High Risk Rookie

by Odette Stone

  “Max Logan has a lot to answer for. Supposedly, the Minnesota coach will bench him for the rest of the season.”

  “Jim, if he does, that will cost Minnesota their chance at winning the Stanley Cup.”

  “Dave, I think Logan took it too far this time. I’m not sure if he can ever come back from this. I would bet that Minnesota is actively working to get rid of Max Logan.”

  “Jim, I agree. But if that happens, the chances of Logan being accepted on a trade is almost minuscule, despite his skills on the ice. A GM can’t risk this kind of off-ice antics because it can derail a team. Tonight may have been Max’s last professional hockey game.”

  Chapter One

  I strode into the airport lounge, stepped up to the bar, and tossed my bag on the chair beside me.

  “What will you have?” the bartender set a coaster in front of me.

  “A gin and tonic, please,” I pulled out my wallet. “Make it a double.”

  I was heading home. Liquid fortitude was in order.

  My phone vibrated.

  “Hey, Mom.”

  “Sweetheart, how are you?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Your dad and I are excited to see you.”

  I didn’t bother to hide the amusement in my voice, “Mom, only two months ago, you were at my graduation.”

  It had been no small accomplishment to persuade my parents to let me spend the summer in New York after I graduated from University, but they had caved.

  “Rory, you know what I mean. We’re happy that you’re moving back home. It’s been a long four years.”

  I begged to differ. It had been the greatest four years of my life. Wanting to be independent, I had picked a university far from home. But now my bid for freedom was ending, and the prodigal daughter was returning home.

  I loved my parents. As helicopter as they were, they loved me. Sometimes too much.

  “It’ll be nice to be back in Vancouver.”

  “It thrills your father you’ll be working with him. He’s been talking about it for weeks.”

  The tension in my stomach grew tighter. My father always wanted a son to follow him into his business. But since I was his only child that lovely honor now fell onto my shoulders.

  Crushing me.

  I had no intention of joining my father in his business, but we negotiated a deal four years ago. If he let me go to university in New York, I would return to Vancouver and intern with him for one year upon graduation.

  “I think they’re calling my flight for boarding, Mom,” I lied. “I should go check.”

  “Okay. Your father and I have a charity benefit tonight, so we’ll send the car for you.”

  “Sure, sounds fine.” My parents enjoyed significant societal commitments. Warm airport welcomes were not something we did as a family.

  “Love you, Rory.”

  “See you soon, Mom.”

  I hung up the phone. Not caring that it was only noon, I motioned for the bartender to pour me another gin and tonic. Boarding started in 30 minutes and I needed liquid courage to get on my flight.

  A man approached the bar. I studied him from beneath my eyelashes.

  Smoking hot.

  He stood well over six feet tall and his light brown hair touched his collar. From the silver military style watch on his wide wrist to the navy dress shirt that opened at the collar, he looked expensive. His dark jeans fit over his sculpted ass. Super-hot and so not my type. I didn’t go for athletic men, and I didn’t go for wealthy ones. He was both.

  As if he had a sixth sense, he turned so I could see his face.

  Holy fuck.

  The breath sucked into my body as I took in his incredible jawline that narrowed towards his chin. His cheekbones were so chiseled they’d make Di Vinci weep. Slanting blue eyes studied something behind me. Pulling my eyes away from him, I tossed back my drink.

  A voice crackled over the loudspeakers. “Attention all flyers, Canada West, flight 335 to Vancouver has been delayed. Your new departure time is 12:50 PM. We apologize for this inconvenience.”

  I refrained from groaning. I hated flying.

  “Another one, sweetheart?”

  “Yes please, make it another double.”

  “Sure thing.”

  The hot guy sat at the bar, a few seats away from me. Out of my peripheral, I noted that he checked his watch when the announcement sounded. Then, he motioned for the bartender to bring him a drink.

  During my four years in New York, I preferred to date artists. Most of my ex-boyfriends were brilliant painters with sweet souls. What they lacked in physique they more than made up with their intellect and sensitivity. This guy appeared to be the typical guy who avoided talking about his feelings, preferring to watch sports and drink with his buddies.

  He was also built to fuck.

  The thought rushed through my brain like a bad buzz. I sat frozen, my drink halfway to my lips. Where had that thought come from? I studied him with discretion. The sports television above the bar held his undivided attention.

  The Baby Men, as my father had coined my boyfriends, had one major flaw. They all sucked in the sack. Maybe it was their lanky, thin frames or the fact they were more cerebral than physical, but my sex life, to date, had been lackluster.

  Hot guy had massive shoulders, and an athletic body. To be honest, his power scared me. Like a dark angel who could crush a woman’s heart without even trying. He’d take charge in and out of the bedroom.

  I learned early in life that I don’t want to give anyone power or control over me. My entire life I suffered in a power struggle with my dad. Why would I date someone who wanted to dominate? This guy was pure alpha male. An exciting prospect in the sack, but the rest of your life promised to be a living hell.

  A voice crackled over the loudspeakers. “Attention, please. This is the first boarding call for Canada West, flight 335 to Vancouver. Departing passengers should proceed to gate number 23 immediately.”

  I downed my drink so that I felt buzzed enough to manage take off. I headed to the washroom. My long black hair hung straight down to my waist. I could do nothing about my bleary blue eyes, but I touched up my lip gloss and squared my shoulders.

  Fake it, till you make it.

  I walked to the boarding area and sat down on one of the hard, blue seats. Despite the alcohol coursing through my veins, I felt panicky.

  I can do this!

  The boarding line diminished until only the airline staff remained at the gate. I could not seem to get off my chair. My churning gut told me not to get on that flight.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, Canada West, flight 335 to Vancouver is closing its doors in one minute. Ticketed passengers must board immediately. I repeat, this is the final boarding call for Canada West, flight 335 to Vancouver.”

  Did it matter if I took a later flight? My parents wouldn’t care. They were at a function tonight. I could get a hotel, or even better, return to NYC.

  Above me, the overhead speaker crackled. “Rory Ashford, please report to gate 23 immediately. Rory Ashford. Please report to gate 23.”

  With heavy, reluctant limbs, I walked up to the gate. The attendant glared at me as she took my passport and my boarding pass.

  “Didn’t you hear the announcement?”

  I tried to speak, but no words came out.

  She snapped my papers back at me. “Have a nice flight.”

  Puck Me Secretly, is now available on Amazon and KU.

  Excerpt from: Home Game

  A Vancouver Wolves Hockey Romance

  Chapter One: Ryan

  “Shit,” I said under my breath, looking in dismay at the screen of my laptop. I was in a cafe trying to get my receipts submitted to Frank, my accountant, who had threatened to disown me if I didn’t get him an accurate account of my expenses. I had been doing good but now the screen I had been working on had disappeared and there was nothing. I leaned back in my seat and rubbed my face with frustration. Wasn’t the point of having a
n accountant was so he could do all this shit?

  “You accidentally minimized your screen. That’s all,” a soft voice spoke from my left.

  I looked beside me. A tiny punk rocker chick was looking at my screen. Messy black short hair tucked behind her ear that was lined with multiple piercings. She had a tiny silver ring on the side of her petite nose. The biggest blue eyes, lined with heavy black make-up avoided my gaze.

  “You know how to get it back?” I asked. She didn’t look like she knew her way around a computer, but desperate times called for desperate measures.

  She leaned across me, punched a couple keys and my program was back.

  I stared at the screen in amazement and then looked back at her. “Thanks.”

  Her head was already bent over a beat-up paperback. Her thin, plaid-covered shoulders gave a slight shrug but other than that, she didn’t acknowledge me.

  I took a deep breath. Only in Vancouver. People in this city all seemed to walk to the beat of their own drummer. Here, it seemed like anything went when it came to personal style. I started to work again.

  God, I hated working on the computer. This was my fault. Krista, my agent, had been bugging me for months to hire a PA but my life had been stupidly busy. First, it had been playoffs. Then when the season ended, they had drafted me to the NHL Vancouver Wolves. It had felt like chaos packing up my life, saying goodbye to my old team and finding a new place to live. I got the keys to my apartment and my boxes the same day I needed to show up for my first practice with my new team. Between off season conditioning and training, trying to get to know my new teammates, and sorting out everything from HR paperwork to changing my bank accounts, there had been no time for anything but what was necessary.

  “But this is why a PA would help you. All this stuff that is making you too busy to hire someone is exactly the stuff you can just give to them,” Krista told me yesterday at our dinner meeting. “I’m going to set up some interviews for you.”

  If it meant that someone else would organize my receipts, then I was onboard.

  “Shit,” I said again, when the program disappeared from my view. I clenched my teeth in frustration.

  I glanced over at the little punk rocker, who was reading with intensity.

  “Hey,” I said.

  Nothing. She didn’t even lift her head.

  “Yo, computer genius,” I spoke again.

  She didn't even lift her face from her book. “Drag your mouse down the screen. Your docking station is set to hide itself.”

  “My docking what?” I asked, trying to negotiate the trackpad on my laptop. Nada.

  She lifted her head and looked directly at me. The electric light blue of her eyes again surprised me. “Your docking station is where your apps are. And when you minimize your document, it gets pulled down to your docking station.”

  “I want my program to open again.”

  Her expression was a mixture of disbelief and incredulity. “I just told you how to get it back.”

  “Can you show me?” I flipped my laptop towards her.

  Her look told me she thought I was a sad fucking idiot too stupid to own a laptop, but then with an exaggerated sigh, she pulled the machine closer to her. She moved the mouse.

  “I will set your computer so that your docking station is static.”

  “Sure.” I still didn’t have a clue what she was talking about.

  She shoved it back and pointed at the screen with a tiny hand. Her short nails were coated with chipped black polish. “See these dots up in this corner? The yellow dot minimizes it. When you do that, it will go here. You click on it to pull it back up.”

  She demonstrated.

  “Wow, you know what you’re doing.”

  “It’s called opening and closing a program. Pretty basic.”

  “Thanks.” I reluctantly pulled the laptop back towards me. “I appreciate your help.”

  She snorted. “Yeah, well, while we’re at it, you’re using your program wrong.”

  “My tax program?”

  “Yup,” her tone was short, her nose already buried back in her book.

  “What do you know about that?”

  “Enough to know you’re using it wrong.”

  “You’re going to have to be more specific.”

  “You’re in the wrong screen. You’re inputting your receipts as taxable income. When you should put it in as federal non-refundable tax credits.”

  I stared at her in shock. “How the fuck do you know that?”

  She gave me another one of those disbelieving looks. “How do you not?”

  "No, seriously. Are you an accountant?"

  Scoff. “No.”

  “Can you show me?”

  She pulled the laptop closer. “I took accounting in grade 10.”

  “You learned that in grade 10?” I studied her closer. She looked young, and she was tiny. So petite. Was she still in high school? All I needed was some angry dad accusing me of hitting on his daughter.

  “Um, have you graduated from high school yet?”

  “Have you?” she shot back.

  Touché. “You’re over 18, right?”

  Her fingers stopped typing, and she looked at me with aggressive hostility. “I will not fuck you after I help you.”

  I lifted my hands. “Whoa. No one is talking about that here.”

  She rolled her eyes and shook her head. “Just quit being such a creepy fuck then.”

  A creepy fuck? If I hadn’t been so shocked, I would have laughed. In my world, I almost needed to beat the women off me with a hockey stick. Apparently, punk rockers weren’t hockey fans. “I don’t want an irate dad coming in here and freaking at me for talking to his underage daughter. That’s all I was getting at.”

  She stopped typing momentarily but didn’t look at me. “No worries about that happening.”

  “Okay. I’m going to grab another coffee. Can I get you anything?”

  A long beat. “No, thank you.”

  “Seriously, let me get you a drink. Want a water or a juice or something? It’s the least I can do.”

  Those damn blue eyes looked up at me again. Hesitant. “Could I have a hot chocolate?”

  This chick was a dichotomy. I expected her to drink her coffee black and her liquor hard. A hot chocolate didn’t fit with her whole hate-the-world persona.

  “Of course.”

  I walked around the corner to the counter and stood in line. It took me a few moments to realize that I couldn’t see her, or my laptop. Whatever. Fuck. If she wanted to take off with it that was her prerogative. I hated the fucking thing. In fact, it would probably get me off the hook with my accountant.

  “What can I get for you?” the barista asked.

  “I’ll take a coffee and a hot chocolate.”

  “Would you like whipping cream?”

  Did punk rocker chick like whipping cream? No clue.

  “Sure, why not?”

  She leaned closer, mock whisper. “I’m sorry to bother you, but are you Ryan Parker?”

  I looked at the flushed barista for the first time. Another barista friend hovered behind her.

  Shit.

  I leaned forward. “I am. But I’m just here to drink coffee like every other patron.”

  In other words, don’t make a fuss.

  “Could I get your autograph?”

  “Sure.” I took the proffered pen and signed a paper napkin. I needed to move this along before everyone else in the cafe figured out who I was. Vancouver, as I was finding out, was as crazy about hockey as a small town in Saskatchewan. They were loyal, relentless fans that treated their team like royalty.

  “How much do I owe you?”

  “It’s on the house.”

  I shoved a twenty in her tip jar. “Thanks.”

  “I’ll bring it out to you.”

  “Thanks.”

  Back around the corner, punk rocker was working away at my laptop. I sat down beside her.

  “I’m just setti
ng up categories for you.”

  “Okay.” Recalling vaguely that Frank had spoken of such things.

  She glanced over at the shoebox of receipts. “Sort those into the following groups: medical, travel, housing, moving and everything else.”

  The barista appeared at our table. “So, who’s having the hot chocolate?”

  “She is.”

  “Oh,” the barista said, shock laced her voice when she looked at the chick beside me. “I… okay.”

  She set down our drinks. When she was out of earshot, I asked, “You come here a lot?”

  Defiant. “It has clean washrooms.”

  “Huh,” I said. Didn’t all coffee shops have clean washrooms?

  “Just sort your receipts, okay?”

  “On it.”

  We worked in silence together. After I sorted, I read them off to her while she typed. We were halfway through the box, which was a fucking miracle as far as I was concerned, when she looked up in alarm.

  “I have to go,” she pushed my laptop back towards me, and then shrugged into the most beat up little leather jacket I had ever seen.

  “You’re leaving me?” I sounded as panicked as I felt.

  “I have to catch the bus.” She turned to walk away.

  Without thinking, I reached forward and grabbed her wrist. It felt like a tiny doll wrist in my huge hand. She yanked hard, and I instantly let go.

  “What the fuck!” she glared at me. True anger etched on her face.

  “Sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean to touch you.”

  “What?”

  I spoke fast, “I’ll pay you. To help me.”

  “How much?”

  “Uh… twenty bucks.”

  She looked tempted and then backed away. “I can’t. I have to go before I’m late.”

  “I’ll give you fifty bucks if you help me and then I’ll drive you wherever you need to go.” I gave her the most charming smile I had in me. Which usually melted panties off, but in her case, she glared at me like I was the scum on the bottom of her beat up doc martin boots.

  “You going to make me beg?” I tried another smile.

  She stared at me. Unmoved. “I can do twenty minutes for twenty dollars. And you pay me up front.”