Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 80203 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 401(@200wpm)___ 321(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80203 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 401(@200wpm)___ 321(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
My phone rang. The caller ID listed it as unknown, but I never took chances. I answered the call with a swipe of my thumb, sending up a quick prayer that it wasn’t about Mom.
“McCoy,” I said, keys in hand.
“Sawyer. Thank God you answered,” a gruff voice answered.
Holy shit. No way. There’s no fucking way.
“Can I help you?” I asked softly, scared to even think that it was who I thought it might be.
“This is Coach McPherson with the Carolina Reapers.”
My keys hit the asphalt. It really was him. Gage McPherson. Former star player for the Seattle Sharks and coach of the brand-new Carolina Reapers. The man who’d put me in for the last twenty-eight seconds of my first and only NHL game, simply because they were up four to zero, and that was the kind of man he was.
“Sawyer?” Coach asked. “You there?”
“Yes, sir,” I answered quickly, clearing my throat. “You just caught me off guard.”
“I can imagine. Look, it’s been a shit night, so I’m going to keep this quick. Remember that tryout clause in your one-day contract?”
I leaned against my truck to stay standing. “Yes, sir. Vaguely.” Faith had prodded the Reapers to add it at the last minute. It stated that if I played in the game, even for a second, I was automatically invited to try out for the Reapers next year if they held open tryouts. But since Thurston was mostly on board to bring Fields up, I knew there wouldn’t be an open slot, hence no tryout. I wasn’t naive enough to get my hopes up.
“Fields is out. Tore the ACL.”
I hissed in sympathy.
“That means you’re up, son. We’re hosting a limited tryout tomorrow in Charleston, and you’ve got an invite.”
I swallowed past the lump that had somehow grown in my throat. “Sir?” I questioned once my voice was capable.
“Won’t be many of you. We’ve got a call going out for about a dozen goalies. But I have to warn you, those boys have all been playing in the minors. I’m rooting for you, but you have to bring the goods tomorrow, McCoy.”
“Tomorrow,” I repeated. How the fuck was I going to afford a last-minute ticket?
“Tomorrow,” Coach McPherson confirmed. “We’ve got four days off, and the new guy has to be ready before we play Chicago.”
Before I could reply, I heard a feminine voice I recognized in the background.
“I’ve got this,” Coach reassured her. “Damn, it, Langley!”
There was a slight rustling, then the sound of a door closing and a quick intake of breath.
“Sawyer?” Langley Pierce-Nyström, the head of the Reapers’ PR team came on the line. She was good friends with Faith and had run the Sharks’ PR for years before leaving Seattle.
“Hey, Langley.”
“I stole the phone so Gage couldn’t listen in. Look, I’m texting you the information, but I have a jet ready to leave when you are, courtesy of Lukas since we can’t be seen showing favoritism. And by when you are, I mean, you’ll have your ass on that flight by seven p.m., do you understand me?”
Her fierce tone finally cut through my shock. “Langley, I don’t play in the minors. I play pick-up games on the weekend. I can’t compete. Hell, if I couldn’t do it right out of college, there’s zero fucking chance now,” I admitted quietly.
“You’re still training?”
“Yeah. I’m in great shape, just…” I sighed. Last time I’d come so close, and the pain that followed my failure had been debilitating.
“Sawyer McCoy. You get home, get your gear, and get to the airport. Do you understand me?” she hissed in a whisper.
I was ripped in two—the part of me who recognized that this chance would never come again, and the self-preservationist who begged me to be happy with what my life was now. And with my mother here and in need of constant care, what business did I have getting on a plane in the middle of the night to chase pipe dreams?
“I will send Axel if you don’t agree right this minute.”
“Damn, Langley, you’re married to the scariest motherfucker in the NHL,” I muttered.
“No, that award goes to Cannon, but I’m sure you’ll get along just fine. Now I’m serious. I know your personal life is complicated, but if you make the roster, I’ll personally help you get everything and everyone situated. Get on the damned plane. I’ll meet you in Charleston with the keys to my place. We’re all rooting for you.” She hung up without letting me respond.
I didn’t slow down long enough to let myself think. I grabbed my gear, some clothes, my practice jerseys, and called Mom. Then I grabbed my Reaper jersey at the last second and walked out the door.
I got on the damned plane.
A half-hour after dropping my stuff at Langley’s old apartment, which was conveniently within walking distance of Reapers’ Arena, I strolled past the doorman with a nod and headed into the night.