Sawyer (Carolina Reapers 2)

“Look, rookie. You’re not the only one on the ice. They got past five other players to score on you. I can tell you that Simmons and Taylor were both slow as shit tonight, and it didn’t help that I got thrown out in the second period.” He looked at me without pity or compassion, which was oddly comforting. “Point is, the press is picking at you because you’re new. The whole team has been playing like shit, and I honestly think the defense got too comfortable with Fields in net.”

“Hey!” Logan snapped, shooting a glare at Cannon.

“Fuck off, Pretty Boy. Did I say shit about you?” Cannon rolled his eyes and scoffed. “Hopefully what MacDhuibh was saying is that we had two goalies rotating. You’ve been in net every game since you started, with Thurston playing your backup.”

“Right. That’s what I meant,” Connell nodded. “He just said it better.”

“You’re just starting off at pre-season readiness, McCoy, and the rest of the league isn’t. You’ll catch on, so don’t beat yourself to shit over it. We need you to build that confidence, not lose it over the fucking media. Relax. It’s not like we’re out of playoff contention or anything.”

Without another word, Cannon dropped back to his seat, leaving us all blinking at where his head had been a moment earlier.

“Right. What he said,” Connell shrugged and leaned back in his seat.

Logan turned back around, and I spent the rest of the two-hour flight looking out my window, watching the black landscape, punctuated by bright patches of city lights pass beneath us.

It was past midnight when we landed in Charleston. Exhaustion beat at my body, but not my mind.

By one-thirty, I’d gone over each of the three floorplans available in the neighborhood the team called Reaper Village and was nowhere near closer to choosing a house. By one forty-five, I nodded to the doorman and headed toward Scythe.

I hadn’t seen Echo in two weeks—not since the night she met my mom. Not that I had any reason to see her. We weren’t dating. My schedule was overwhelmed with practices, games, and Mom. I had zero business walking over to the bar just before closing on the chance that she’d be there.

Yet, there I was, opening the door anyway.

The inside of the bar was a little brighter than normal, and I spotted at least three workers already closing up for the night. Chairs were up on tables, and the sound of the vacuum filled the small space.

“Sorry, mister,” a waitress I vaguely recognized started, only to pause mid-sentence and grin before looking back over her shoulder. “Hey, Echo, your Reaper is here.”

My gaze followed hers and found Echo standing from where she’d been crouched behind the bar, no doubt putting glasses away. Her hair was down and loose, brushing over the collar of her black leather vest to curl softly around her breasts.

“Not my Reaper, JoAnna,” she corrected the redhead before tilting her head to the side with a soft smile. “Hey there, West Coast.”

“Hey.” The knot that had been tightening in my chest after every loss started to loosen as I crossed the floor to her. “Looks like you’re closing up.”

“Yeah, the girls and I started early. It was dead tonight once the game was over. Sundays,” she finished with a little shrug.

“Or the fact that I lost another game.” I leaned against the bar, fully expecting her to tell me that it was way too late for a stop-over.

“I wouldn’t say that you lost another game,” she countered, drying a beer glass. “I’d say the team did.”

“Doesn’t feel that way.”

Her eyes met mine for a charged moment and then she nodded as if she’d come to some decision. “Sarah, JoAnna, and Trish,” she called past me. “Holly’s done in the kitchen, so I’ll lock up. Why don’t you three head out?”

“You sure?” JoAnna asked, her attention darting to the clock.

“Positive. Out with you.” Echo waved them off, coming around the bar to follow them out. Holy shit, she was wearing a short tartan skirt that only reached mid-thigh, and even her ripped black leggings couldn’t hide the incredible length of her legs. Not that the boots were helping me there, either. Once the bar was empty, she looked back at me, assessing me with a quick swipe of her eyes. “You look exhausted, Sawyer.”

“Is that a polite way of saying that I look like shit?” I asked, turning so I leaned back against the bar.

“That’s a polite way of me telling you that I’m walking you home.”

My brows furrowed. “Isn’t that what I’m supposed to say as the guy here?”

She crossed her arms under her breasts. “Don’t even get me started with that misogynistic shit.”

I put my hands up and laughed. “Okay, okay, you win.” I’d argue the right to walk her back later.