Not a Player (Laketown Hockey Book 1) Read online

  Not a Player

  Laketown Otters Hockey Series

  Book 1

  A.J. Wynter

  Copyright

  Copyright 2020 by AJ Wynter - All rights reserved.

  Editor: Theresa Banschbach www.icanedit4u.com

  Cover Design: Najla Qamber Designs

  In no way is it legal to reproduce, duplicate, or transmit any part of this document in either electronic means or in printed format. Recording of this publication is strictly prohibited and any storage of this document is not allowed unless with written permission from the publisher. All rights reserved.

  Respective authors own all copyrights not held by the publisher.

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are a product of the author's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental. The author does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for third party websites or their content.

  All sexual acts within the book are consensual and the characters are 18+.

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  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Disclaimer

  Also By A.J. Wynter

  About Not a Player

  Chapter 1—Jessie

  Chapter 2 – Kane

  Chapter 3- Jessie

  Chapter 4 – Kane

  Chapter 5 – Jessie

  Chapter 6 – Kane

  Chapter 7 – Jessie

  Chapter 8 – Kane

  Chapter 9 – Jessie

  Chapter 10 – Kane

  Chapter 11 – Jessie

  Chapter 12 – Kane

  Chapter 13 - Jessie

  Chapter 14 – Kane

  Chapter 15 – Jessie

  Chapter 16 – Kane

  Chapter 17 – Kane

  Chapter 18 – Jessie

  Chapter 19 – Kane

  Chapter 20 – Jessie

  Chapter 21 – Kane

  Chapter 22 – Jessie

  Chapter 23 – Kane

  Chapter 24 - Jessie

  Chapter 25 – Kane

  Chapter 26 - Jessie

  Chapter 27 – Kane

  Chapter 28 – Kane

  Chapter 29 – Jessie

  Chapter 30 – Jessie

  Chapter 31 – Kane

  Chapter 32 – Jessie

  Chapter 33 – Kane

  Chapter 34 – Jessie

  Chapter 35 – Kane

  Chapter 36 - Jessie

  Epilogue - Kane

  Sneak Peek: For Richer, For Poorer

  Coming Soon

  Connect with A.J.

  Also By A.J. Wynter

  Laketown Otters Hockey Club

  Not a Player

  Hating the Rookie

  Chance Rapids Series

  Second Chances

  One More Chance

  Accidental Chances

  A Secret Chance

  Reckless Chances (Coming August 2020)

  The Titan Billionaire Brothers Series

  For Richer, For Poorer, Book 1

  For Richer, For Poorer, Book 2

  Her First Time Series

  The Biker’s Virgin

  The Mountain Man’s Virgin

  The Rancher’s Virgin

  Her First Time Boxed Set

  The Billionaires of Torver Corporation Series

  One Perfect CEO

  One Perfect Boss

  One Perfect Billionaire

  One Perfect Professor

  One Perfect Fake Boyfriend

  About Not a Player

  Don't sleep with your teammate's sister.

  That's hockey player code 101.

  But, then again, I don't play by the rules.

  In this small town hockey players are bigger than movie stars.

  I can have any puck bunny that I want.

  I don't need to go after my right-winger's sister.

  Even though she makes my heart hammer and those dimples render me unable to form sentences...

  And, everyone knows that hockey players and figure skaters don't mix.

  I have to focus on one thing, and one thing only, and that's going pro.

  My coach has even hired a power skating specialist to take my skating to the next level.

  I can't let a pretty girl from the wrong side of the tracks derail me now.

  SPARKS FLY AND HEADS butt when superstar forward Kane discovers the identity of his new power skating coach...

  NOT A PLAYER IS A SMALL-town romance sprinkled with a little bit of hockey, a lot of skinny dipping, and one too many toe-picks. This book can be read as a stand-alone or as book one in the Laketown Hockey Series.

  Chapter 1—Jessie

  Laketown is known for two things: hockey and more hockey.

  If anyone found out what I was doing to the precious ice surface at Laketown’s McManus Place Arena I would be crucified. Triple toe loops, flying camel spins, and plenty of toe-picks, every single one of them gouging up their precious ‘hockey players only’ ice.

  There is only one thing in the world that quiets the sound of the twisting metal of the car accident that killed my parents, and that’s figure skating. Out here on the ice, I forget that my world has been turned upside down.

  My ponytail flicked at my cheek as I skated backward around the faceoff circle. I’ve always done my warmup up to Queen. Freddie Mercury’s voice had been with me over the years, from my first shaky single axel to my first solid triple, but this morning I strained to hear his voice coming out of my little speaker over the sound of my skates cutting into the ice.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a dark figure standing by the boards. I smiled and waved, and my dad’s friend Andy, the arena’s custodian, waved back. I’ve known Andy for as long as I can remember, from back when I was a little kid and he had long hair and drove a rusty old van filled with guitars and amplifiers.

  I picked up where I left off, and my breath started to come harder, puffs of steam escaping through my lips. Suddenly Freddie’s voice blared through the arena’s sound system and the full lighting system flickered and then blared brightly. Andy gave me a thumbs up from the system controls. Now I could feel the music through my entire body, my chest felt like it was pounding with the bass. I stepped into my favorite jump, a triple toe-loop, and stuck the landing right in front of Andy.

  When he clapped, my eyes stung with the worst kind of tears, the surprise kind. With a quick swipe of my sleeve, they were gone. “Thank you,” I yelled over the music, but Andy had already turned and disappeared into the belly of the arena. Andy could lose his job for letting me skate here, and intense gratitude washed over me, and those sneaky surprise tears made another appearance.

  I ran through my jumps and spins, finishing off with a flying camel spin and the only jump that still haunts me, my triple lutz. But, no matter how hard I flung myself into the air, it was under-rotated. I ran through the cues that my coach Veronica always shouted at me in her snooty British accent, but some days the lutz just eluded me – this morning was one of them.

  Andy sounded the buzzer and I glanced at the time, 4:49 – early enough for him to get on the Zamboni and erase any signs that Jessie Moss had ever defiled the rink with her toe-picks.

  Chapter 2 – Kane

  It’s a fact. All hockey players are superstitious. I’m not weird. Mike, one of the defensemen, has to eat a sub before every game. Tanner, the captain, has to be the last person to leave the dressing room. Me, I have my gold coin.

  Twisted in my sheets, I pulled my pillow over my
head, trying to convince myself that losing my coin wasn’t a big deal. But my heart wouldn’t stop pounding in my chest and I sat up to take a sip of water. All night long, I’d been having the same dream: it’s game seven, I’m the last player in the shoot-out, and my skates are so dull that I fall every time I charge for the puck. I keep getting up and falling, my team is screaming at me and the arena is deathly silent as the fans watch me flail about on the ice.

  It was four-thirty in the morning, but it didn’t matter. I kicked my feet free from the tangle of sheets and got dressed in my gray sweatpants and an Otters sweatshirt. There was no time for underwear, I had to find my coin. I grabbed the keys to my Land Cruiser and slipped my feet into my flip flops.

  It has to be there, I whispered to myself as I drove down the one-way gravel road, hoping that I didn’t meet another car. There were only a few cottages on Mustang Point Road, but if you met someone, one of you had to reverse until the other car could squeeze by.

  I emerged from the treed canopy, gunned the powerful engine of my vintage Land Cruiser, and headed into Laketown, mentally retracing my steps from the night before. After practice, the team had gone to The Brewpub for dinner, then headed by boat to Tanner’s place. I just hoped that the coin had fallen out somewhere between the arena and The Brewpub – and not in the lake. I popped open the console and pulled out the flashlight that I kept for emergencies. I planned to scour the parking lot of McManus Arena until it opened, and then convince the janitor to let me into The Otters’ dressing room.

  What the hell are the lights doing on? I muttered as I pulled into the parking lot and parked haphazardly by the front door. I jogged to the entrance and yanked on the door hopeful that is was open, but my heart sank when it rattled in my hands – locked. I shone my flashlight on the sidewalk, looking for any shiny objects. Then the custodian appeared, pushing a big broom across the lobby floor. “Hey,” I shouted and pounded on the door.

  “Hi, Fitzy.” He opened the door and consulted his watch. “You’re here early.”

  “Hey, Andy.” I couldn’t believe my good luck. “By any chance have you come across a coin with a pirate ship on it?” Could it be this easy?

  “I haven’t, but if I find it, I’ll let you know.”

  He went to close the door, but I stopped him. “I think I forgot it in the change room. Do you mind if I go take a look?”

  Andy had worked at the rink for years and knew all the Otters’ players by name. He had been a big player back in his day, but never made it past the Northern Professional League – and now he cleaned up after us. Whenever I saw him pushing the broom around after our games, I couldn’t help but feel pity for his sad life.

  He seemed torn, but then shrugged. “Go ahead.” He pushed the door open wide and handed me the carabiner of keys from his belt. “The Otters’ is the big blue one with your logo on it.”

  “Thanks, man.” I grabbed the keys and headed through the lobby, scanning the floor for any sign of my lucky charm.

  “Fitzy.”

  “Yeah,” I turned.

  “Don’t go into the visitor’s room.”

  Weird.

  “Okay.” I threw my arm up over my head waving acknowledgment and continued retracing the steps I would’ve taken the night before.

  I checked the penalty box since last night I had spent two agonizing minutes in the sin bin. The Port Predators were the roughest, rowdiest team in the league. Their enforcer had set his sights on me in the first period and hadn’t let up until I’d dropped my gloves with him in the third.

  I shone the light under the home players’ bench. Nothing.

  Holy shit. The ice looked like hell. Gouges the size of tennis balls pockmarked across the ends, circled by deep grooves, but the telltale corkscrew circles gave the ice wrecker away – a fucking figure skater. In the hockey rink. The boards clanked as Andy stepped onto the ice with a bucket and shovel, manually filling the craters with ice shavings. The Otters’ arena had been built by the team’s owner Jake McManus– a retired star from the professional league and was meant for hockey – and only hockey. Our ice was perfect because we didn’t share it with anyone. My blood was boiling. I had to talk to someone about this, but first I had to find that damn coin.

  The Otters’ change room was the nicest one I’ve ever used, and it was all courtesy of Jake McManus. I headed to my cubby; the number 88 painted on the cement wall above where I sat to lace up my skates. I shone the light under the bench. Nothing.

  I opened my locker and shook out everything that was hanging inside, my frustration mounting when the coin didn’t drop to the floor. I searched every square inch of that room, but that coin was nowhere to be found.

  I locked the change room and turned to continue my search, but my eyes were drawn to the visiting team’s door. There was no way my coin was in there, but I wondered why Andy wanted me to stay out?

  I looked at the keyring, feeling guilty at the very thought of going in after Andy trusted me with the keys. I heard the Zamboni circling the ice and started to walk away but couldn’t help myself and nudged the door open with the toe of my flop and found it wasn’t locked. I held my breath as I pushed it open, stepped inside, and peered around the concrete privacy wall.

  Holy fuck. A gentleman would’ve turned around, but I was too stunned by her perfect back. I know that sounds weird, but the triangular shape of her torso showed that she worked out hard. My eyes trailed down her muscular body to the dimples on each side of her lower back, indents like that meant, yep, an amazing butt. Her round ass, the kind developed only from skating, filled out her yoga pants. As she pulled the hair elastic from her ponytail, wavy brown hair spilled down her back, almost to those perfect dimples. All the blood must have rushed from my brain to other parts of my body. That’s the only way I can explain the loss of control of my hands. The keys dropped to the rubber floor into a loud, jangly pile. She whipped around, her forearm protectively pressing her breasts into two perfect mounds.

  “What are you doing here,” she screamed.

  Brain, please start working. “I...I...I,” I stammered. “Wrong room.” I sounded like a fucking Neanderthal and stood there frozen.

  She turned away from me and pulled her t-shirt over her head. “I’m sorry.” I scooped the keys off the floor and started to back out. She turned to face me, my eyes were drawn first to her flashing green eyes, then to her nipples visible through the thin cotton of her shirt.

  “Get out.” Her voice was low and guttural, then a pink skate guard wind milled at me in slow motion. My brain wasn’t functioning well enough to block it. “Ow, fuck,” I muttered as the hard plastic hit me in the temple. I drew my hand to my forehead. No blood.

  “Get out,” she screamed again.

  “Right, sorry.” I turned and yanked the door open. The bottom of the door was the perfect height to peel my exposed toenail back. I inhaled sharply and bit my lip as pain shot through my body, but I’d be damned if I was going to scream out in front of the girl. I held my breath and hobbled as fast as I could into the hallway. “Dammit,” I released my breath and glanced down to see the blood pooling on the side of my toenail. I ducked into the Otters’ dressing room and opened the first aid kit, wrapping my toe in as much gauze as I could, allowing just enough room to slide it into my flip flop. I slipped out of the dressing room and limped towards the lobby, noticing that the pocked ice surface now gleamed perfectly, no sign of the scars from the girl’s toe picks. “Thanks, Andy.” I tossed the keys to him as I hobbled to the front door.

  “Are you okay?” he asked.

  “Fine,” I grimaced.

  “Hey, Fitz. About the ice—” he began.

  I held up my hand to stop him. “As long as it looks as good as it does now, I won’t say anything – but be careful. You know how the guys feel about toe-picks.”

  “Thanks, Fitzy.” The relief on Andy’s face was obvious. “They’ll never be able to tell.”

  The Land Cruiser roared to life and I got
the hell out of there as fast as I could, but every time I pushed on the gas pedal, my toe throbbed. I was definitely going to lose that toenail. I flicked on my high beams, my eyes scanning the road and the sidewalks as I continued on my journey to retrace my steps.

  I didn’t know that figure skater, or why Andy was letting her skate on our ice, but something inside me told me to let it go. I couldn’t rat him out – he would lose his job. I just hoped that no one else discovered what could only be described as a betrayal, to the club.

  By the time the sun had risen, I had looked everywhere – my coin was gone. I sighed. It had been a gift from my uncle, the black sheep of the Fitzgerald family. Uncle Joe didn’t want to have anything to do with the family business, or the Fitzgerald family estate - Pine Hill. The cottage had been in the Fitzgerald family since the turn of the twentieth century, a staple on all of the Millionaire’s of Laketown cottage cruises with its sweeping verandas and cobblestone pathways. Uncle Joe had chosen a simpler life and lived on a sailboat, dropping in and out of our lives over the years, until he didn’t – we assume that his boat sank somewhere off the Amalfi coast, but no one has ever found him or his fifty-two-foot boat.

  I don’t remember the last time I cried, and today I fought the lump in my throat harder than I had in years, successfully willing the tears away. I turned onto Mustang Point Road and the Land Cruiser sputtered, its wheel shaking in my hands before the entire car shuddered and the damn thing ran out of gas. I groaned and dropped my head onto the carved wooden steering wheel. “I’ll find it, Uncle Joe. I’ll find it.”

  Chapter 3- Jessie

  “Where did you put the keys?” Dylan’s voice was loud from downstairs.

  “They’re in the bowl,” I shouted. Getting yelled at by my brother wasn’t my preferred way to wake up.

  “No, they’re not.” There was irritation in Dylan’s voice, and I heard him rummaging through the drawers in the table by the front door. “Come on, Jessie. I’m going to be late for work.”