Sawyer: A Carolina Reapers Novel

  Sawyer

  A Carolina Reapers Novel

  Samantha Whiskey

  Contents

  Also by Samantha Whiskey

  Now Available In Audiobook!

  1. Sawyer

  2. Echo

  3. Sawyer

  4. Echo

  5. Sawyer

  6. Echo

  7. Sawyer

  8. Echo

  9. Sawyer

  10. Echo

  11. Sawyer

  12. Echo

  13. Sawyer

  14. Echo

  15. Sawyer

  16. Echo

  17. Sawyer

  18. Echo

  19. Sawyer

  20. Echo

  21. Sawyer

  Epilogue

  Grinder Sneak Peek

  Grinder

  Connect with me!

  About the Author

  Acknowledgments

  By Samantha Whiskey

  Copyright © 2019 by Samantha Whiskey, LLC All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you’d like to share it with. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.

  Also by Samantha Whiskey

  The Seattle Sharks Series:

  Grinder

  Enforcer

  Winger

  Rookie

  Blocker

  Skater

  Bruiser

  Wheeler

  Defender

  The Carolina Reapers Series:

  Axel

  Sawyer

  A Modern-Day Fairytale Romance:

  The Crown

  The Throne

  Now Available In Audiobook!

  Grinder

  Enforcer

  Winger

  Rookie

  Let the Seattle Sharks spice up your morning commute!

  To those who have lost but still cling to hope

  1

  Sawyer

  “Can I get a Coors Light?” a guy in a red tie shouted above the crowd as he leaned across the bar.

  “No problem,” I answered. I poured his beer by muscle memory and moved on to the next customer. The bar was busy, but that was typical of a Saturday afternoon during hockey season. The Sharks weren’t playing until later, so we had the Reapers’ game on, which was in the third period in Tampa.

  I listened to what commentary I could hear between filling orders but didn’t glance up much.

  Had to admit, it hurt like a bitch to watch. The only thing harder than not reaching your dream? Tasting it for twenty-eight seconds.

  “Hey, McCoy, weren’t you the emergency goalie for the Reapers a few months ago?” Charlie, one of our regulars, asked like he could read my fucking mind.

  “Sure was,” I answered while I poured another beer.

  “He was a goalie down at U-Dub, remember?” another regular chimed in.

  “That’s right,” Charlie replied, leaning forward. “Everyone around here figured you’d go pro.”

  So had I. That’s what I wanted to say.

  “Oh, yeah?” I answered instead because that was the easiest thing to say.

  I had been a damned good college goalie. I just hadn’t made the cut for the NHL. Not that I hadn’t gotten my shot. Luck had made Faith Gentry—now Vestergaard—my roommate, and since Faith’s brother Eric turned out to be the goalie for the Sharks, he’d gotten me a tryout.

  I just hadn’t been fast enough to make the roster.

  “Vestergaard scores!” the announcer called out, and this time my gaze jumped to the screen.

  A small smile lifted my lips. Faith’s new husband was a great guy. It just sucked that he’d moved her all the way to South Carolina. But that was how I’d ended up in a one-day contract as the emergency goalie for the Carolina Reapers when their backup had gone down.

  Now I had a Reaper jersey with my name on it that hung on my closet door, and a twenty-eight-second memory of exhilarated perfection that nothing else could top.

  It was something I’d hold on to because it turned out that majoring in exercise science meant I was qualified to be a trainer at the local gym and hold down a few shifts at Rusty’s, the local sports bar in my Seattle neighborhood. I busied myself with more orders, sliding down the bar, away from the regulars. There was only so much prodding a wound could take, and I was feeling raw tonight.

  “Hey, Sawyer! How’s your mom?” another regular asked as he slid into the empty seat.

  Fuck me, there was no escape tonight.

  “Good as can be expected,” I replied, forcing a smile to my face. Mom was the reason I stayed in Seattle. She’d stuck by my side as long as she was physically able, and I would do the same for her.

  “You’re a good kid,” the older man said, just as the bar erupted into a series of groans, gasps, and mutters. “Damn, would you look at that?”

  I followed his line of sight and turned to face the giant screen at the end of the bar. My stomach flopped. Fields, the backup goalie for the Reapers, was down and grabbing for his knee—the same one he’d injured months ago.

  The game went to commercial, and I knew it had to be bad. I took care of waiting customers, poured a few shots for the group that had just walked in and held my breath until the game came back on.

  “Hey, McCoy, think they’ll call you to be their emergency goalie again if Fields is hurt?” Charlie asked.

  “Nope,” I answered with a wry grin. “It’s not like they’re due to play Seattle again any time soon.” Not until playoffs, and since both the Reapers and the Sharks were leading their respective conferences, there was a good chance they’d see each other in May.

  “Still, that’s gotta be something,” Charlie said with a shake of his head. “Being out there with them.”

  “It was,” I replied. But I wasn’t foolish enough to think that lightning would strike twice.

  The game continued with Thurston in the net, but he was slow glove-side and had been since last season. Guy was getting older and it showed, not just in his glove, but the sluggish skating and mediocre reaction time. He was a legend, but even legends aged. The network showed clips taken during the commercial break of Fields being carried out on a stretcher, and I cursed under my breath.

  No one wanted to go out like that.

  The Reapers won five to two, but those last two goals had been scored on Thurston, glove-side of course.

  Two hours later, I walked out after my shift as the clock hit five. I still had time to hit the gym and get a good workout in. Tomorrow was Sunday, meaning no training sessions. I could sleep in, then pick up some of Mom’s favorite bagels and head up to her place before the pick-up game I had scheduled.

  My phone rang. The caller ID listed it as unknown, but I never took chances. I answered the call with a swipe of my thumb, sending up a quick prayer that it wasn’t about Mom.

  “McCoy,” I said, keys in hand.

  “Sawyer. Thank God you answered,” a gruff voice answered.

  Holy shit. No way. There’s no fucking way.

  “Can I help you?” I asked softly, scared to even think that it was who I thought it might be.

  “This
is Coach McPherson with the Carolina Reapers.”

  My keys hit the asphalt. It really was him. Gage McPherson. Former star player for the Seattle Sharks and coach of the brand-new Carolina Reapers. The man who’d put me in for the last twenty-eight seconds of my first and only NHL game, simply because they were up four to zero, and that was the kind of man he was.

  “Sawyer?” Coach asked. “You there?”

  “Yes, sir,” I answered quickly, clearing my throat. “You just caught me off guard.”

  “I can imagine. Look, it’s been a shit night, so I’m going to keep this quick. Remember that tryout clause in your one-day contract?”

  I leaned against my truck to stay standing. “Yes, sir. Vaguely.” Faith had prodded the Reapers to add it at the last minute. It stated that if I played in the game, even for a second, I was automatically invited to try out for the Reapers next year if they held open tryouts. But since Thurston was mostly on board to bring Fields up, I knew there wouldn’t be an open slot, hence no tryout. I wasn’t naive enough to get my hopes up.

  “Fields is out. Tore the ACL.”

  I hissed in sympathy.

  “That means you’re up, son. We’re hosting a limited tryout tomorrow in Charleston, and you’ve got an invite.”

  I swallowed past the lump that had somehow grown in my throat. “Sir?” I questioned once my voice was capable.

  “Won’t be many of you. We’ve got a call going out for about a dozen goalies. But I have to warn you, those boys have all been playing in the minors. I’m rooting for you, but you have to bring the goods tomorrow, McCoy.”

  “Tomorrow,” I repeated. How the fuck was I going to afford a last-minute ticket?

  “Tomorrow,” Coach McPherson confirmed. “We’ve got four days off, and the new guy has to be ready before we play Chicago.”

  Before I could reply, I heard a feminine voice I recognized in the background.

  “I’ve got this,” Coach reassured her. “Damn, it, Langley!”

  There was a slight rustling, then the sound of a door closing and a quick intake of breath.

  “Sawyer?” Langley Pierce-Nyström, the head of the Reapers’ PR team came on the line. She was good friends with Faith and had run the Sharks’ PR for years before leaving Seattle.

  “Hey, Langley.”

  “I stole the phone so Gage couldn’t listen in. Look, I’m texting you the information, but I have a jet ready to leave when you are, courtesy of Lukas since we can’t be seen showing favoritism. And by when you are, I mean, you’ll have your ass on that flight by seven p.m., do you understand me?”

  Her fierce tone finally cut through my shock. “Langley, I don’t play in the minors. I play pick-up games on the weekend. I can’t compete. Hell, if I couldn’t do it right out of college, there’s zero fucking chance now,” I admitted quietly.

  “You’re still training?”

  “Yeah. I’m in great shape, just…” I sighed. Last time I’d come so close, and the pain that followed my failure had been debilitating.

  “Sawyer McCoy. You get home, get your gear, and get to the airport. Do you understand me?” she hissed in a whisper.

  I was ripped in two—the part of me who recognized that this chance would never come again, and the self-preservationist who begged me to be happy with what my life was now. And with my mother here and in need of constant care, what business did I have getting on a plane in the middle of the night to chase pipe dreams?

  “I will send Axel if you don’t agree right this minute.”

  “Damn, Langley, you’re married to the scariest motherfucker in the NHL,” I muttered.

  “No, that award goes to Cannon, but I’m sure you’ll get along just fine. Now I’m serious. I know your personal life is complicated, but if you make the roster, I’ll personally help you get everything and everyone situated. Get on the damned plane. I’ll meet you in Charleston with the keys to my place. We’re all rooting for you.” She hung up without letting me respond.

  I didn’t slow down long enough to let myself think. I grabbed my gear, some clothes, my practice jerseys, and called Mom. Then I grabbed my Reaper jersey at the last second and walked out the door.

  I got on the damned plane.

  * * *

  A half-hour after dropping my stuff at Langley’s old apartment, which was conveniently within walking distance of Reapers’ Arena, I strolled past the doorman with a nod and headed into the night.

  It was one-thirty in the morning in Charleston, but only ten-thirty my time, and though I should have been exhausted, I was hyped up enough to run a fucking marathon.

  The air was thick with humidity as I made my way across the street to Scythe, the bar Faith and Harper had taken me to the last time I was in Charleston. I stuck to the crosswalk at the corner of the busy intersection. The last thing I needed was to go to jail for jaywalking and miss my tryout. Though the thought did hold some level of appeal.

  I glanced toward where the street ended at Reapers’ Arena. Shit, I could read the sign from here, that’s how close I was. No bank-named arena, or sponsors needed for that team. The whole thing was financed by billionaire Asher Silas. He built the state-of-the-art facilities, hired the best team, and when the best gear wasn’t up to his standard, he hired a development team—headed by his genius sister, Harper—to invent it. He was a tech tycoon with a passion for hockey, and while I’d never met the guy, Harper loved him, which was enough for me.

  Harper had been my other roommate, and once Faith had started dating Lukas, it wasn’t long before Harper had fallen head over heels for Nathan Noble, a defenseman who was now with the Reapers. Funny thing was that she’d never mentioned her brother was on the cover of Forbes Magazine in all the years we’d lived together. The same as she hadn’t advertised that she lived with me while we went to the University of Washington. She was too loyal for that shit.

  I opened the door to the bar and was greeted by Def Leppard blaring from the jukebox. A bachelorette party sang along at the top of their lungs, and the bride was up on the corner table, both hands in the air while a waitress shook her head.

  Bypassing a few empty tables and a few crowded ones, I grabbed a seat at the empty side of the bar.

  “Sorry, but last call was a few minutes ago,” a waitress told me with a wince as she approached another crowded table.

  “That’s okay. I’ll take this one.”

  The sound of her voice had me turning back toward the bar, and a corner of my mouth lifted into something that was almost a smirk as she came into view, walking toward me from the swinging door that led to the kitchen.

  Echo Hayes stopped in front of me, and then stared me down with an arched eyebrow. “Aren’t you a little far from home?” she questioned with a slow southern drawl, staring pointedly at my Pearl Jam shirt.

  I took in her black Ramones T-shirt that had been cut so it draped off one shoulder, and let my eyes trail down her cut-off shorts that barely covered her ass, fishnet stockings, and black moto boots. Fuck, this woman had curves for miles, and desperately needed a giant warning sign that read danger all over her. By the time I reached her pixie-shaped face, diamond stud nose ring, turquoise eyes, and purple hair that fell in various shades down her back, I was smiling, and she was glaring.

  She was incredibly beautiful and so fucking sexy that I was going to have to shift my jeans if I stared too long.

  “You have no idea,” I replied to her snarky question. There was zero chance in the world she remembered me. Maybe if I’d been with Harper and Faith—

  “Bourbon?” she asked.

  My jaw slacked momentarily in surprise. “You remember?”

  “You’re not exactly easy to forget, even if you’re not with the Queens of Reaper Village.” Her eyes took their turn with me, and I felt her gaze on my skin as if it was her hand, stroking over the muscles of my biceps, caressing the pecs that stretched the material of my T-shirt, down to the waist she couldn’t quite see with the bar in her way, then back up, lin
gering on my neck until she reached my eyes. Then she blinked, her gaze softening. “You look like you need a drink.”

  Without another word, she reached for the same bottle I’d had last time and poured it neat. She really did remember.

  She slid the drink across the bar and then leaned on the counter so only the expanse of black granite separated us. “Start talking, West Coast.”

  I took a sip of the bourbon and savored the burn as it slid down my throat.

  “Fields is out,” I said quietly, unsure of what information the Reapers had released.

  “Yeah, I saw it.” She tilted her head, exposing the pale, smooth skin along her jawline. “Is that why you’re here?”

  “I had a tryout clause in my contract.”

  Her eyebrows rose.

  “That’s because I was an emergency—”

  “Goalie,” she finished, pouring herself a glass of water. “You played in the last minute of the third period during the Sharks’ game.” She took a drink and then grinned. “What, you honestly thought I didn’t know who you were the first time you walked into this bar?”

  “Damn, are you that good with all hockey players?” I asked, then took another smooth sip of bourbon. It settled in my stomach with a warm glow.

  “Just the Reapers,” she answered with a shrug. “So you’re here to try out for Fields’ spot?”

  I nodded slowly, fixing my stare on the amber liquid swirling between my palms as I spun the tumbler through my hands.