
Part of Series
I don’t want Casey Alderchuck, but I don’t want anyone else to have him either. My hook-up for the night wasn’t supposed to be my long-time hockey rival, but here he is. I’m too worked up to let him go home without having a taste. One little bite of that smart mouth is mine for the taking after how many times he’s broken my nose. How was I supposed to know that I’d crave Alderchuck with the desperation of a starved man? I’m always one bad day from an explosion, but since I hooked up with Alderchuck, my body’s constantly on fire. I’m thinking about things I haven’t in a long time. He’s dredged years of buried torment to the surface. The cure? Alderchuck. My poison is my cure. How poetic. At least he can’t keep his hands off me and our burning hatred is mutual. The flavor’s gotta wear off at some point, and that’s when we’ll go our separate ways. Until then, I’ll come up with every way imaginable to wreck him from the inside out. Use him up till there’s nothing left. But I’m nothing if not territorial and protective. My instincts decide that Casey Alderchuck is mine and they pull him closer. My damn heart’s a traitor, too, trying to break the locks I put around it to let him inside. But I can’t let it win. Loving people like I would love Casey means risking the fragile sanity I’ve worked so hard to preserve. Breakneck Hockey is a rivals-to-lovers story with some hurt-comfort, along with other vibes, like; I Can Hurt Him but You Can’t, Major Jealousy, Just Because I Say I Don’t Want Him, Doesn’t Mean You Can Have Him, Possessiveness Galore, a Morally Gray MC and, as always in this series, Found Family.
Author

Some of you know her as Mock, others as S. Legend, or Miss S. She welcomes all names but will often go by Mock, a name given to her by her readers. Mock is an ambitious creative, weaving the most precious aspects of her soul into stories. She is an architect, building fascinating worlds, designed from inquiry, rooted in worldly wonderings. It’s an intuitive process where she is the scribe, the translator, the conduit. It helped that storytelling was the language spoken at home. One simply didn’t say, “We have an ant infestation,” in Mock’s family it was, “I was on my way to the living room, when a peculiar ant crossed my path. I looked to my right, a suspicious line of them marched toward the pantry. In that moment I knew; my kitchen was under siege.” The natural flow of conversation always took this form. And so. When Mock wrote her first novel, she didn’t plan it chapter by chapter, there was no outline, no “plotting” to speak of. But she didn’t “pants” it either, she didn’t make it up as she went along. She knew how the story felt, where it curved in places and hollowed in others; she knew the destination it rushed toward. Instead of orchestrating, she let the world inspire her, and held space for the words to come, trusting the characters knew what they were doing. All she had to do was tell a story, as she always had done; like breathing. This is her peace, her healing and solace: Gifts better shared. Mock’s works are the comfort you seek when you need to come home. Her unique writing style will take you, wayfaring reader, to unexpected destinations. She always says, “I’m not in the business of making up stories, I couldn’t if I tired. I’m lucky enough to get picked to share someone else’s story when I ask a question to the universe. Someone answers; I write it down.”