Crawford Family Playbook

After my divorce, I swore off dating. No commitments, no complicationsjust a clean, quiet life. So when Im assigned to fix Kaden Crawfordthe grumpy hockey star with a reputation as the leagues biggest PR disasterIm determined to keep things strictly professional. But Kaden has a knack for creating chaos. The solution? Staging a fake relationship to save his reputation. My answer shouldve been a hard no. But somehow, Im tangled up in his messsharing staged kisses, dodging cameras, and trying to ignore the sparks we cant control. The plan was simple: clean up his image and move on. But the more we fake it, the messier it all becomes. The line between real and pretend is blurring, and Im risking everything for a man I swore Id never fall for. Faking The Shot is the first book in the Crawford Family Playbook series, featuring a determined divorcee publicist rebuilding her lifeone play at a timewhile facing off against a grumpy hockey player whos more trouble than hes worth or so she thinks.

Second Quarter Comeback is a swoony, hilarious second-chance romance featuring a sarcastic doctorwhos a cooter coacha cocky quarterback, and a past that refuses to stay in the locker room. The universe must have a sick sense of humor. Fourteen years ago, Killion Crawford broke my heart like it was just another move in his playbook. One minute, I was his everything; the next, he was calling an audible and choosing football over me. Fine. Whatever. I moved on, built my career, and swore off quarterbacks for good. Now, thanks to a cruel twist of fate (or maybe just my own terrible luck), Im living next door to him in New York. Killion, of course, is still infuriatingly charming, ridiculously good-looking, and somehow even better at worming his way under my skin than he was back in college. He swears we have unfinished business. That we should go for it in the second half. I swear Im not playing this game again. But between our accidental run-ins, our very loud balcony arguments, and the worlds most manipulative kitten (how dare he choose him over me?), avoiding Killion is all but impossible. And the worst part? Im starting to wonder if maybejust maybehes right.

The universe has a twisted sense of humor. I've spent years building a life I could pack in a carry-on. No ties, no mess, no exes lingering like bad draft picks. Just me, my camera, and a healthy fear of anything resembling emotional stability. Enter Leif Crawford. NHL goalie. Human brick wall. Best friend since high school. He's the guy who always shows up, even when I don't ask (especially when I don't ask). We're opposites in every way. He's calm, collected, charming-alphabetizes his fridge and probably color-codes his emotional baggage. I'm a documentary disaster who panic-texts from foreign countries and gets rescued from dates with guys who think "baby" is an acceptable nickname for someone they just met. It worked. Until one tequila-fueled night with someone else blew it all up. Now I'm pregnant. Back in New York. Living with Leif while I figure out what the hell comes next. He wants to step up. Be involved. Be… more. Which would be easier to ignore if he didn't look like a Norse god with goalie reflexes, rumpled T-shirts, and a tendency to whisper things that turn my spine into hot pudding. So here we are-arguing over strollers, dodging feelings, and breaking every friendship rule we ever made. And somehow, the scariest part isn't falling for Leif Crawford. It's realizing I might've already belonged to him. The Final Faceoff is a sizzling, hilarious friends-to-lovers, accidental pregnancy, he falls first hockey romance featuring a disaster documentary filmmaker and her broody NHL goalie best friend.

My job? Rehab his knee. Don't fall back into bed with my brother's best friend. Jason is my brother's best friend. Also known as: completely off-limits, wildly inappropriate, and the reason I have trust issues with charming men who smirk for a living. He's a hockey star with a busted knee and an ego to match. I'm a retired Olympian turned physical therapist with zero patience for cocky athletes-especially the ones I used to fantasize about in my twenties before he ghosted me with a wink and a margarita. Now? He's injured. He needs help. And guess who got volun-told to fix him? That's right. Me. Trapped in close quarters. With him. He's determined to make rehab feel like foreplay. I'm determined to survive our sessions without combusting-or committing murder. Either feels likely. We've got rules: no flirting, no feelings, and absolutely no touching… unless it's medically necessary (and no, Jason, "measuring flexibility" doesn't count). But the more time we spend together, the harder it gets to remember why I ever put him in the off-limits box. He's my patient. He's my past. He's my brother's fucking best friend. And if I'm not careful, he might just be my next mistake.