Sawyer: A Carolina Reapers Novel Page 2

  “Hate to tell you how to prep, but most guys on the verge of making the NHL try to get some sleep the night before. They don’t head to the bar right after walking off the plane...assuming you were in Seattle tonight.”

  “I was,” I confirmed. “It’s hard to explain.”

  “Try,” she ordered in a tone that didn’t leave any room for argument. “Your tender little feelings are safe with me, West Coast. I won’t spill your secrets to your girlfriends.”

  “You and I both know they’re not my girlfriends.” I shot her a look, and she laughed. The sound was low and husky, and it sent a shot of lust straight to my dick. She had the kind of mouth built for smiling, and smirking, and teasing. Just the thought of those perfectly shaped lips wrapped around my cock was enough to make me shift on the barstool.

  “Yeah, I do,” she agreed. “But you’re way too much fun to fuck with.”

  Our eyes met, and I felt that same crackle of energy I had when I was here last time. Chemistry was something you had, or you didn’t, and we clearly did. “I’m a lot of fun to fuck with,” I agreed, and nearly smiled when I saw a light blush rise in her cheeks. “But yeah, Harper and Faith were my college roommates.”

  “And now their guys will be your teammates. Sounds like one happy reunion over at Reaper Village, so why are you sitting in my bar?”

  “Your bar?” I teased.

  Her eyes narrowed. “You know what I mean. Don’t make me get the scythe down. It would be a shame to have to clean blood off the floor.”

  “Calm yourself, East Coast,” I said with a wink.

  “Stop stalling,” she challenged, those turquoise eyes seeing deeper than I wanted her to.

  “Fuck, your eyes are incredible,” I said before I could stop myself. I’d never seen that color of Caribbean blue before her, or since.

  “Yes, I know. Now talk.”

  I would have rolled my eyes at her vanity if I hadn’t seen that blush deepen a little. Nice to know I had an effect on the woman who clearly liked to be the one with the upperhand.

  “I didn’t make the Sharks when I tried out last year,” I admitted. “It…” I shook my head and took a deeper drink, letting the fire reach my stomach before I continued. “It destroyed me. I didn’t enter the draft, so having that chance, and coming so close only to realize I really wasn’t good enough? Fuck, that was brutal.”

  Echo didn’t respond. She simply watched me with waiting eyes, listening—which was what made me keep talking.

  “Noble told me to go to the minors, but my family life is complicated.”

  “How?” she asked, ignoring her name being called down the bar.

  “My mom has Parkinson’s. Stage four.” The words came easily, considering I almost never said them. Those who needed to know already knew, and it was nobody else’s damned business what was going on with my mom. But there was something about the way Echo was looking at me that ripped the words free as effortlessly as if I were talking about what I’d had for breakfast.

  “I’m sorry,” she said softly, but without the pity in her eyes I’d become accustomed to seeing when people found out. “That must be incredibly hard on you both.”

  “Thank you. It is. She’s in an assisted living center. She has been since I left for college.” I shook my head after taking another sip, finishing my bourbon. “I stayed in Seattle, of course. I wasn’t going to leave her. But she demanded I get what she called a ‘normal college experience’ and told me that I couldn’t do that if I was living at home with her. So she moved herself into the assisted living center, and I moved Faith and Harper in as my roommates to help cover the costs so Mom wouldn’t lose her house.”

  “Damn.” Echo shook her head.

  “What?”

  Another customer called her name down the bar, and she held up one finger in his direction. “Nothing. I was just hoping you were an Abercrombie-model-douchebag.”

  “You were?” I asked slowly.

  “Sure was. Would have been a whole lot easier, trust me.” She nodded with pursed lips and glanced toward her customer before sliding a freshly poured glass of water into my hands. “Wait here. I have to go tell Earl that I’m not serving him any more tonight, and I don’t care how miserable his wife is to go home to.”

  She walked away, and I shamelessly watched her ass swing as she went. Okay, that was a douchebag move, but that ass was made to be watched.

  “Hi there.” An intoxicated blonde wearing a tiara and veil leaned heavily on the counter beside me, pressing her breasts together above her low-cut tank top. Ah yes, the bride who had been table dancing a few songs ago. “You’re pretty hot.”

  “Thanks,” I answered with a practiced smile. “I…like your tiara.”

  She drunkenly wiped the back of her hand across her lips. “So, I never do this, but I have this bucket list I’m supposed to finish tonight,” she whispered loudly. “You know, part of the party.” She pointed to her chest, where her status as the bride was emblazoned in glitter.

  “Okay?” My eyes flickered to the bridesmaids who were gathered a discreet distance behind her, watching us without said discretion.

  “So, do you want to be number eleven?” She grinned as she blatantly undressed me with her eyes, lingering on the bulge in my jeans that wasn’t there for her.

  Fuck no, I didn’t.

  “Is number eleven, take a shot with a stranger?” I offered as her bridesmaids giggled drunkenly.

  “No. But if you take me somewhere quiet, I’ll show you,” she offered, letting her fingers trail down her chest to her neckline.

  “Sorry, I have to pass. I have an early morning.” I turned my body to face toward the bar in hopes that she’d get the point.

  If she didn’t, Echo blatantly wrinkling her nose at her got the point across loud and clear. “You ladies need me to call you a cab?”

  “We have a limo,” the bride snapped, then turned and walked out, her bridesmaids following her like little obedient ducklings.

  “You missed a sure thing right there, West Coast. And if you’d mentioned that a Reaper tryout was the reason you were getting up early, I bet a few of her friends would have joined in.” Echo watched me with blatant curiosity. “Not a one-night stand kind of guy?”

  “I don’t mind one-night stands,” I said with a shrug. “But I don’t fuck women who belong to other men, let alone ones who are marrying them.”

  “Not a cheater,” she said, raising her glass of water. “Noted.”

  “I’d rather cut my dick off than cheat, or be with someone who does. When you give your word, you keep it. It’s as simple as that. What the fuck does marriage even mean to someone who does shit like that?” I nodded toward the door.

  “What does marriage mean in general?” Echo challenged. “It’s stupid to promise yourself to someone for the rest of your life like you have any control or say in what’s going to happen. People fuck up. They leave. They cheat. They die. I don’t know why we don’t contract marriage for terms. Shit, it worked out well for Langley, right?”

  I chuckled. “It did.” I chugged the rest of my water and set the glass on the counter. It was good to know that Echo was trustworthy. There were very few people who knew how Langley and Axel started out.

  “Look, unfortunately for me, I like having you here,” Echo drawled with a roll of her eyes. Before I could ask her exactly what she meant, she continued. “But you need to get some sleep. Forget about everything that’s holding you back and give it what you have.”

  “And if I make it?” I asked her. “Then what? I move my mother out here? I’m gone three to four days a week? She’s alone in a facility she doesn’t know? I can’t just walk out on her. I fucking refuse.” The last words came out harsher than I intended, but Echo didn’t flinch.

  She looked around the bar, her eyes lingering on the soft leather of the booths, the high-end stone of the bar, and what looked to be hand-carved built-ins that housed the expensive liquor supply. “You know, my dad and I alwa
ys dreamed of owning a bar together. We’d talk about what brands we’d keep in stock, and what music we’d allow on the jukebox. I told him I drew the line at Waylon Jennings, but he always preached that it wasn’t a bar without him.” A smile lifted her lips, and I knew without her saying another word that she’d lost her father. “He’ll never get to see our dream because he’s gone. I’ll have to build my dream without him.” Her eyes met mine, and my heart clenched at the emotion she fought to keep at bay. “I bet your mother would give everything to experience your dream with you, so don’t use her as an excuse.”

  “I just don’t know what good making the team will do if I can’t leave her in Seattle and it’s really unfair to move her here, away from everyone she knows.”

  “I just don’t know why you think you make the choices for a grown woman,” she countered, then sighed. “Look. The first step is to make the team. That’s what earns you the right to make the decision about taking the contract. That’s what gives you the chance to offer the move to your mother. It’s not all on your shoulders, you know.”

  “Yeah, you’re right on that,” I agreed. “I have to make the team first.”

  The rest? I wasn’t sure she understood what it meant to be the caregiver at twenty-three years old. Hell, I’d been doing it since I was fifteen, and it was unfair to expect anyone to really understand.

  I stood, then took my wallet from my back pocket.

  “Absolutely not,” she told me, waving her hand at me.

  “I’m not going to short your drawer,” I argued.

  She snorted. “I’ll make you a deal, West Coast. You make the team, you can pay me for the drink.”

  “And if I don’t?” I asked.

  “My guess is that you’ll run up another tab getting shit-faced, so I win either way.” She shrugged with a little smirk that made me want to haul her across the bar and kiss her.

  “That’s a deal. You are something else, Echo.”

  Her eyes widened. “You know my name.”

  “You’re not exactly easy to forget.” I grinned, throwing her words back at her as I walked out of the bar.

  * * *

  My heart pounded as I stood in the locker room, my gear snapped, and my skates tied.

  The eleven other contenders headed out silently. It had been a full half-hour of blatant appraisal as we dressed in the locker room. There were some players I recognized from the minors, and three I’d played against in college.

  They were all on the ice more frequently than I was, that was true.

  But I was better than they were. And I hadn’t been licking my wounds for the past six months. I’d been at the gym every day. On the ice a few times a week. Running six miles every morning. My body was a machine, and it was ready for whatever my heart wanted.

  And it wanted that Reaper jersey.

  I followed the line out of the locker room and down the hall toward the ice, then stopped when I came to the line of players who waited at the glass.

  “We’re not waiting for you, dumbass, move along,” Cannon Price snapped at the guy in front of me, and the goalie rushed past. The notorious hothead out of Detroit was the fastest skater I’d ever seen, but I wasn’t sure even he could keep up with his mouth.

  “Jesus, Cannon, we might have to play with these guys,” Lukas reminded him, rubbing the bridge of his nose. Faith’s husband had gone from being a rookie on the Sharks to the experienced player on the Reapers in the time I’d known him.

  Cannon transferred his helmet to his other hand and shook his head. “It’s going to be McCoy. Just don’t fuck up out there.”

  “What he means,” Porter growled at him, stepping forward with a shake of his head. “Is that we support you. We want the best goalie for the team, and we know it’s you.” Porter was another player out of Seattle, who’d used his free agency to move his career and his family to South Carolina.

  “Thanks, guys,” I said as they all pounded on me in friendship, their gloves softening the blows.

  “You already have a Reaper jersey with your name on it,” Axel said in heavily accented English, towering above me by a good four inches. “Now let’s get you a nametag in that locker room. Get out there, kid.” He thumped my back as I moved forward.

  God, the arena was fucking huge. But the ice? That was the equalizer. It didn’t matter how many fans you had watching—that net stayed the same size.

  “Look at me,” Nathan Noble said quietly as I paused just before the ice.

  I turned my head to look at Harper’s fiancé, who’d worked his way up through the minors with sheer grit and determination.

  “You’ve got this. What’s the difference between a guy whose career ends in college and the one-in-a-million shot?” he asked me, just like he had last year after I’d failed to make the Sharks.

  This time I knew the answer because he’d given it to me.

  “Talent and drive.” My chest expanded, knowing I had what it took. Knowing this was my dream. Hockey was my passion, my reason.

  “Damn right. Get out there and prove you’ve got both.” He slapped me on the back, and I took to the ice like I owned it.

  Because that net was my home and that fucking jersey? It was mine.

  2

  Echo

  I wiped down the black granite bar for the umpteenth time that day, ensuring the custom stone gleamed between rushes. We were finally slowing down for the night and since there wasn’t a Reapers game—or a bachelorette party—I’d likely already seen all the action I was going to get.

  A soft smile shaped my lips as I tossed the towel in the bin I kept handy behind the bar. I loved this place, loved every single thing about it, from the amber lighting and the smells of cedar and whiskey to the sounds of rambunctious men shouting at the top of their lungs about hockey.

  Home.

  This bar was home to me, and about the last thing on this planet I actually loved.

  Hope you like it, Dad.

  Every now and then, in the quieter moments, thoughts of my father would slip past my barriers. Not that I needed to keep memories of him locked away, but damn did they sting. It never got easier, missing people you lost, but the pain...morphed. Sometimes into something more manageable. Other times it twisted into emotions sharp enough to cut.

  I’d lost enough people to know that, to have a fucking master’s degree in it. Losing people was my curse in life, and no amount of spells or wishes or prayers would ever change that for me.

  People died.

  People left.

  But my life? Kept on going.

  The entrance door swung open and I straightened, thankful to be jerked back to the present. I plastered the bartender mask I’d perfected years ago on my face—the look that screamed I’m inviting but I could also kick your ass. Bartending 101: you must look both friendly and terrifying, or the inebriated patrons will never respect you or your space.

  “What’ll it be?” I asked as I scanned my stock of mixes, fixes, and glasses beneath the bar.

  “Do you have anything on this menu that isn’t deep-fried?”

  I froze. My inventory forgotten with the sound of that deep, slightly tortured voice, and my smile turned into a full-on smirk.

  I slowly trailed my eyes up, finally settling on the man sitting before me.

  Broad shoulders, cut chest, neatly trimmed beard decorating that strong jaw, and eyes that were storm-cloud gray.

  I held his gaze, slowly twirling my finger to indicate the entire area. “It’s a bar, West Coast.”

  He set the tiny plastic menu facedown. “Bars can have fish.”

  “Yeah, when it’s beer-battered and deep-fried.”

  His laugh was short, too quick. “Some bars have grilled fish.”

  “Scythe isn’t one of those hipster breweries with glazed brussels sprouts as an appetizer. We’ve got cheese smothered burgers, salted fries sizzling out of the deep-fryer, and our fish is beer-battered.”

  He nodded, a flicker of amusement in his ey
es. After he’d taken a few too many seconds to respond, I broke the silence.

  “Twice in two days,” I said. “You must’ve taken a liking to me.”

  “Maybe,” he said, that amusement doubling. “Or maybe the bar you work at happens to be right across the street from the apartment I’m now occupying.”

  “So I guess that means you survived the first cut?” I asked.

  “Six goalies down, five to go.”

  I grabbed a glass and filled it to the brim with ice, then water, and slid it in front of him.

  “This isn’t bourbon,” he said, taking the glass and drinking from it.

  “Nope. And we both know whiskey isn’t going to solve your problems. Especially not when you stomped in here looking for health food.”

  He chuckled, setting the drink down. “I didn’t stomp.”

  I arched a brow at him. “Please. I could practically feel you all Jurassic Park style before you reached the door.”

  His grin flared before he glanced down, surveying himself. “Now you’re making me feel self-conscious,” he teased.

  I leaned my elbows on the bar, drawing as close to him as I dared. Close enough to know he smelled like cinnamon and rain. “You know you’re a perfect specimen, Sawyer McCoy.”

  “But?” he challenged, never breaking our gaze.

  “But,” I said, leaning back to my normal position behind the bar. “I can feel the nerves vibrating off of you.”

  His shoulders sank a fraction.

  “Relax, West Coast,” I said and set a small bowl of celery—the stalks I usually adorned my bloody Marys with—in front of him. “Chew on that for a sec.” I spun around, heading toward the kitchen in the back.

  “While you what?” he called after me, but I was already through the kitchen doors, cell in hand.

  Ten minutes later, I’d called one of my co-workers to cover the rest of my shift, and texted the Reaper crew. Making fast friends with Langley Pierce, Harper Thompson, and Faith Vestergaard had been one of the best developments in my life, and it also gave me access to the rest of the team when necessary.