Cover Reveal: The Off Season
Today we have the gorgeous cover reveal of The Off Season by
Megan Green! Check it out and sign up for her newsletter to get release alerts! 
Title: The
Off Season
Author: Megan
Green
Genre: Sports
Romance
Release Date: February
1st
About The Off Season:
He had it all…
The
day Ian “Tag” Taggart’s world comes crashing down around him, he’s sitting in a
fast food drive-thru, waiting for an order of fries. Golden boy of the MLB and
shortstop for the Washington Rampage, Tag quickly finds himself losing grip on
his superstar life with the use of two awful words: sexual assault.
The
only problem? He’s innocent.
Tag’s
willing to do anything to prove to the world he’d never commit the crime he’s
been accused of. So when his agent suggests taking a break from the spotlight,
he listens. The quiet town on Maple Lake is everything Seattle isn’t. And Lexi
Barnes is everything he wasn’t expecting to find.
Running
from a past she can never escape, Lexi wants nothing to do with her new
neighbor. But fixing up an old house takes more work than anticipated, and the
new guy in town happens to have quite the set of carpentry skills. She won’t
let herself fall for him though. She has no room in her life for love.
If
only someone would tell her heart that.
He’s funny and charming. She’s closed off and
rude.
Together,
they’re like fire and ice.
Prepare to get burned this Off-Season.
Exclusive
Excerpt:
I’ll never
forget where I was the day my world came crashing down around me.
I wish I
had a better story. Something like, I was
volunteering at a hospital, visiting sick children, when the news first hit. Or,
I had just finished saving an old woman
and her forty-two cats from a burning building when my agent called.
But no. I
was sitting in the fucking drive-through at McDonald’s, waiting for my daily
fix of salty goodness, when the radio newscaster interrupted coverage of the
Seahawks game to drop what would turn out to be the most defining moment of my
life thus far.
“Charges have been filed against MLB star Ian
Taggart, better known as Tag Taggart, of the Washington Rampage. Our sources
say a young woman has come forward with allegations that Taggart sexually
assaulted her after their division win last season.”
I didn’t
hear what he said after that, my Bluetooth kicking on in my truck as I answered
the call from Ray, my agent.
What had
started as a simple stop through a pick-up window ended up being the catalyst
to the worst period of my entire life. And, now, six months and hours and hours
of turmoil, frustration, and a hell of a lot of anger later, it all comes down
to this moment.
My career.
My life.
My future.
Coach
Peters is sitting across from me with James Shelton, the Rampage’s GM, to his
left.
Lucky for
me, Mr. Lane couldn’t be here today. As the owner of the team, he generally
tries to stay abreast of anything involving his players. He’s a little too involved, if you ask me. I’ve had
far more meetings with the man in the past few months than I ever cared to have
in my life. Add in the fact that he’s a class-A douche canoe, and…well, let’s
just say, there are times when I’ve had to wonder if this is my punishment for
the crime I didn’t even commit. Having to deal with Tyler Lane on the regular
has to be worse than any prison cell could ever be.
And that’s
right; you heard me correctly. I know that’s the standard answer all assholes
give when they’re hit with a rape charge. And I know, ninety percent of the
time, they’re lying through their teeth. Being a professional athlete seems to
make some guys think they’re untouchable—a fact I can attest to from the
hundreds, if not thousands, of times I’ve witnessed unwanted advances, unpaid
tabs, drugs, and dozens of other less than savory activities. But I digress.
The fact
is, I am not that guy. I love women.
I respect women. Fuck, if I could build a shrine to women and worship at the
altar of femininity, I would. Because, if there’s one thing in this world I
love more than baseball, it’s the female body. But I would never touch a woman in any way that was unwanted or untoward.
The night
I met Angela Hancock was the best night of my life.
We’d just
won our division championship—a first in my seven years with the Rampage—and I
was riding high. And I could think of no better way to celebrate than a night
out with my teammates, a few bottles of Jack split between us, and a couple of
willing females to keep us company.
I set my
sights on Angela the moment I spotted her on the dance floor, her short black
skirt and low-cut red top too mouthwatering to resist. When she took a break
from her friends and headed to the bar to refresh her drink, I made my move.
Now, I’m
not going to lie and say I had to work to get her attention. To be totally
honest, I’ve never had any trouble finding a woman to warm my bed. With my
muscular build, tan skin, and fucking adorable smile—you try to tell me dimples
aren’t cute—I know I fit the mold of what women consider hot. And, before you
start to think I’m a cocky asshole, let me stop you right there. There’s a
difference between conceit and confidence. My teammate Simon Weaver is an
arrogant fuckwit. Me, on the other hand? I radiate a smooth assurance that
women can’t help but be attracted to.
To say
getting Angela back to my room was easy would be an understatement. After one
quick dance—if you could even call it that—we basically just dry-humped the
shit out of each other for three minutes. And, with another shot of Jack for
the road, we were on our way.
I might
have had a few drinks, but I wasn’t drunk. And I can say with absolute
certainty that everything that happened that night was completely consensual.
Angela
slammed the door behind us and had my shirt off and her hand down my pants
faster than you could say, Do you have a
condom? I’ve always been a sucker for a girl who knows what she wants and
isn’t afraid to take control.
But, even
in my lust-fueled state, I wasn’t too far gone to stop for protection and to
make sure she understood what this was.
“This is only for tonight. You got that,
right?”
Not
exactly the most romantic thing in the world to hear two seconds before some
dude shoves his cock inside you, but as I said, I like to make sure a woman
knows exactly what she’s getting with me.
She made
no bones about my declaration, and the next few hours were pretty fucking
amazing, if I do say so myself.
In fact,
the only reason I remembered who she was when Ray called me to give me the
deets on the woman pressing charges was because of what a fantastic lay she had
been. Normally, I’m a love-’em-and-leave-’em kinda guy—all their faces sort of
blurring together into one giant blob of sexy times.
Hey, I
said I wasn’t a rapist. I never said I wasn’t a whore.
About the Author:
Megan
lives in Northern Utah with her handsome hubby, Adam. When not writing, chances
are you’ll find her curled up with her Kindle. Besides reading and writing, she
loves movies, animals, chocolate, and coffee. Lots and lots of coffee. She
loves hearing from readers, so drop her a line!
You
can find her here:
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