Hating the Rookie: Laketown Hockey Series Read online

  Hating the Rookie

  Laketown Otters Hockey Series

  Book 2

  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 Hating the Rookie

  Chapter 1 – Brianna

  Chapter 2 – Brodie

  Chapter 3 – Brianna

  Chapter 4 – Brodie

  Chapter 5 - Brianna

  Chapter 6 – Brodie

  Chapter 7 – Brianna

  Chapter 8 – Brodie

  Chapter 9 – Brianna

  Chapter 10 – Brodie

  Chapter 11 – Brianna

  Chapter 12 – Brodie

  Chapter 13 – Brianna

  Chapter 14 – Brodie

  Chapter 15 – Brianna

  Chapter 16 – Brodie

  Chapter 17 - Brianna

  Chapter 18 – Brodie

  Chapter 19 – Brianna

  Chapter 20 – Brodie

  Chapter 21 – Brianna

  Chapter 22 – Brianna

  Chapter 23 – Brodie

  Chapter 24– Brodie

  Chapter 25 – Brianna

  Chapter 26 – Brianna

  Epilogue - Brodie

  Coming Soon

  Sneak Peek: Second Chances

  Connect with A.J.

  Also By A.J. Wynter

  Laketown Otters Hockey Club

  Not a Player

  Hating the Rookie

  The Coach Next Door

  Chance Rapids Series

  Second Chances

  One More Chance

  Accidental Chances

  A Secret Chance

  Reckless Chances

  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 Hating the Rookie

  THE HOT NEW HOCKEY jock is a lot of things:

  Number one: he's a talented player.

  Number two: he's cocky as hell.

  Number three: he used to be my best friend.

  Aaaaand, get ready for Number Four: I just found out he’s living in the cabin next to me.

  Coming back to my hometown was hard enough, now I have to see the jerk who betrayed me, every single day.

  Sure, he’s gorgeous now – his six pack abs have turned into an eight pack. But, I only see the guy who made my high school years a living hell.

  No matter what he does, no matter how hot he is, I’ll never forgive him.

  This is going to be the longest summer ever...

  Get ready for more skinny dipping, campfires, and a little enemies to lovers action. “Hating the Rookie” can be read as a standalone, or as book 2 in the Laketown Hockey Series.

  Chapter 1 – Brianna

  LAKETOWN

  Even though it was hot in the train car, I shivered and looked away from the town’s welcome sign. It was an illustration of a busty woman in a red, old-fashioned bathing suit, waving as she waterskied behind a wooden boat. The bright town sign didn’t make me smile or feel warm inside. No. That fire engine red lipstick wearing woman brought back every single feeling I had before I left my hometown for college.

  Shame. Betrayal. Rage.

  At the bottom of the retro sign hung a blue sign that I had never seen before. I lifted my sunglasses and squinted to read the addition: ‘Home of the Otters. I dropped my Ray-Bans back onto my nose and groaned.

  I hated my hometown.

  Even though the train had slowed, my heart raced. I wiped my palms on my jeans and paused the lecture series podcast on my phone. I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the blackened screen and attempted to tame the flyaway hairs that were sticking straight up from the top of my head. When they didn’t comply, I tossed my hair into a messy bun.

  As the train jerked to a halt, I scanned the platform for any sign of my parents. It didn’t take long to pick out my dad. His hair, which was longer than mine, but totally gray, hung down his back, in a ponytail, from underneath a worn Panama hat. I took out my earbuds and hopped off the train.

  “Dad,” I shouted. He was walking in the wrong direction. I shouted again, but when he didn’t stop walking, I had to break into a light jog. I caught up with him and he jumped when I tapped him on his shoulder. “Dad,” I repeated.

  He turned. “Bree.” He opened his arms and I let my dad hug me tightly. He smelled just as I remembered, like sawdust and marijuana – and I loved it.

  “How was your trip?” he asked.

  I shrugged. “It was okay. The train left on time. Nobody sat beside me.”

  “Ha.” My dad laughed and squeezed my shoulders. “Glad to see college hasn’t changed my salty daughter.”

  But I had changed. A lot. Leaving Laketown and all the drama that had swallowed me up here, was the best thing I’d ever done. The Bree that grew up on Portage Street was long gone, replaced with someone who didn’t worry about running into the mean girls at the corner store.

  With the bags loaded in the back of the faded red Toyota Tercel, my dad pumped the gas a couple of times before turning the key, and the tiny engine whirred to life. The radio crackled, tuned to the local radio station, and then some twangy country song came blaring through the speakers. I unrolled the window and listened to the louder-than-it-should-be muffler as my dad navigated the car through Laketown.

  The streets were lined in red tulips, and my stomach growled as the smell of waffle cones filled the car. It was barely noon and the lineup for the ice cream shop was already out the door. Nothing had changed.

  “I brought you some booch.” My dad pointed to the mason jar of orange liquid in the cupholder.

  “Thanks, dad.” I unscrewed the lid and took a sip of my mom’s homemade kombucha. As a kid, I had been embarrassed by my hippie parents. I wanted a green lawn and swing sets in the backyard, but every square inch of our yard had been covered in tomato plants or chickens – my mom was an urban homesteader before it was cool.

  “Are you hungry? We could stop for something.” My dad slowed as we reached the one traffic light in town.

  I was starving,
but the last thing I wanted to do was run into anyone from my past. I also knew that eating out was an extravagance that my parents couldn’t really afford. “I’m fine dad. I just want to get home and have some of mom’s sourdough.”

  My dad’s eyes crinkled as he smiled. “There’s a fresh loaf with your name on it.” He pulled off his hat and tossed it into the back seat. Clouds had crept onto the horizon of the bright blue sky. “Feels like rain.” He murmured. “We need it.”

  As we continued creeping along at old-man-in-a-parade driving speed, I checked out the new stores along Oak Avenue. Over the years the main street’s stores had gentrified from bargain shops and convenience stores to expensive boutiques, art galleries, and gluten-free bakeries, all catering to the summer crowd.

  Shit.

  I hadn’t expected to see anyone I knew five minutes into my summer. I averted my gaze from the two blond girls who had just walked out of the smoothie shop. Slinking down into the passenger seat, I perched my elbow on the window ledge and tried to hide my face with my hand. I stole a sideways glance through my fingers, relieved to see that the smoothie sucking duo was oblivious to me. My heart thumped in my chest and I took a deep breath before taking a sip of the spicy kombucha. In the side mirror, I watched the two girls strolling down the sidewalk like they didn’t have a care in the world, enjoying their ten-dollar smoothies, probably talking about their great sororities, or their summer jobs at Valerock. I knew that it was petty, but I hated them. They didn’t have to wonder if their high school nickname, B.J. Anna, an immature combination of blow job and Brianna, was going to get shouted across the street. They didn’t have to worry if someone was going to take those smoothies from their hands and pour them over their heads.

  “Are you okay Bree?”

  I hadn’t realized that the jar in my hand had been slowly pouring kombucha on the floor mat. I jerked the jar upright. “Yeah, dad. Just lost in thought there.”

  “Equations on your mind?” My dad had a little smile on his face.

  I had been known to wander the streets of our subdivision, pondering calculus equations for hours. “You know it,” I lied.

  “Want to drive by the old house?” he asked. But before I could answer he had already turned onto Portage Street.

  The last thing I wanted was to drive by our old house. That meant driving by his house.

  “I don’t need to see the house dad. It’s been over two years since you moved.”

  “No. You need to see the terrible color the new owners painted it.” I tried not to look at number sixteen, Brodie’s house. Instead, I fixed my gaze on my childhood home, number eighteen. Growing up, the house had been painted pumpkin orange with blue trim. Now, it was a tasteful dark gray with cream-colored trim.

  “Isn’t it hideous?” Dad shook his head.

  “Terrible,” I smiled. It looked like any other house on the block now. And it was an improvement.

  “They even ripped out your mom’s gardens and planted grass seed. Can you imagine?”

  “Of all the nerve.” I drained the last of the homemade drink, avoiding the slimy scoby at the bottom of the glass. I let myself take a glance at number sixteen. The white porch swing sat empty.

  As kids, Brodie and I had fantasized about swinging the wooden seat from its metal fastenings. That swing had seen a lot of action, from forts to hide and seek as kids, to my first kiss as a teenager – with Brodie. I tried to stifle a sigh of nostalgia as I remembered the feel of his lips on mine. But sentimentality was replaced with anger as I remembered the snarl on his lips the last time we spoke.

  “How did you know they ripped out Mom’s gardens?” I craned my neck as we drove away, trying to get a glimpse of the back yard.

  “Brodie told me.”

  “Brodie?” It felt weird to say his name. “Do you still talk to him?”

  “What?” Dad shouted.

  It hit me then, my dad was losing his hearing. I turned down the staticky Johnny Cash and stared at my dad. “Do you still talk to Brodie Bishop?” I spoke slowly and enunciated each word.

  He tilted his head to the side and then nodded. “Of course.” The car shook as we sped up on the highway and headed out of town towards Casper Cove Road. “We needed some extra help with the grounds this spring. That Brodie’s been a lifesaver.”

  The world started to blur. “Brodie is working at the cabins? Your cabins.”

  “Our cabins,” my dad emphasized. “They’re going to be yours someday, you know.”

  The gravel crunched under the tires as we turned onto Casper Cove Road and dad started swerving like a maniac to avoid millions of potholes. The canopy of maple trees shaded out most of the light and my world got a little darker. I had agreed to come home for the summer to help my parents with the cabins – without knowing a vital piece of information - that they had hired the only person in the world that I truly hated. If they knew what he had done to me, they never would have hired Brodie Bishop. Not in a million years.

  And now I’m going to have to see that asshole, every day, for the entire effing summer.

  Chapter 2 – Brodie

  SOME GUYS LIKE TO KEEP the same number year after year, but I prefer to get a new one each season – a fresh start. This year, I was number seven on the best team in the Northern Professional Hockey League.

  The first time I walked into the dressing room as a bonafide Otter I almost barfed. That was last month. Now, the room felt like it had always been home. I pulled my practice sweater over my chest protector and looked around at my team, wondering how many of them were as hungover as I was.

  As we walked down the hallway to the ice, Leo casually bent over the trash can. We all groaned as he puked out his guts. I had my answer – the Lion was definitely more hungover than me. The entire team cheered and stepped around Leo as they made their way to the ice surface.

  “Hey Leo, do you need me to hold your hair back?” Justin, one of the defensemen patted Leo on the back as he walked by. Leo flailed a free arm, but his glove missed hitting any part of Justin.

  Otters parties were epic and last night was no exception. Some of the guys, like me, had no problem skating suicides and running drills hungover – but it looked like Leo was going to be hurting for the rest of the day.

  The ice was wet and shone in the stadium lighting. The second Andy, the custodian, pulled the Zamboni off the ice and closed the boards, Kane Fitzgerald, the assistant Captain, led us onto the ice.

  “Hey Fitzy, where’s coach?” Dylan, one of our best forwards, asked, as he lazily stroked around the ice without a puck. Dylan, Tanner, and Kane – also known as Fitzy, were all on the New York Thunder’s radar, and all three were spending the summer training with the Otters and the Thunder. I did not doubt that in a couple of years it would be me double training with both the Northern Professional Hockey League – and the National league, like those guys. But first, I had to prove myself to Coach Covington and the rest of the team, before I started worrying about impressing the pro scouts.

  “He’s on his way,” Fitzy shouted and passed a puck to Dylan. Instead of letting it softly land on his stick, Dylan wound up and released a giant slapshot. The puck shot into the empty net like a rocket.

  “Nice one!” I shouted as I launched myself onto the ice. I don’t just step on the ice and shuffle my skates like some of the other guys, I like to get a powerful start. As soon as my skate hit the ice, I knew that something was wrong. My skate felt like someone had taken a hold of it and didn’t want to let go, but my upper body didn’t get the memo and continued its journey forward. I fell to the ice in a crumpled heap. My stick clattered and bounced out of my hands and slid across the entire width of the ice. I’m not going to lie, I felt like I had been punched by the toughest guy in the league, but I couldn’t let it show. I hopped up faster than I had fallen and quickly saw the culprit. A length of hockey tape ran along the bottom of my right skate, perfectly cut to the length of my blade. This was no accident.

  Mike rushe
d at me from the blue line, and when he stopped he sprayed snow all over my blue and white socks. “You alright, rookie?” His grin was almost as wide as his linebacker shoulders.

  I pushed off with the taped blade and glided to the safety of the boards where I peeled off the tape. Just when I thought the rookie hazing was over, something like this happened.

  “You alright, Bishop?”

  Coach Covington stepped onto the ice. While his words said concern, I could see the smirk on his face. Sometimes I thought he liked the hazing as much as the rest of the players.

  “I’m good, Coach.” I crumpled up the tape and tossed it over the glass.

  “You’re going to pick that up on your way out, right?” Coach spoke without looking up from his clipboard.

  “Yes, Coach.”

  “Good. Now let’s get down to business.”

  I WAS FIRST OUT OF the shower and dressed. Coach seemed to know when we were hurting and worked us extra hard, but the grueling practice and cold shower had chased away the remnants of my hangover. As I emerged from the refrigeration of the rink and into the warm summer air, I felt like a million bucks.

  I heard footsteps running to catch up with me.

  “Hey B.B., could I catch a ride with you?” Justin’s face was flushed, he must have sprinted across the entire parking lot to catch up with me.

  “Only if you’re heading west. I’m going straight to work.”

  “West?” Justin screwed up his forehead and turned to look at the sun. “Are you passing The Crepe House?”

  “Yes, that’s west.” I laughed. “Come on, get in.”

  Justin tossed his hockey bag on top of mine and hoisted himself into the doorless Jeep by the padded roll bars.

  “What are you doing at the Crepe House?” I steered the Jeep out of the parking lot and headed downtown. The sun was low and bright in the sky and the mist was rising off Lake Casper as we crossed the swing bridge into town.

  “A few of the guys are grabbing some breakfast.”

  “Ah.” I nodded, feeling left out.