My name is Jupiter Reeves, and I am a fraud. It's not that what's written about me isn't true. I am the greatest third baseman of my generation, possibly ever. I am surly and unapproachable. I do have a constant scowl with an armor of tattoos. To the outside world, I play my role as the bad boy of baseball like I was born to do it. But when the doors are closed, and you boil it down, I'm nothing more than a man who lost his heart too young, with no prospect of getting it back... especially as I still have no idea where its current owner is.

One minute you’re a struggling graphic designer in L.A. who's finally coming to terms with being single forever, and the next, you're flying to New York in a private jet to get engaged to your ex-boyfriend’s older brother. At least...that’s what everyone thinks. Forced to clean up his playboy image in order to protect his company, Beckham Sinclair, the city’s most eligible billionaire bachelor, wants me to be his fake fiancée and personal assistant. Now I'm spending every spare second with a man I thought I’d never see again.

Ask any new parent; no one is ever actually ready to become one, are they? Even with nine months to prepare, it's still a shock. Still mind-blowing that this tiny, little thing is now your sole responsibility. Except try coming home to find a baby on your doorstep, wearing a pink striped hat and attached to a note saying she belongs to you. Then you can say parenthood is a shock. Overnight my bachelor life ceased to exist; my heart now owned by one woman. My daughter.

I had a foolproof plan. Finish college playing the best sport on earth. Hockey. Get drafted by an NHL team. Make my senator father at least a little proud of me. I was on track to do just that…until Violet Reece and I collided. Literally.

He won’t tell me his last name, and maybe that should throw up a thousand red flags, but when I’m all alone in a new city and struggling to make ends meet, his texts are the lifeline I’ve been desperate for. I never would have answered that text if I’d known that Lincoln Daniels—superstar hockey player extraordinaire—was the one sending it. He’s trying to sweep me off my feet now. He says he’s obsessed. He wants me to wear his number…permanently. But is he still the wrong number, or can this hockey god prove he’s Mr. Right?

Rule number one for becoming an NHL team’s social media manager: Don’t hook up with the star center in an elevator a week before starting your new job.

Noah Slade is a Formula 1 legend in the making. Focused. Unapproachable. Ruthless on and off the track. A man with walls higher than the Grand Canyon. And my brother's new teammate. I want more of the prince who disguises himself as the villain. But while I crave a happy ending, he wants to destroy his. Maya Alatorre is a forbidden temptation. An ambitious post-grad I should stay far away from. And chaos wrapped with a bow. We're a ticking time bomb, about one wrong move away from exploding. I want to trip the wire, detonating together in passion and pain.

The quintessential question asked to every couple. And the answer is usually some bubbly, lovey dovey tale of being struck in the bum by Cupid’s arrow. My meet cute (well, not so meet cute) is slightly different. I was trolling a wealthy neighborhood in Beverly Hills, searching for someone to take me as their bride, you know, to make my arch nemesis jealous who consequently just fired me.

I got her fired. Okay, so I’d had a bad day and took it out on a bystander in a pizza shop. But there’s nothing innocent about Ally Morales. She proves that her first day of her new job in my office, after being hired by my mother. So, maybe, her colorful, annoying, inexplicably alluring personality brightens up the magazine’s offices that have felt like a prison for the past year. Maybe, I like that she argues with me in front of the editorial staff. And maybe, my after-hours fantasies are haunted by those brown eyes and that sharp tongue.

Carter Beckett is the NHL’s resident bad boy, top player both on the ice and in the bedroom, and quite possibly the sexiest man to ever grace my field of vision. But worst of all? He knows it. He’s arrogant, self-centered, and the man doesn’t seem to know what a filter is, let alone how to use one. He’s had everything served to him on a silver platter, including endless strings of women, and apparently, I’m up next. I have the solution to all my sexual frustrations in a drawer at home, and it’s far less complicated than Carter Beckett.