Thank you to Laurie for hosting me on my Pink Pucks & Power Plays road trip!
One of the best things about being an author, aside from being able to kill off people that aggravate you in real life in your books, is being able to create something from scratch. I'm not sure how the creative process for all writers works, but for me it begins with an idea or notion. Generally this notion isn`t firmly rooted in anything solid, it`s kind of a free floating apparition that bounces around inside my mind. Sometimes the ghost of a novel disappears when I shine the light of reason on it.
'Uhm yeah, zombie cats that ride OCC choppers is cool, but I`m not sure that a cat could pass the written part of the motorcycle licensing exam. They have no thumbs to hold the pen.'
Other ideas are specters just waiting for a blank page to bring them to life. That was the case with my To Love a Wildcat series. After writing Goaltender's Penalty, an M/M hockey novella, I knew I wanted to pen more ice hockey romance. Being a big fan of the New York Rangers, my love of the sport, and the men that play it, was already in place. Now, I needed a team. Since I've lived on the east coast of the United States all my life, I placed my new team in a city I had visited numerous times, Philadelphia.
Then I had to ascertain if this series would be male/male or male/female, as I do pen both. That decision was an easy one, for most of my work comes to me with the sexes of the leads already in place. So, the Wildcat series would be male/female. Check. Now we needed the starring male and the female.
I knew that I wanted the ladies of the Wildcats to be different from the typical mold of romance heroines. So Viviana was created. Viv is a sassy, curvy woman who has embraced her plus size. Her leading man, the handsome, and younger, defenseman Alain Lessard, contrary to what many would have us believe, finds Viviana highly enticing and erotic. I knew Alain was from Quebec the moment I wrote him. I could hear that sensual accent in my mind.
I bet you think we`re done now, right? Wrong. Now we needed to create an entire hockey team and organization. From scratch. That is a lot of people! This is what the process looked like.
It took a great deal of time but was well worth it. From owner to equipment manager the Philadelphia Wildcats are neatly laid out on virtual paper. After that, I could dive into writing this erotic romance. And dive I did! How about a PG rated excerpt so you can meet Viviana and Alain and dive in as well?!
Four dogs raced off the front porch that ran the length of the front of the house. They hit the driver’s side door like a pack of rabid wolves, barking and clawing at my paint job. I was not impressed. I didn’t dare get out, lest my lovely dress get ruined. The porch light came on and Alain filled the door. His shoulders looked as if they would barely fit through the doorway as he sauntered out to stand on the porch. Toenails were scrabbling on the window. I tooted the horn. Even with the windows up, his bellow was clear. The dogs ran to him, their tongues lolling. He rubbed the various furry heads as if praising them for attacking me. I pushed my door open and something the size of a feral cat leaped into my lap. I screamed as the animal went for my face.
“Daisy!” Alain shouted as I swatted and shrieked. The beast sat down instantly. I opened my eyes and found a canine that possibly weighed four pounds sitting on my thighs. My dress was covered with mud and hair and spittle flecks. Daisy, the frizzy white hellion, was wagging her stumpy tail and smiling at me. I was now far less than amused. Alain reached in, kissed my cheek then lifted the little dog from my lap. “She is so very glad to see you.”
“Yes, I can still smell her exuberance,” I sniffed, frowning down at the ruination of my clothing. I tried to remove the mud and fur, hopelessly. “It took me half an hour to choose this dress!”
“We can clean it up,” he said, dropping down into a crouch to swat at a hairball sticking to my thigh with determination. “Come inside. We will take it off and toss it in the washing machine.”
I looked over at him as if he had lost his mind.
“Alain, this is an original Presterman Gondola. You don’t simply toss this into the washing machine. This is crèpe de chine.” I held up the soiled hem of cool crème. “This will require a professional cleaner and a prayer to the dry cleaning gods that the rusty, red soil stains will come out of it!”
“She is very sorry,” Alain cooed, holding the tiny dog up at eye level. I glowered at the mutt. She lapped at my nose. “See? She did not mean to ruin your crap dress."
“Crèpe,” I muttered, slinging my legs out of the car. Alain eyed them with open admiration as he straightened and stepped back. His arm went around my waist with familiarity that I enjoyed.
“Yes, crèpe,” he said, pronouncing the word as if he were clearing his throat. He led me through the happy hounds into the house. It was a massive, old place, with large, airy rooms going off in haphazard directions. The furnishings were used, more than likely by the hellhounds Alain owned, by the looks of them. We passed a living room and a den as we followed the smell of roasting beef into the kitchen. It was an impressive, grand room that could hold my entire condo. The appliances were not new. The linoleum was old and torn in a few places. The cabinets were sort of ratty. Alain placed Daisy, the dress destroyer, to the floor. She went over to slake her thirst alongside the rest of the dogs.
“Can you wash the dress by hand?” he asked, stepping to the double stainless sink to wash his hands before checking the food in the oven.
“I suppose,” I replied, running a keen eye over the wallpaper border that hugged the rather stained ceiling. Alain stepped up behind me. When his lips found my neck I allowed my eyelids to close for a moment. The backs of his fingers, still damp from washing, skimmed over my neck lightly. He found the zipper pull and gently unzipped my best dress slowly, dropping kisses to each inch of flesh he exposed. The crèpe de chine slid down my legs and puddled around my ankles.
You can find Pink Pucks & Power Plays at the Secret Cravings Store as well as all other major retailers:
V.L. Locey loves worn jeans, belly laughs, anything romantic, Greek mythology, New York Rangers hockey, comic books and coffee. (Not necessarily in that order.) She shares her life with her husband, her daughter, one dog, two cats, a steer named after a famous NHL goalie, and a flock of assorted domestic fowl.
V.L. is a self-published and conventionally published author. She is a proud Torquere Press and Secret Cravings Publishing author. When not writing romantic tales, she can be found enjoying her day with her menagerie in the rolling hills of Pennsylvania with a cup of fresh java in hand, writing, or cheering on her beloved New York Rangers. She can also be found online on Facebook, Twitter, and GoodReads.
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