Necessary Roughness Read online

  “Natalie, what the fuck!?”

  I turn my head to see a tall, red-faced dickhead in a lime-green polo shirt striding toward us. My mind instantly puts the pieces together—Natalie upset after we had sex, her leaving and not wanting to tell me why; this is her boyfriend.

  “Rick, what are you doing!?” she blurts out. Yup. Boyfriend all right. I let go of her; it feels like I’ve just been stabbed in the chest with a fucking dagger. I should have seen this coming. I don’t know why I didn’t. Maybe it’s because I thought that there was no way a college girl who was a virgin could have a boyfriend. Or maybe I just didn’t want to even entertain the possibility.

  “Who the fuck is this guy—” Rick stops when he recognizes me, then glares at Natalie. “Bobby-fucking-Brodeur? Your assignment? You’re fucking your assignment? Wow, so professional, Nat.”

  “I’m gonna go,” I say. I’m not the kind of guy who backs away from a fight, but I’m not about to fight over a liar and a cheater.

  “No, wait, Bobby!”

  “Yeah, get the fuck out of here, man!” Rick-the-Dick calls after me. If this was back in my college days, I’d break his nose for talking like that.

  “I’m out of here,” I say over my shoulder.

  “Wait, Bobby! We’re not together!” she shouts, but I’m not buying it. This girl’s shady; she wouldn’t tell me why she was upset and now she’s telling me the guy she cheated on isn’t even her boyfriend? Yeah, fuck this. I can’t believe I got suckered like that.

  Natalie keeps shouting at me as I walk away. I glance back once and see Rick standing in front of her trying to talk to her. I feel a flare of anger at him for getting that close to her, and part of me wants to go back and knock him on his ass, but I’m not putting in anymore effort for her. In fact, I’m not putting in any effort again.

  I’m a fucking NHL star. Girls all over the world want to fuck me. Guys all over the world want to be me. Why would I throw that away for monogamy that’s only gonna end up in some girl cheating on me? No, fuck that. I’m just gonna do me.

  Bobby

  One week later…

  “So, are we on for tonight? Or are you gonna stand me up again?”

  I look up from my phone at Emily, the Victoria’s Secret model who slid into my DMs on Monday. I told her we’d get together on Wednesday, but when it came down to actually getting in the car to go meet her, I couldn’t do it. Despite my best attempts to get Natalie out of my head, I haven’t been able to. But tonight I’m gonna fix all that. Like ripping off a Band-Aid, I’m gonna go balls deep in this girl and forget about the biggest mistake of my life.

  “We’re on,” I tell her. Her face lights up; she’s about 6 feet tall and stick thin. She kills it in the magazines and on the runway, but her curves are nothing compared to Natalie’s. Maybe that’s why I chose her; to get as far away from Natalie as I can.

  “Good.” She smiles.

  “But why don’t we skip going downtown?” I suggest. “Just come back to my place. I’ve got a whole bar setup.”

  “Your place?” she asks suggestively. “You hockey boys do move fast.”

  “What do you know about hockey boys?” I ask.

  “Don’t worry, stud,” she giggles. “You’ll be my first.”

  Emily leans in and gives me a kiss on the cheek. I can feel her lipstick stick to my skin. She glances over her shoulder as she walks away, strutting her stuff like she’s on the runway in Milan. As I get in the car and head home, I realize that I’m actually nervous about tonight. It seems insane; I’ve gone through this routine a thousand times. What the hell is my problem?

  I head home and go up to the apartment to get things ready. I still have a couple of hours before Emily shows up, so I hit the couch and turn on Netflix. As I’m scrolling around for something to watch, my phone dings; it’s a text from Wayne.

  Dude, have you read the article?

  I’m about to text, “What article?” when I realize what he’s talking about.

  No. Link? I respond.

  Two seconds later, Wayne texts me a link to Natalie’s article in the BU Daily Press. I’m not even sure I want to click on it. I wasn’t even sure she was going to write it and tried to forget about the whole thing. But I guess she went through with it.

  “This is gonna be rough,” I say out loud as I click the link. I’m shocked when I see the title.

  Bobby Brodeur—World’s biggest playboy? Or misunderstood sweetheart?

  I’m sure you all know Bobby Brodeur. You’ve seen him dancing on the ice, scoring goals for the Boston Bruins, or maybe you know him from college where he was the big man on campus throwing parties that have gone down in campus legend.

  Or maybe you’ve just heard of him and are proud to be from the same school as a world class athlete? Or maybe, like many people including myself, you got the wrong impression from the start.

  Bobby Brodeur is a jock—no question about it. He’s a ladies’ man, a romancer, a guy that most guys would kill to be. When my editor gave me this assignment—to get an interview with a man who never gives interviews—I didn’t want to do it. In fact, I was adamant. But Charles is a tough boss, and he wasn’t letting me off the hook.

  I tried to interview him after his 4-0 victory against the Flyers (Bobby having scored three of those points himself), but he wasn’t having it. He said he’d talk to me, but only on one condition; I had to go to the Revere for one of his parties.

  No way, I thought! This good-looking hockey stud just wants to seduce me! That’s what I was thinking. We’ve all seen reports online and in the news of Bobby’s conquests, and I was sure he just wanted me to be another one. I won’t even go into what happened that night, but let’s just say that my opinion of Bobby Brodeur was changed forever.

  As a journalist, it’s my job to remain professional and objective. But I let my own feelings get in the way of the real story. I never got my interview with Bobby. I let my editor down and I failed in my assignment. But at the same time, I think I learned something about the Bruins star that most people don’t know: Bobby Brodeur has a heart. A big one.

  And, Bobby, if you are reading this—I’m sorry. I’m sorry for the way I conducted myself, I’m sorry for what happened and I hope that you will forgive me.

  -Natalie Hitchens

  I hurl my phone across the room. It hits the wall and I hear the screen shatter. Outbursts like this never happen to me. I’m a controlled guy; I handle my emotions well. But when it comes to Natalie, everything is different.

  “Fuck…” I growl under my breath as I think back to when I walked away from her on campus. Has this whole thing been a huge misunderstanding? How would that be possible though? I saw her fucking boyfriend right there. Why would he walk over to her and lie like that? Just to piss me off.

  No. I don’t buy it.

  But then why would she write an article like this? Just to try and convince me that she did nothing wrong? Is she really just a fame-seeking gold-digger and using her article to get back on my good side?

  I want to believe that, because it would make things so much easier, but deep down, I’m not sure that I do. I still want Natalie. I know that. I don’t know if I should, but I’m not Spock; I can’t just turn off my emotions. I don’t know what the fuck to do at this point. For the first time in my life, I don’t know where the goal is. I don’t know what to do. Maybe it’s better to just do nothing and forget the whole thing—pretend like it never happened.

  Epilogue

  Natalie

  One year later…

  Yeah, I’m dead.

  At least that’s how I feel as I hold Rob in my arms while he breastfeeds, staring at my laptop screen, waiting for a call from my editor to come in. It’s a video call, but he’s the only one who’s going to have his webcam on.

  I’m exhausted. I haven’t fully slept in three days; this latest article on the health care crisis among the Boston working class has been eating up all my spare time, and Rob has been keeping me
super busy. He hasn’t been feeling too well lately and has been very hungry. He’s an absolute blessing, don’t get me wrong, but Momma needs her rest. I’m just praying this call goes quickly so I can try and put him down and catch a nap before dinner.

  My laptop beeps and I answer.

  “Ted?”

  “Hey, Natalie. Oh, your video’s off,” he replies. He’s sitting at his desk with his ugly yellow shirt on and staring at his computer like an old man should, not an editor who uses it daily.

  “I’ve got my hands full with Rob,” I reply.

  “Oh, I see. Well, I’ll try to make this quick. I loved the piece. I have a few notes that I included in an e-mail I’m sending to you now, but I’d love to punch up the story about the woman who lost her clothing shop. Do you have any more with her?”

  “I don’t,” I reply, realizing my workload just went up. “But I can get it.”

  “Can you? Because I think the article would be much stronger with it.”

  “Sure, Ted,” I say, hiding the fatigue in my voice. “I’ll get on it.”

  “Great! I’ll let you go,” he says with a smile. “Say hi to the little guy for me!”

  “I will,” I say. I smile, even though he can’t see me, and end the call. Then, under my breath, I curse. “Fuck…”

  “Hey, what kind of language is that to use around your baby boy?”

  I turn and see the door swing open and my beautiful husband walk into the house. I don’t think I’ve ever been happier to see him—but then again, that’s always how I feel when he comes home.

  He walks right up to me, kisses his son on the head, then kisses me on the lips.

  “How’s my baby boy?” he asks.

  “Hungry!” I reply. “Hopefully sleepy soon.”

  “I sure hope so.” He grins. “Because I’m anything but.”

  He reaches around and runs his fingers up my thigh, causing a shiver to run through my body. Smiling, I slap his hand away.

  “Not while I’m holding him!”

  “Of course not,” he chuckles. “Go put him to bed and we can have some time together.”

  I should get started on my article—start making calls and seeing about a follow-up interview, but there will be time for that later. Right now, Mommy and Daddy need some alone time.

  As we both put Rob down in his crib, I have a brief moment where I can’t believe what’s happening. We are together. My article was a Hail Mary, but it worked. The next day, Bobby showed up at my dorm. I explained everything, about how Rick and I were broken up at the time but I still felt bad for immediately having sex with him, and he understood completely. He asked me to be his girlfriend (something he assured me he never does) and of course I said yes. The next month I found out I was pregnant and he proposed.

  Rob was born healthy and strong like his dad. The whole team came to the hospital to celebrate. Wayne bought us a crib with skates all over it, and he has so many hockey toys that it will be a miracle if he ends up wanting to do anything else with his life. I graduated BU and got a job at the Boston Herald. I worked basically until I went into labor, and only took a few weeks off. It’s actually not too difficult to type with a baby on your breast. Oh, and Bobby made good on his promise to his team; he carried them to another championship. He brought home the Stanley Cup.

  “You’re so sexy, you know that?” Bobby asks me as I close the door to the nursery behind us.

  “Stop,” I protest. “I look like shit. My hair’s a mess, I don’t have any makeup on—”

  “I know,” he smiles. “And I love it.”

  “You love it that I look like a mess?”

  “I love that even when you think you’re a mess,” he whispers, leaning in, “you are nothing but perfection.”

  I gasp as he runs his hand up my leg and slides his fingers down the front of my shorts. He knows just what I like, and I start to tremble as he gently teases my clit with a skilled finger.

  I reach out and grab his bulge, which is already thick and hard beneath his sweats. I take a deep breath and bask in his scent; he hasn’t showered since practice, which I told him never to do. I love the way he smells after a good workout.

  “You are a sweet-talker.” I smile as he kisses me all over.

  “It’s easy to be one with a wife like you,” he replies. God, I love this man.

  His cock is thick and warm beneath my fingers as I reach into his pants. He grabs the hem and tugs them down, and I take his hand and start to lead him to the bedroom, but he stops me.

  “Bobby—”

  “No,” he growls. “Here.”

  He grabs my left leg and lifts. I may be a little bigger than most girls, but I’m super flexible, and he pushes my leg all the way up over my head so I’m basically doing a standing split. Then, he pulls the fabric of my shorts aside and slides his cock inside me.

  “Oh, wow,” I groan. The angle is a new one, and he’s hitting places I never even knew I had. Grinning, he leans in and presses me hard against the wall as he starts to fuck me. His lips are magic against mine, and as my climax races toward me, I can’t believe how lucky I am. Who would have thought that an impossible assignment would have led to this? Who would have thought I would end up as Mrs. Bobby Brodeur?

  The End

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  Going Deep Sample

  Foreword

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  1

  Red

  “I don’t want to be a virgin anymore, Fran! I feel like it’s all just this huge build up and like this black cloud hanging over my head. I just want to do it—boom—and get it over with so I’m not so nervous, ya know?”

  My roommate Fran looks back at me with raised eyebrows and a look of skepticism like I just told her I learned how to fly and am planning a trip to the moon.

  “Um, no,” she says simply.

  We’re sitting in a corner booth at The Pub, the dive bar just off campus, sipping some kind of terrible craft beer Fran wanted to get. We may be freshman, but Fran’s brother got us both fake IDs last week so we could get in.

  “Your first time should be special, Red,” she says, sounding like my mom. For a brief second, I resent her T-shirt, patterned with musical notes. But then I take a breath and tell myself to cool down. “It should be with someone you really like.”

  “But I don’t really like anybody,” I remind her. “All the art guys are wimps, the science guys are more into watching porn on their computers that they built, and the jocks…well…”

  “Yeah, the jocks…” she muses, taking another sip of her beer. Fran and I may not always get along, but when it comes to the meatheads on campus, we definitely see eye to eye.

  Fran’s a music major and I’m a weirdo art major. A lot of people think those are easy majors, but they just don’t have a clue. I spend more time in the art building than I do in my own dorm room, and Fran’s fingers are about to fall off from all the time she spends practicing violin at the music building. As such, neither of us are high up on any guys’ lists.

  “I mean—they have nice bodies,” I say. “But most of them have the personality of a ten-year-old paintbrush.”

  “What, you don’t like the I-am-the-king-of-everything attitude?” Fran laughs. “The every-girl-wants-my-dick face that they make when they walk into a room?”

  “Oh, I love it!” I say sarcastically, glancing around the bar as a group of them walks in. I point discretely to the one in front, who for some stupid reason, is wearing a pair of green sunglasses despite the room being dimly lit.

  “Look at him. for example,” I say. “He’s making a very subtle fashion statement with those glasses, which of course makes my ovaries swell for him, and that cut-off T-shirt has my baby-making
instincts on overdrive. If I could only get his dick in me!”

  Fran giggles and points to the one behind him, one of those jock guys who’s decided to see if he can grow his hair longer than most girls, and tosses his head like Fabio as he cracks a joke to his buddy.

  “And him? He knows girls will want to just sit behind him and braid his hair before he fucks them,” she explains with a smile. “I’m barely able to contain myself right now! Maybe I can use his hair to repair the bow on my violin!”

  I stifle a laugh and cover my face as the two of them look over in our direction.

  “Oh, don’t look!” Fran whispers. “They might come talk to you!”

  “Eeek!”

  “But then again, maybe you want that?” she asks. “Since you’re in such a hurry to lose that V-card of yours.”

  “And you’re not?” I ask. “Come on, Fran, I’ve seen the sheets moving at night at least a few times.”

  Fran pretends to gasp, then shakes her head. “Like I said, I want to wait for someone I really like. I’m not a slut-skank like you.”

  I gasp back, obviously so offended. “Slut-skank, bitch? You better watch it!”

  And then I hear it—a booming, loud, bass-filled male voice behind me, accompanied by the strong scent of…man.

  “Who’s a slut-skank and how do I get her number?” the voice asks. I turn around, expecting to find another sunglass-wearing-meathead or a grinning chad with a fireman’s outfit on, but instead, I find myself staring directly into a pair of sparkling blue eyes that just happened to be attached to the most gorgeous man I’ve ever seen.