Sawyer: A Carolina Reapers Novel Read online

  Tonight absolutely called for it.

  “All right,” I said as I came through the doors and around the bar instead of behind it. Sawyer spun on his stool to face me, his head slightly tilted.

  “All right, what?”

  “Let’s go,” I said, motioning for him to follow me as I headed toward the exit.

  “Where are you taking me?” he asked, but followed as I left the bar. “Don’t you need to work?”

  “I called someone to cover my shift. She’ll be here in a few minutes, and we’re slow right now so the waitress inside can handle things until then. No worries, West Coast.”

  “Won’t your boss be pissed that you left?”

  I smirked. “Yeah, she can be a real bitch, but I know how to handle her.”

  I led him around the building to the back where I parked my car. Early evening had turned the sky a wicked mixture of indigos and grays and coated everything in a light shadow. The outcropping of trees hugging the back lot did nothing to help the somber setting, and from the worried look in Sawyer’s eyes, he felt it.

  “Relax,” I said, holding open the passenger door for him and waving him in.

  He eyed my fingers on the door, my nails a polished midnight. “Is this where I get initiated into your cult or something?”

  I snort-laughed. “What, you don’t trust me?”

  He took a few steps closer, towering over me as he held my gaze. “I don’t really know that much about you,” he said the words with an edge of hunger like he wanted to remedy that fact as quickly as possible.

  My pulse spiked, his scent and warmth covering me despite him being inches away.

  “Your friends know me,” I said, my voice softer than it was moments before.

  Sawyer held my stare a few more seconds before nodding and sliding into the car.

  I shut the door a little harder than necessary, cursing the desire churning through my veins. It’d been too long since I’d had anyone in my bed—so long that I wanted the boy next-freaking-door. Not my usual type, not by a long shot.

  “You want to tell me where you’re taking me, Echo?” Sawyer asked once I was behind the wheel.

  “To get something healthy to eat, of course,” I said, pulling onto the street.

  A low sigh left his lips, one that almost sounded like disappointment.

  I navigated the streets with ease. I’d lived here my whole life and could drive the route in my sleep if I had to, but I never grew tired of the trip into historic downtown Charleston. I loved the unique mish-mash of old buildings and new, and the amount of history seeped into the foundation supporting them.

  “Wow,” Sawyer said as we parked in front of my favorite seafood restaurant. He stuck close to me as I led him toward the white and blue building with floor-to-ceiling glass windows boarding the entire structure. A wooden patio wrapped around the place and hovered over the water hugging the edge of land the restaurant sat atop.

  I flashed a grin at the girl behind the bar as I beelined it toward the back patio.

  “Your friends are already here,” she called.

  “Thank you, Kylie!” I hollered over my shoulder.

  “What friends?” Sawyer asked.

  “Ours,” I said, reaching back to grab his hand and hurry his pace. “You don’t mind, do you?” I asked when he’d stopped dead in front of the glass doors that showed the entire back patio had been taken over by the Reapers and their girlfriends or wives.

  “I…” he shook his head. “Echo, I—”

  “You’re nervous,” I said. “I get it. Trust me. It’s a huge epic life-changing thing you’re doing. But,” I said, glancing at the tables outside. “I think being around your future team will help.”

  “Future team,” he said, cocking a brow at me. “You know I can’t afford to think like that.”

  “Well, I can.” I winked at him. “Besides,” I continued, pulling him through the door and sighing slightly when he actually came with me. “You said you wanted fish. This is the best place within fifty miles.”

  “Better than Scythe?”

  “Better fish than Scythe,” I said. “I’ve still got the best drinks in town.”

  “That she does!” Langley walked up to me, followed by Harper and Faith, and squished me in a group hug. It’d only been a week since I’d seen them last, but it felt long overdue. What could I say? We all worked too damn much.

  “How is my favorite bartender?” Faith asked as I settled into a chair across from her, Sawyer electing to sit next to me. Lukas, Axel, and Noble completed our table, with Connell MacDhuibh, Cannon Price, Hudson Porter, and Logan Ward dominating the round-top next to us. Outdoor heaters were scattered across the wooden patio, chasing away the crisp bite in the air so customers could enjoy the view of the glistening water lapping at the patio’s base.

  “You know me,” I answered.

  “I do,” Faith said, eyeing me. “Which is why I’m shocked you cut your shift early to dine with us.” She glanced at Sawyer, who’d fallen into an easy conversation with Noble.

  I shrugged, leaning closer to my girls. “He needed to get out of his head for a bit.”

  Harper smirked, and Langley raised her brows at me. “Is dinner the only way you’ll be distracting him?”

  Faith playfully smacked Langley’s arm, and I rolled my eyes.

  “Absolutely,” I said, holding my hand over my heart. “Scouts’ honor. I have no intention of corrupting this one,” I jerked a thumb toward the clean-cut Sawyer, who just so happened to be eavesdropping on our conversation, just like the other three hockey stars at the table. They were as bad as high school chicks.

  Sawyer flashed me a challenging look. “Corrupt me?”

  I patted his shoulder. “Don’t worry, West Coast,” I said. “Your innocence is safe with me.”

  “Why does everyone always assume Sawyer is the innocent one?” Lukas asked, eyeing the girls.

  “Yeah,” Noble said. “You four didn’t see him in Vegas last year with those two blonds—”

  “And the saying what happens in Vegas?” Sawyer cut him off.

  Noble laughed, raising his hands. “Right. My bad.”

  I surveyed Sawyer, searching for the wildness Lukas and Noble hinted at, but I couldn’t see past the perfect manners, the perfectly trimmed beard and the clean skin with no visible signs of ink. This man was good to his core. Though, I supposed he could still be a devil in the sack.

  I handed him a menu from the table. “The grilled snapper is legit. Add some brussels sprouts on the side and I guarantee not one puck will slip past you tomorrow.”

  He grinned. “You guarantee it, huh?”

  I nodded as the waitress came over to take our orders, and my smile doubled as Sawyer ordered exactly what I’d recommended.

  He leaned closer to my cheek as the waitress hurried off to put in our orders. “Guess I do trust you,” he whispered in my ear, and warm chills raced across my skin. The breath caught in my throat when he smirked and pulled away, returning to his conversation with the guys.

  After an hour spent eating, bantering, and joking with the Reapers, I was relieved to see Sawyer’s nerves had ebbed. He seemed damn near at home among the family of pro-hockey players and some of that weight he normally carried had lifted over the course of the night. And when he laughed? It stole my breath.

  I did my best not to gape at him, not to stare.

  Because surely it wasn’t his fault that heat pooled between my thighs and a craving wrenched deep in my core.

  Surely it wasn’t the literal boy next door making my stomach flip.

  Because I didn’t believe in love or relationships anymore, and men like Sawyer McCoy?

  They either broke your heart or tied you down. Planted roots, punched out kids, and lived happily ever after.

  And I wasn’t that kind of princess.

  Not anymore.

  3

  Sawyer

  I tipped back my helmet and drained my water bottle over my face. I was hot, sweaty, exhausted, and loving every fucking second of it.

  There were only two of us left now that it was Tuesday afternoon, and I stared down the ice at my competition, who was using his break to do the same exact thing. The kid was good, no doubt. Fast reflexes, great skating, lethal glove. But Zimmerman had a shit attitude and struggled with reading the skater coming at him at times. Plus the fact that he was willing to walk out on his college team mid-season didn’t sit well with me.

  But I wasn’t the one calling the shots.

  Coach McPherson stood at the bench, talking to Coach Hartman, the goalie coach, comparing notes and looking my way every time they looked down the ice at Zimmerman.

  “You’re doing great,” Connell MacDhuibh said with a grin as he peeled off his helmet and stopped to rest at my goal. God help everyone if the Reapers ever made this guy captain because the refs would never understand that thick Scottish burr through his helmet.

  “Great enough?” I asked quietly between bursts of water from my squeeze bottle.

  “In my opinion? Yes. In theirs?” He looked back toward the coaches and shook his head. “Who the fuck knows what they think.”

  “Comforting.”

  “Look, they already threw Nyström, Porter, Noble, and Vestergaard out after the whiner-baby down there complained that they were tossing you easier shots. I can be honest, or I can powder your arse.” He shrugged.

  “Good point.” They hadn’t been going easier on me. I was simply better than the twenty-year-old kid. Not that twenty-three was much older, but I had two full seasons of experience on this guy.

  The coaches started nodding, and I knew my break was about to end.

  “Switch sides,” Coach McPherson ordered the skaters. “We’re going to give this another
fifteen-minute scrimmage and see what happens.”

  Connell dropped his fist on my shoulder twice, gave me a supportive smile, and left, taking his helmet with him.

  I put my helmet back on and settled into the goal.

  The Reapers, absent four of their best thanks to our personal connection, traded sides, and met for the faceoff.

  There was a stillness I loved about the faceoff. The way the ice went quiet in anticipation of the action to come. Then all hell broke loose.

  I’d definitely had the better defense last shift, so this was about to get interesting. I tracked the puck with single-minded focus, keeping the defensemen in my peripherals until they charged forward.

  Cannon-fucking-Price. Of course he was the one flying at me like a bat out of hell. I’d never seen a faster skater, let alone faced one. Price outmaneuvered the defenseman, and a second later he had a clear path. He came down the ice so quickly that I barely had time to skate out and adjust my stance before he was on me.

  I let go of everything I knew about this guy’s stats and watched his movements. Holy shit, his puck-handling was incredible. He came closer, deked right, but then his weight shifted, and I saw it, the tiny balance adjustment that had me reaching with my glove.

  The puck hit with lethal force, and I savored the slight sting because it meant I had it. I fucking had it.

  Coach Hartman blew the whistle and skated over.

  “How the hell did you see that?” he asked, taking the puck from my glove.

  “He shifted his weight,” I answered.

  Coach stared at me with lowered brows, his eyes searching for something that I couldn’t name, and therefore couldn’t produce. Then he nodded slowly and a slight smile lifted the corner of his mouth. “Okay, then.”

  He skated off to the bench, and Coach McPherson blew the whistle to start again.

  A half hour later, I was dead on my feet, but I’d saved all but one shot.

  Zimmerman had the same record.

  I sat in the locker room, ignoring the noise of the other players around me, let the sweat drip from my hair, and summoned the energy to move. I’d never played that hard for that long, let alone gone three days in a row at the same pace.

  My cell phone buzzed from the locker behind me, and I reached for it out of sheer muscle memory.

  Unknown: Did you know that wombats make cube-shaped poop?

  What the actual fuck?

  I looked up and scanned the room around me, wondering if I had become the next target on Connell’s ever-growing prank list. Guy couldn’t take anything seriously except hockey. When no one so much as looked my way, I fired off a reply.

  Sawyer: Who is this?

  Unknown: Come on, West Coast, you think I’m going to make it that easy for you?

  My smile was instant. I quickly saved her in my contacts, already feeling a little lighter.

  Sawyer: You just did. How did you get my number?

  Echo: I have friends in cold, icy places.

  This time I grinned. She’d asked about me enough to track down one of my friends and get my number.

  Echo: I’m guessing you’re still alive?

  Sawyer: Just finished. I’ll probably know by tonight.

  Echo: Did you know that bananas share fifty percent of their DNA with humans?

  I laughed outright, which earned me a few sideways glances from the guys.

  Sawyer: You are so random.

  Echo: Bet it made you laugh.

  Sawyer: It did. Thank you. I’d better hit the showers before you can smell me from down the street.

  Echo: Is that you? I wondered what that heinous odor was.

  I shook my head, but before I could put my phone away, another text came through.

  Echo: Forty-two percent of people admit to peeing in the shower...so be careful in there.

  Sawyer: Goodbye, Echo.

  Echo: Watch where you step.

  Her trick worked. By the time I walked into the shower to rinse off the workout, I was shaking my head at her antics instead of hanging it with worry.

  I’d done my best. Worked my ass off and left everything out there on the ice. Now it was out of my hands and in the coaches’.

  * * *

  Three hours later, I sat in an empty conference room at Reaper Arena, staring at the long expanse of mahogany that served as a conference table. I knew Silas had spared no expense when he’d built the arena. Everything from the practice ice to the training room was state of the art. But seeing it up close and personal was awe-inspiring.

  I looked at the clock. It had been five minutes since I’d been shown into the room with no explanation from Mr. Silas’s personal assistant. Zimmerman wasn’t here, so I had to assume that he’d had a separate conference room, or his meeting was yet to come.

  Either way, I was here for one of two reasons: to be offered a contract, or be sent home to Seattle.

  The door opened with a click, and I rose to my feet. My mother would have killed me if I’d stayed sitting while the coaches and Asher Silas himself walked into the room. The coaches both wore their Reaper jackets, while Silas had on a suit that cost more than I’d made all year.

  “Sawyer,” Coach McPherson greeted me with a nod that gave nothing away. Guy had to be a kickass poker player.

  “Sir,” I answered, reaching across the table to shake his hand, then Coach Hartman’s, and finally Asher Silas’s. It was surprisingly rough for someone who spent all his time making billions in the tech industry.

  “It’s nice to finally meet you,” Silas said with a slight smile. “My sister speaks very highly of you.”

  “Harper is one of a kind,” I replied with an easy grin.

  “She is,” he agreed, releasing my hand and relaxing his stance before they took their seats in front of me.

  I sat slowly, concentrating on keeping steady and not shaking like a leaf in a windstorm. NHL goalies didn’t shake. They were steadfast, dependable, the backbones of their teams.

  “Eric Gentry told me I’d be an idiot if I didn’t pick you up,” Coach McPherson said, leaning back in his chair.

  “Gentry is a phenomenal goalie and a great guy,” I answered, ignoring the invitation to tout my awesomeness. I was good, but I wasn’t Gentry good.

  “He is,” Coach agreed. “He also said that you’re a family-oriented man with a lot on his shoulders.”

  Asher Silas leaned forward in his seat, while Coach Hartman kept that soul-stare on me, picking me apart without having to say a word.

  “My mother,” I said easily. “She has stage four Parkinson’s. That’s why I chose Seattle for college, so I could be close to her. Well, that and the full ride to U-Dub didn’t hurt.”

  That earned me a chuckle from the three men who would decide my future.

  “I do put her first, Coach, because she put me first. It’s been the two of us since I was fifteen. That doesn’t mean I can’t devote myself to my team—”

  “Stop,” Coach ordered softly, putting his hand up slightly, palm out. “I’m a family-first man. I believe the Reapers are only as strong as the men on the ice and the families who stand beside them, which means we don’t ask you to choose. We ask how we can support.”

  “Sir?” At least my voice didn’t crack.

  “We have several assisted living facilities here in Charleston that provide first-class care,” Silas said. “Or if you’d prefer, we can find excellent at-home care to make sure your mother is cared for.” A corner of his mouth lifted. “Though from what I’ve been told, she quite likes the company of other adults.”

  “You’ve been told?” I repeated like a fucking parrot.

  “By your mother, herself,” he confirmed with a nod.

  Holy fucking shit. Asher Silas called my mother?

  Did that mean…

  “We’d like to offer you a contract, Sawyer,” Coach McPherson said with a grin.

  My stomach flopped, and something I was terrified to call happiness welled up in me so fast that I almost jumped out of my seat.

  “A contract?” I repeated, and this time my voice lifted at the end.

  “You’re our guy if you want to be,” he confirmed with a nod.

  I glanced at Coach Hartman, who nodded.

  “You’re slow in the footwork, but that’s probably due to not playing in the last few months,” he noted. “But your instincts are unlike anything I’ve seen.”