The Rookie Read online

  Table of Contents

  The Rookie

  About the Book

  Playlist

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Epilogue

  What to Read Next

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  The Rookie

  Copyright © 2021 Kendall Ryan

  Copy Editing by Pam Berehulke

  Cover Design and Formatting by Uplifting Author Services

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form without written permission of the author, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages for review purposes only.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  About the Book

  He has everything a man could want. A lucrative hockey contract. Adoring fans. A family who loves him.

  But he’s about to throw it all away. Logan Tate’s name is dominating the headlines for all the wrong reasons. Instead of goals and assists, the talented young defenseman has been racking up fights and suspensions.

  I work with athletes who are struggling, but Logan’s different. He’s not just going to blow his season, but his entire career. And now he can’t return to the ice until he deals with his issues, but the stubborn man won’t let anyone get close enough to help.

  Which is why I packed up and followed him to his family’s property in the remote mountains of Colorado. He can’t avoid me here.

  The only problem?

  I can’t avoid him either. He’s chopping wood and building fires, rescuing my car from snowy ditches, and inviting me to Sunday dinners with his loud extended family. He’s a whole lot of man, but beneath all those hard edges is an unexpected tenderness.

  Tempted or not, I have to stay out of his bed and get him back to the ice . . . no matter how difficult that might be.

  Playlist

  “Shy Away” by Twenty One Pilots

  “All Time Low” by Monsters, featuring blackbear

  “Slow Down” by Gilligan Moss

  “Come a Little Closer” by Cage the Elephant

  “Teardrop” by Massive Attack

  “Fragments” by Thievery Corporation

  “Heart on Fire” by Scars on 45

  “Love Don’t Die” by The Fray

  1

  * * *

  LOGAN

  The Boston Titans are playing in our home arena, and we’re losing. Badly. And I’m a big part of the reason why.

  I’ve managed to screw up on every shift I’ve taken on the ice—an impressive feat, for sure. Although the first time wasn’t my fault. At least, not completely. My stick broke on a pass. Hell, maybe I was being too aggressive, but either way, instead of flying over to our right wing, the puck only wobbled a few feet away and was snatched up by the Avalanche’s defense.

  That was when they scored their first goal . . . only forty seconds into the game . . . and when everything started to go downhill.

  What I know for certain is that my team is losing patience with me. Even our captain, Reeves, who’s always supported me, was this close to dropping his gloves and pounding me into the ice. I could practically taste his frustration when he growled in my face.

  “Come on, Tate. Get your shit together,” he hissed as he skated past me.

  Of course, this had to happen against our biggest rivals, the Denver Avalanche. And it’s my fault we’re down by three goals.

  “Shit game you’re having, yeah?” Bronson, the Avalanche’s cocky center, gives me a grin that shows off his missing front tooth.

  “Shit game? Try shit season.” His teammate Raduloff smirks at me, his eyes sparkling with delight.

  I grind my teeth against my mouthguard to keep from saying anything. His words sting like only the truth can.

  There are no hockey fans holding up signs for me in the stands. No jerseys with my name printed on the back. Not yet, anyway. I’m unproven talent, the new guy on the team. And I’m blowing it every single time I take the ice.

  It would help if I could get out of my own head for four fucking seconds. Yet lately, a bunch of confusing thoughts seem to fill my brain—like who I want to be in the NHL, and what I want to be known for. And since I don’t have any answers, it’s messed with my ability to perform.

  At first, I was happy just to be getting ice time, but it quickly became clear that’s not enough. I’m up against some of the most talented players in the world, and they’re literally skating circles around me. They’re the type of guys who are the best in the league and still aren’t satisfied, and I’m learning that’s the mentality you have to have to succeed. It’s not enough just to make it. It’s not enough that I can skate fast and handle a stick at the same time.

  Maybe I don’t belong here at all. Maybe I’ve only been fooling everyone before. Imposter syndrome is alive and well.

  Self-doubts like these are always followed by the same somber thought . . . I wish my dad were still around to talk to. Maybe he’d have some insight or words of wisdom. Or maybe he’d just tell me he’s proud of me and that everything else will start to fall into place. But all I have now is my memories of him.

  At the next face-off circle, Bronson skates past, giving me a little shove. “Don’t worry about Tate. He won’t be here next year.”

  “At this rate, he won’t be here next week,” Raduloff says, his tone serious now, less teasing.

  Bronson is bounced from the face-off circle and replaced with an angry-looking guy from Russia. What happens next is a blur.

  They win the puck, and I move into my zone. Raduloff pokes his stick at my skate, almost tripping me before skating away with a smirk.

  I race after him across the ice, white noise screaming in my ears, and tackle him from behind. A stealthy, highly illegal attack he wasn’t prepared for.

  Raduloff goes down like a sack of potatoes—hard, quick, and without any of the grace he normally has on the ice. When he twists around to fight me off, I get in two solid hits before we’re pulled apart and I’m escorted off the ice.

  I feel nothing but rage.

  • • •

  “What the hell were you thinking?” Coach Wilder bellows, jabbing his finger into my chest before taking a step back so he can continue pacing the conference room with frustrated steps.

  We’re joined by Coach Tanner, and a woman I don’t recognize from the league. I’m told she’s the head of player safety, so I know this meeting is serious. Which is why I dressed in a suit and arrived twenty minutes early, just to be safe.

  That little stunt I pulled on the ice last night cost us the game. I was ejected, and my team had to play five minutes short-handed for the major penalty. The sports reporters had a lot to say about my behavior, me as a player, as a teammate, as a person . . . and none of it was positive.

  Wilder pauses and places one hand on the table, leaning toward me. “Raw talent isn’t enough to ju
stify misconduct. You know that.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “This can’t go unpunished.”

  “I understand, sir.”

  Coach makes an exasperated sound. “Do you even care about this?”

  I care about a lot of things, but I’m not sure hockey is one of them anymore. Keeping those thoughts to myself, I give him the answer he’s expecting. “Yes, of course I do.”

  His eyes sink closed, and he inhales slowly. “The team is suspending you.”

  My stomach twists as I meet his eyes, waiting for my punishment.

  “For eight games.”

  Damn. It’s more serious than I expected. But I did blindside Raduloff, and he could have been seriously injured. He’s on concussion protocol now. Because of me.

  “And before you can return, we require that you speak to someone.”

  “Speak to someone?” I glance over at the lady the league sent over.

  Distractedly, he nods. “Yes. we requiring you to work with a therapist and they will sign off on your suitability to return once they’re satisfied that you have your anger, frustrations, or whatever it is sorted out. Because what happened yesterday can’t happen again.”

  Fuck.

  Talking about feelings isn’t my strong point. I certainly don’t need anger management, or any kind of therapy. I just need a second to fucking breathe.

  I haven’t even begun to process the gaping hole my father’s sudden death has left in my life. He died just as the season started, so I couldn’t fall apart then. I told myself I’d deal with it, just not yet.

  Not only am I trying to come to terms with losing my dad, but I also feel guilty that my mother and brothers need me back home in Colorado. But Mom insisted that I stay in Boston, playing hockey like my dad would have wanted.

  I look up, realizing Coach is still waiting for my response.

  My mouth is dry, but I don’t dare ask him for a bottle of water. I’m not exactly in a position to be asking for favors right now, no matter how small.

  “Okay,” I hear myself say, because what other choice do I have?

  Wilder hands me a sheet of paper. “These are the approved sports therapists. Pick one and set up the appointment. Sooner rather than later.”

  “Sure,” I manage to say.

  “The league doesn’t tolerate this kind of shit, kid. Not anymore. The ice isn’t the place for some frat-party brawl. It’s your workplace, and you’re not getting the job done. When you don’t get the job done, we have to make tough decisions. Do you hear what I’m saying?”

  I take a deep breath, trying to get my breathing under control. I understand exactly what he’s saying. They’re close to ripping up my multimillion-dollar contract if I don’t get my shit sorted out.

  “Yes, sir.” I swallow and hold out my hand. “I understand what you’re saying.”

  2

  * * *

  SUMMER

  I step out onto the tarmac where the plane waits in the distance. Shouldering my bag, I get in line, shivering in the cold air. It looks like it’s going to snow, and I’m not really dressed for it. It’s only October. Instead of snow boots and a thick coat, I’m wearing high-heeled ankle boots and a too-thin jacket, but at least I thought to bring mittens.

  I flew from Boston to Denver this morning, and now I’m about to board a second flight to Durango. Then I’ll take a shuttle to Lost Haven, population six hundred eight. I’ve never been to a town so small. Didn’t even realize places like that still exist.

  “Hello?” I murmur after pulling my phone out of my jacket.

  “Summer? Is that you?”

  “Yes. It’s me. Bad connection? I’m getting ready to get onto my second flight.”

  “No, I can hear you now. I’m glad I reached you. I’ve got some intel.”

  “Great. What have you got for me, Les?”

  Les has been a mentor to me in a lot of ways. He manages the front office of the Boston Titans hockey team, and I interned for him when I was still in college, studying sports management. He was the one who got me this job—which is to track down a promising rookie who’s trying to blow his entire season by fighting everyone who looks at him the wrong way.

  Logan was suspended for eight games and has to get the written approval of a therapist before he can return. I’m one of three team-approved therapists. But Logan isn’t returning my phone calls, and he’s yet to make a decision on a therapist.

  So, here I am. On the other side of the country, chasing down a rogue rookie with an anger-management problem. I guess this is my life now.

  “Logan is definitely there,” Les says. “He arrived yesterday, but no one on the team has been able to reach him.”

  “Thank you. I’ll be there by late afternoon. I’ll see what I can do.”

  “You clinch this one, kid, and you’ll have it made.”

  I don’t know about that, but if I succeed, at least I’ll be able to make my rent next month.

  “I sent you over an email with everything in his file. It’s not much.”

  “I’m sure it’ll help. Thanks, Les.”

  He chuckles. “You haven’t met Logan yet. You’re going to need all the help you can get.”

  Logan Tate is a twenty-three-year-old rookie defenseman who was signed to the Titans last year for $2.6 million, but I don’t really know much about him. What I do know is that he’s six foot two, one hundred ninety-five pounds, and built like a bull—all muscle and brawn. I watched a few of his clips online. His speed was impressive.

  I also learned that Logan lost his father unexpectedly this summer, and has had some family turmoil that’s distracting him from the game. The gossip sites have plenty of compromising photos of him leaving various bars and clubs at all hours of the night. And he got into three fights in his first two games of the season, one of which was with his own teammate. The final straw was a major penalty for misconduct against a player from the Avalanche.

  All of this bad publicity doesn’t look good on a rookie, especially a high-priced newcomer with a lot of unproven talent. The organization is ready to release him, and they will if I can’t get through to him.

  But if I do? There’s a nice paycheck waiting for me. Not to mention the credibility it will bring to my business. And that’s why I decided to track him down, which led me to his family’s property in the mountains of Colorado.

  “Has he been in counseling before?” I adjust the strap of my overnight bag on my shoulder and climb the stairs to board the plane.

  “Nope. Not to my knowledge,” Les says. “Unless you count the intake interview all players are required to complete prior to signing the contract. It’s all in the file. Very standard stuff. As a defenseman, he has strong protective instincts. But his assessments showed him to be a team player, which is why his behavior on the ice is so strange and very unexpected.”

  “Gotcha. Well, that’s a positive.”

  I board the plane, ignoring the annoyed look from the stewardess as I take my seat in the third row of the tiny aircraft and push down an uneasy feeling.

  “So, what’s your plan?” Les asks as I buckle my seat belt and settle in.

  “That’s easy. Find Lost Haven, fix your broken hockey player, and get the heck out of here before the snow arrives.”

  Les made a mocking sound. “You make it sound so easy.”

  I have no choice but to succeed. I have student loans out the wazoo, and no fallback plans.

  Another annoyed look from the flight attendant prompts me to say my good-byes to Les.

  “See you soon,” I say, confident I’ll be back in Boston before the end of the week.

  • • •

  The scene painted before me is like a postcard, and I take it all in as the shuttle van carries me through Lost Haven.

  Towering pine trees surround me, and a winding river runs alongside the gravel road that winds through a canyon carved between two mountain ranges. The air smells like pine needles, and the sky is a bright robin’s e
gg blue. It’s breathtaking, and I drink in every detail. This may very well be the most beautiful place I’ve ever visited, and I can’t ignore the little voice in my head whispering that I wish there were more time to explore.

  “Are we almost there?” I ask.

  The driver nods. “Just about.”

  I inhale, silently practicing the speech I rehearsed on the last flight. Logan may be resistant, but given that I’m his ticket back into the game he loves, I’m not anticipating much of a challenge.

  The van slows as the driver turns onto yet another long gravel road with thick trees lining both sides of it. It’s not until a house comes into view that I realize it’s not a road, but a driveway. A very long and winding driveway.

  When the van stops in front of the house, I’m hit by a sudden wave of nerves.

  Hunting down a potential client like this isn’t something I’ve ever done. To be honest, it’s unheard of. But between Logan refusing to return my phone calls and emails, and Les telling me about how much this player needs the help . . . I’m here. And let’s not forget what this opportunity can do for my career

  Nerves may be filling my stomach, but I’m here, and I know a thing or two about pretending you have it all together, even when you don’t. I’m not going to focus on the fact that I may be violating a professional code of conduct by showing up like this. Honestly, if I’d known just how remote this place was, I’m not sure I would have come at all. I didn’t see a single motel on the hour-long drive up the mountain. But I’ll deal with that once I’ve pitched my services to Logan. At least I’ve still got some daylight left to figure things out before night falls.

  The driver hands me my bags—a laptop case and a leather duffel bag—while I shoulder my oversized purse.

  “Good luck. Stay warm,” he says, grinning at my thin jacket.

  “Thanks for the ride.”

  He nods once and climbs back inside.

  Well, here goes nothing.

  The van pulls away, leaving me alone in front of the house. I feel so small under the enormous trees and endless expanse of sky.