Sawyer (Carolina Reapers 2)

“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.