I want to get tied down to some girl who only wants to be my girlfriend so she can live the easy life? Maybe one day down the road I’ll meet a girl who really grabs my heart, but I’ve been taking a pretty generous sample size survey of the female population of the US, and so far it doesn’t seem likely that that’s ever going to happen.

  I scrub the sweat off my body, hit the water, grab my towel, and head back into the locker room to grab my stuff. Lance is chatting with some press that have clustered around the door; he’s a sucker for that kind of stuff. I personally like to keep my distance. I fucking hate reporters with their leading questions and prying bullshit. Let them think and write what they want; they’re going to anyway. But when I see who Lance is talking to, something comes over me that I haven’t felt in a long time: jealousy.

  The reporter he’s grinning at is an absolute goddess with curves that have my jaw hanging open. She shouldn’t be writing for a magazine; she should be in one. Any men’s magazine would kill to have that body in between their pages. Her thick, brunette hair hangs down her shoulders, framing her plump breasts that she’s hiding behind a professional black shirt. I instantly wonder what she’s wearing underneath, and my cock swells at the idea of sliding inside her and making her moan my name.

  She’s obviously dressed to be taken seriously, but she’s also wearing a pair of black fuck-me pumps and a matching black skirt that pull my eyes to her baby-making hips. Supple. Fertile. Breeding material. She’s all that and more, and as I drag my eyes up her body, I feel like I’ve just taken the hardest hit of my life.

  But there’s something on her face that has me even more intrigued; it’s like she doesn’t want to be here, and the way she’s flicking her eyes past Lance—who is clearly working game on her—makes me think she really wants to be talking to me. And really, who am I to deny a reporter an interview, right?

  I get right up, let my towel fall to the floor, and stride right over to her. Lance is giving her some anecdote about when he was first picking up hockey as a kid, and I shoulder him out of the way, wanting to get him as far away from this goddess as possible. Shit, I think. Up close she’s even sexier.

  I’m feeling slack-jawed, but it’s her eyes that go wide when she sees that I’m wearing nothing more than my birthday suit.

  “Oh! Um…hi!” she stammers with a voice that sounds like honey. “Bobby! I—I was wondering if I could do an interview with you.”

  “I don’t do interviews.” I smile as she does her best to keep her eyes above the waist. I’m half-hard already, despite the crowd of people around me. Thankfully, there are no other reporters behind her. She must have snuck in somehow. I like her already.

  “Yes, I hear that, but—”

  “I’ll do dinner though,” I smirk. She’s blushing. Nothing like she would be with my tongue against her clit.

  “Mr. Brodeur—” she starts to say. I cut her off.

  “Bobby. Call me Bobby. Or Champ if you’d like.”

  I’m throwing her off, but she’s doing a good job keeping it together.

  “I was just wondering if—”

  “You look young,” I tell her, eyeing her up and down. Her shirt is doing its best to hide her rack, but failing miserably. “You don’t work for ESPN. Barstool?”

  “Boston University,” she says proudly. Ah, now I get it.

  “My alma mater.” I nod. “They sent you over here to butter me up and get the scoop, huh?”

  “We’d just love to get an interview with such a successful alumnus.”

  I lean in and take a breath. Christ, she smells good. “And I’d like to get those clothes off you,” I tell her.

  I expected her to break, or at least show some sign of embarrassment, but she just nods slowly with pursed lips.

  “Well, unlike you, Mr. Brodeur, I don’t take my clothes off for just anybody.”

  She turns to go, but before I even know what I’m doing, I have my hand around her wrist and I’m pulling her back to me.

  “No? Who then?” I ask her. “Your boyfriend?”

  “Who says I have a boyfriend?” she asks.

  “Sexy girl like you,” I reply with a smile. “How couldn’t you?”

  She seems to accept about two percent of my compliment but maintains her composure.

  “Yes, I do have a boyfriend,” she replies.

  “What’s he do? Does he spoil you? Treat you right?”

  “That’s none of your business.”

  “Maybe not.” I shrug. “But if you want to know my business, you’re going to need to open up a bit.”

  She shakes her head. “Not gonna happen. Sorry, Mr. Brodeur, but I can see where this is going. I’ll be leaving now.”

  “Tell you what,” I say, holding her wrist tight. “Come to the rooftop of the Revere tonight and I’ll give you the whole scoop.”

  She glares at me suspiciously. I just flash her my million-dollar grin and keep my eyes on hers. I’m hot between the legs. No girl has had this kind of effect on me since I first started hitting puberty. And I don’t even know her name yet.

  “
I think I have all I need,” she replies. She tries to pull away from me, but I don’t let her. I can’t. I don’t ever want her out of my presence.

  “What’s your name?” I ask her.

  She shrugs.

  “Don’t worry about it. We won’t be seeing each other again.”

  She kicks me hard in the shin with her heel, causing me to drop her wrist, and quickly runs out of the room.

  Damn, I think as I rub my skin. Yeah. That’s the one for me.

  3

  Natalie

  “I knew it,” I grumble as I slam the car door shut and twist the key. “Arrogant prick!”

  My tires squeal as I slam on the gas, and an old lady just about jumps out of her skin as I peel out of the parking garage and into the Boston streets. I’ve had interviews that didn’t go so well, but that was by far the worst experience I’ve ever had as a reporter.

  I mean, who does he think he is coming over to me completely naked?! Sure, he’s got a great body—there’s no denying that—but talk about all the inappropriate things to do! I guess it’s worked for him in the past though; he just sidles up to some wide-eyed fan of his, shows her the goods, and the next thing she knows, she’s riding his rocket all the way to the moon.

  Fumbling with my phone, I scroll quickly to Charles’ number, but as I go to press it, it slides out of my hands (I realize I’m sweating) and falls into my lap. Grumbling, I reach between my legs and grab it, and realize something else—something worse: I’m also wet.