Sawyer (Carolina Reapers 2)

“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.

“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.”