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Kate Willoughby

USA Today Bestselling Author

  • USA Today Bestselling Author

06.08.2014 Chicago Blackhawks, Excerpts, Hockey, Hockey Book, On The Surface

Life Imitates Art, Part 2

I recently posted how real life events mirrored what I wrote in my first hockey romance, On the Surface. A Chicago Blackhawk got sick of the crap a fan was giving him in the penalty box, so he squirted some water at him. In my book, Tim was a Blackhawk who got angry at a heckler and threw a water bottle at him. Isn’t it weird? I wrote that scene over a year ago and here, it happens in real life.

I decided to share the scene with those who haven’t bought or read the book yet. This is from Chapter 2.

Tim shouldn’t have been surprised when no one recognized him during breakfast at the hotel restaurant. Hockey wasn’t venerated on the West Coast as much as it was in the east and in Canada, and San Diego loved their Padres and Chargers. He didn’t mind. It was actually a refreshing change. In Chicago, the Blackhawks were like royalty. It was rare that Tim went out in public without being recognized. He’d never really minded that much, but he had to admit it was nice to be able to finish a meal in a restaurant without being asked for an autograph.
After tipping generously, he left the Marriott and grabbed a taxi. The seats were torn and taped, and despite the little air freshener that hung from the rearview mirror, it had that distinctive taxi smell—musty leather, stale food, spilled coffee, cheap cologne and a side of body odor.
“Where to?” the cabby said, turning on the meter. Tim noted the name on the ID card, Umberto Garcia.
“The Cadillac dealership off 163. Here’s the address.” Tim handed him a MapQuest printout. Their destination was about half an hour away. Today he was getting himself a fully loaded Escalade SUV.
Garcia studied the printout. “No problem.” The cabby pulled out into traffic. “Late night last night?” the cabby asked.
Catching a glimpse of himself in the rearview mirror, Tim winced. His eyes were redder than the glass of V-8 he’d downed earlier. He’d had so much on his mind, sleep had eluded him until the early morning hours. He had so much to prove and not nearly as much confidence as he would have liked. Usually the extreme physicality of his job wore him out, but training camp didn’t start for two months. The workout on the stationary bike yesterday hadn’t been nearly hard enough to knock him out at bedtime. He also had a personal appearance today, his first as a Barracuda, and he was nervous. And angry that he was nervous. What mattered was how well he played hockey, not how many fans wanted to meet him.
“No. I just didn’t sleep well,” Tim answered.The cabby accelerated as they got onto the freeway. “I thought the Marriott had good beds.”
“It’s not the bed. I just have a lot on my plate.”
“Don’t we all. Me, I got a thirteen-year-old daughter who thinks she’s seventeen. Looks like it too, when she puts on makeup.”
Tim nodded. “Makes you want to go buy a shotgun, huh?”
“You got that right.” Garcia met his eye in the rearview mirror. “What’s your biggest problem, man?”
Tim chuckled. “Where do I start?” He propped an ankle on his knee. “I got…transferred here from Chicago. So I’m one of the new guys on the block.”
“But there’s more than one new guy.”
“Yes. A good buddy of mine came here too, actually.”
“So that doesn’t sound like that big of a problemo. Next?”
“Management took a chance on me and are expecting a lot.”
“Can you do what they’re expecting?”
Tim shrugged. “I’m not as young as I used to be.” Garcia’s eyes flicked to the mirror. “What are you? Thirty? Jesus. Cut yourself a break.”
“Thirty-three. But in my line of work, thirty is practically over the hill.”
As they passed by Balboa Park and the San Diego Zoo, Garcia asked the forty thousand dollar question. “What’s your line of work?”
“I play hockey.”
Garcia twisted his head to glance back. “No shit! Pro hockey, of course. That explains the Barracuda hat.”
“Are you a fan?”
“Sorry. No. Baseball’s my game.”
Figured.
“Yeah.” Tim touched the brim of his cap. “I’m a Barracuda.”
Garcia chuckled as he tapped the steering wheel with his thumb. “No shit. You’re a pro. So when you said transferred, you really meant traded.”
“Yes.”
“What’s your name, man? People sometimes ask what famous people I’ve driven and I’d like to add your name to the list.”
“Tim Hollander. I play right wing. I’m a forward.”
“That’s offense, right?”
Tim laughed. So did Garcia.
“Hell, I told you baseball’s my game.”
“Yeah, forwards are offense.”
They continued on the 163 through a large interchange. The signs said they were in Mission Valley now.Tim relaxed,knowing this guy wasn’t going to hassle him about his performance last season or ask about Bottlegate. They talked some more. Garcia was easy to talk to. Part of the job, Tim figured. Cabbies were probably a lot like bartenders, but with wheels. Oddly, the more they talked, the more Tim felt like unloading and he ended up telling Garcia about Bottlegate anyway.
“Wait a second,” Garcia said. “Let me get this straight. The guy actually said that your daughter was better off dead than having a father like you?”
“Yes,” Tim said. The Philly fan had actually said much more than that while Tim had sat in the penalty box. He hadn’t shut up for a full minute, criticizing Tim’s play, or lack thereof, and eventually getting personal.
“What an asshole.”
“Thing is, my daughter had died only a few weeks before that.”
Silence.
“She died?”
“Yeah. Leukemia.”
“Shit, man.” Garcia met Tim’s gaze briefly in the rearview mirror. “I’m sorry to hear that. Really sorry. That’s fucked.”
“Thanks.” Tim gave him the tight-lipped smile he always did when people offered their sympathy.
A few moments passed. “You know what, man? I admire your restraint. I probably would have done a lot more than hit him with a water bottle. I’d probably have killed the guy.”
“I wanted to. Believe me.”
By this time, they were exiting the freeway.
“Well, Tim—can I call you Tim?”
Tim waved a hand.
“Tim, I have feeling things are going to turn around for you,” Garcia said. “I think you’re a determined guy and whatever you put your mind to, you’re gonna do. When’s the season start?”
“Regular season starts in early September.”
“Well, tell you what. You train like hell and you do whatever you have to do to become part of that team, because I’ll be watching that first game. You’re gonna hit a grand slam, or whatever it is in hockey.”
“A hat trick. That’s three goals in one game.”
“A hat trick, then. I’ll be rooting for you.” They pulled up in front of the dealership.

Tim pulled a hundred out of his wallet to pay the fifty-three dollar charge. He also made note of the cab number for later. “Thanks a lot for the vote of confidence. It means a lot. Keep the change.”

Photo credit: Theron W. Henderson

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02.16.2014 Excerpts, First Line, In The Zone Series

First Line this Morning

I’m (trying to) start Book 3 of the In the Zone series. This is probably my third try. This is typical for me, however. Trial and error is the name of the game for me.

Here is the new beginning for the book. I hope this one sticks.

Alex Sullivan believed in love at first sight, but he seldom mentioned it to anyone. His San Diego Barracuda teammates would have laughed at him. Give a hockey player a gem like that and he’ll jump on it with a vengeance: Photoshopped pictures of his face on a naked baby Cupid on Twitter, fake voice mails in falsetto, “Alex, I just love you so much, from the first moment I saw you, I knew you were The One…” Shit like that. At least, that’s what Alex would do. Any excuse for a good laugh at a teammate’s expense.

If there was one guy on his team he might trust with this information, it was Tim Hollander. Holly had it bad for this nurse he’d been seeing a lot of lately. If anyone could understand Alex’s romantic side, it would be Holly. And yet, Alex still kept quiet, especially because if Tim found out who Alex was mooning over, he would kick his ass.

Photo credit: leoncillo sabino via Creative Commons

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06.29.2013 Excerpts, Hockey Book 2

Boys Will Be Boys

I am sitting at my computer this morning, revising the book outline for the second hockey book. I’ve been writing up a storm and haven’t been keeping the outline up to date. The outline helps me keep track of what happens when.

Anyway, I came across a scene that I’d forgotten about and thought I’d post part of it here. Part of what I love about writing these hockey books is the opportunity to show guys being their lovable guy selves. I enjoy reading that stuff in other people’s books, and so it’s not surprising to find it showing up in mine. The scenes with the Barracuda teammates are especially fun to write.

This scene features Calder, the hero of the second hockey book, and his older brother, Hart. Calder is recalling an incident…


–>

Years ago, his mom had picked him and his brother up from a hockey game. For some reason he couldn’t remember, her trunk had been full of heavy boxes. Hart managed to stuff his in, but Calder had to put his in the backseat. As a result, the smell crept out and invaded the car like an olfactory bioweapon.

Hart, sixteen at the time to Calder’s fourteen, had lost the “shotgun” battle, so he was sitting in the back. “Something died in your bag, CS,” he said.

“Whatever, DB.”

Their mom thought that CS stood for Calder’s first two initials and DB meant “dumb brother.” But to the boys it was shorthand for cocksucker and douche bag.

“Mom,” Hart said, “We’re studying about the human body in science class, and I think Calder is constipated and when he sweats, crap comes out of his pores.”

“Hart Griffin, that’s disgusting,” Jenny said.

“I agree,” Hart said. “Let’s open the windows.”

His mom shook her head. “It’s eight degrees outside.”

“I don’t care. I swear I’m gonna puke.”

“Here, I’ll turn the fan on.”

It didn’t help. Even Calder had to admit it. At times, he envied other athletes like basketball players whose protective equipment consisted of one item—a jock. Hockey players, on the other hand, had that and much more, all of it soaked in sweat from each wearing. The odors seemed to build on each other even after washing because sometimes the stuff never dried out between the morning skate and a same-day game.

The noise from the fan provided cover for what Hart said in Calder’s ear. “I swear to God, Satan’s shit smells like fucking flowers compared to your bag.”

Laughing in spite of himself, Calder turned around to sock his brother.

Jenny twisted her head to nail them both with a glare. “What did you say?”

“Shit” wasn’t a word Jenny approved of but would sometimes let go. “Fuck” or any of its permutations constituted a loss of dinner.

“I was saying what’s coming out of Calder’s bag is probably what hell smells like.”

She eyed Hart in the rear view mirror. Calder knew his brother’s expression was now more heavily guarded than the President. He must have passed inspection because their mom said, “It is pretty bad, Calder.”

From that day on in their family, hockey bag smell was referred to as hell stink.

Photo by Mary_Thompson

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07.10.2012 Excerpts, Hockey Book

Re-boot

So, I got this great idea for the hockey book, tentatively titled CHARMED.

Unfortunately, it necessitated a rewrite of the beginning. LOL. I laugh because this is my M.O. I start and restart and restart my books. Such is the life of a writer who plots as she goes. Here’s the new opening…

The San Diego Barracudas reload with Locke, Stoccetti and Barringer, but will they be shooting blanks this season? Marc Stoccetti left the Oilers under a cloud, but Coach Marchand thinks the seasoned center still has some pow left in him. Personally, I’m not sure. All three of these guys are on the far side of their prime, but Lord knows the Barracudas are a young team in need of strong, experienced leadership. 
—Breakaway Baby, a hockey blog
“How old were you when you lost your virginity?”

Marco Stocchetti was jogging on the treadmill with his two good friends in the Barracuda’s workout room. Christian Barringer had asked the question.

“I was ten,” Marc said.

Simon Locke, captain of the team, laughed. “The fuck you were.”

Marc chuckled. “All right. I was sixteen.”

Barringer nodded. “Hey, I was sixteen, too. Marissa Clairmont.” He sighed. “What sweet fucking pussy she had. I swear to God it tasted like peach pie.”

“I lost my cherry to Alison Chase,” Marc said. “In the back of her car.”

“Oh yeah? What did she taste like?” Barringer asked.

Marc shrugged. “I never went down on her,” he admitted. “But her mouth always tasted like Big Red gum.”

Barringer nodded as he adjusted the speed on his machine. “There was an old lady on my street when I was a kid who gave out Big Red on Halloween. You’d knock on her door and she’d give you one stick. That pissed me off so bad. I used to think she was cheap, but now I realize she was probably just on a fixed income.” Barringer sighed. “Maybe I should look her up. See if she needs some money.”

Locke cleared his throat. “If you two are done with your stroll down memory lane, I’d like to get back to the matter at hand. You can’t have the number sixteen,” he said to Marc. “That’s Carpenter’s number.”

“Shit.” 

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Kate Willoughby

USA Today Bestselling Author Kate Willoughby happily writes her contemporary hockey romances in Southern California. She is married and has two sons and a Chihuahua. When she’s not writing, she’s watching hockey. When it’s not hockey season, she whines a lot.

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