The Rookie (The San Antonio Hyenas Book 4), page 1
THE ROOKIE
THE SAN ANTONIO HYENAS
BOOK 4
OLIVIA T. TURNER
CONTENTS
Copyright
The Rookie
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Epilogue
Epilogue
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Copyright© 2024 by Olivia T. Turner.
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Edited by Karen Collins Editing
Cover Design by Cormar Covers
THE ROOKIE
I’m the last of the original crew still working at the pub.
Bridget met a guy online and moved to Australia, James got fired, Ivy had a kid, Zara went to work for her dad in Miami, and now Lauren is leaving too.
I’m the only one left.
With no prospects and no opportunities.
Until out of the blue, I get one.
I had long given up my career as a real estate agent.
It was over before it even started.
But now, someone found one of my old business cards and they need help finding a house.
Not a house. A mansion.
And it’s not some random guy.
It’s hockey superstar, Austin Gambill.
I can’t screw this up.
I have to be professional.
Even if all I want to do is pull my only client into every walk-in closet we pass and find out if those lips are as soft as they look.
I have to be on my best behavior.
But my hot superstar client is making that damn near impossible.
Location, location, location.
On the floor, in the kitchen, in the pool.
He is certainly a motivated buyer.
Motivated to close on a house and close on me.
I’m going to find him his dream home.
But will his dream involve me?
Austin found his dream house, but he also found the perfect girl to make it into a home. Will the hockey rookie score or miss wildly?
Book Four in The San Antonio Hyenas series. Hockey romance. No cheating, SAFE, Double V-cards, and a super sweet HEA always guaranteed.
For Penelope.
Who took a chance, went after her dreams, and is now crushing it.
You go, girl!
CHAPTER ONE
Austin
“Austin, you’re on,” Coach Moss says as he draws up the play. “Sutton, Svensson, and Kemp—you’re joining him.”
I’m exhausted, but I’m grinning at the opportunity. The score is three-three and there’s less than a minute left.
It’s been a hell of a game. The Halifax Icebreakers want this as badly as we do. They’re pushing us hard.
My entire team is gathered around, except for Tucker McKinstry who’s sitting in the penalty box by himself.
The crowd is singing Mr. Brightside by The Killers.
This whole year has been surreal.
I’m halfway through my rookie season and I’m still awestruck by it all. The arena is packed and every single person is on their feet. People out there are wearing my jersey. Gambill. Number Nine. I still can’t believe it.
I pictured these moments when I was a ten-year-old boy skating on the frozen pond back home in Michigan, practicing my slap shot, still out there long after the other boys had gone home for hot chocolate and cookies. I was always the last one on the ice, out there until my dad came and dragged me off, fingers frozen and ankles aching, but still begging for five more minutes.
All I wanted was to be a hockey player. I wanted to be like the Flamethrower. I wanted to be the great Harris Sutton.
And now, I’m standing beside Harris as the coach draws up the play.
Too bad he hates me.
“McKinstry is coming out in sixteen seconds,” Coach Moss says. “You’re going to be down one player until then. You’ll have to hold them off.”
I’m feeling nervous and excited and every other emotion possible. Meanwhile, Harris looks calm and cool like it’s just another day at the office. I guess when you’ve been in the league for ten years like he has, it is.
“Kemp, you bring it into their zone and if you have the shot, you take it,” Coach Moss says. “If not, Z-Back formation. They’re going to be expecting the slap shot from Sutton, but Gambill, you’re going to take it.”
Edvard smacks my shoulder with a grin on his face as the excited, nervous energy rippling through me comes to a boil. This is my chance.
The referee blows the whistle, which means our timeout is over. I skate to the circle with the boys as the best players on the Icebreakers skate over to meet us.
I can feel the tension in the air. The home crowd is on the edge of their seats. They want a win and I want to give it to them.
I’ve been feeling the pressure all season long. I was the number one draft pick and I’ve been trying to live up to the title, but it’s hard. These guys are no joke.
I’m having an okay season. Hardly what I had hoped for, but I’m trying to improve. I’m surrounded by so much talent on this team and I’m trying to take it all in.
I was ecstatic when I learned that I’d be on the same team as Harris Sutton, but that hasn’t gone as expected either.
When I was a kid, I had The Flamethrower’s posters on my wall. I wore his jersey so much the letters wore off. The back said Su n.
I practiced his moves and when the Hyenas played a game in Boston, I made my dad drive me over there. We waited outside the arena for four hours until he came out. He signed his hockey card for me and I still remember exactly what he said when my dad told him I was a hockey player.
“I can’t wait to watch you play one day, kid.”
That was my fuel for years. All through the junior and collegiate levels. All those early wake-up calls and grueling practices. Those words spurred me on. They kept me going. The great Harris Sutton was going to watch me play. It was all I cared about.
And then, I found out I’d be Harris’ teammate? I’d be skating beside him? I’d be passing him the puck? I couldn’t believe it.
But then I got here and he didn’t want anything to do with me. He was curt when I introduced myself and blew me off every time I tried to talk to him.
I don’t think he likes me and that’s been tough. It seems like I can’t do anything right around him.
Don’t meet your heroes, folks.
Lately, he’s been nicer. I see him smiling more. He seems less angry.
He recently found out that he has a five-year-old boy and he got back together with the mother, which I think is having a lot to do with it. It’s taken the edge off him.
Adrenaline starts ripping through me as the referee skates over with the puck. Sebastian is taking the face-off, because he’s the best. I’m playing left wing, Edvard Svensson—the Nordic Wonder—is right wing, Harris is left defensemen behind me, our team enforcer, Tucker McKinstry is in his usual spot in the penalty box, and our goalie Nolan Barlowe is ready in front of the net.
Everybody holds still as the referee lifts the puck over the red circle.
This is my favorite part. The second or two of frozen tension before the puck hits the ice and everything explodes into action.
It always feels like a grenade dropping down.
Calm, calm, and then BOOM.
The puck drops and Sebastian battles the other center for it. It slips back to the right and Svensson scoops it up.
He does a good job of killing time with the puck. He wastes about seven seconds before the other team gets it. Nine seconds left until McKinstry is back on and we’re no longer outnumbered.
The Icebreakers bring it back into our zone and eventually shoot on the net. Nolan makes a wicked save and the whistle blows.
“Did you guys miss me?” Tucker asks in that deep growly voice as he skates over, his penalty finished.
“Yeah,” Sebastian says with a grin. “We have thirty-seven seconds left. Think you can avoid going back in there?”
“No promises,” Tucker grumbles as he rolls his giant shoulders while glaring at the biggest guy on the other team.
Sebastian quickly fills him in on the play as we get into position for another face-off.
My heart is racing. The pressure is on me.
I had a killer slap shot all my life. Almost every time I let it loose, it went in, the buzzer rang, the crowd cheered, I got swarmed by my teammates.
But here, amongst the best players in the world, aimed at the best goalies ever to exist, they’re not going in.
The goalies are t
It’s been frustrating.
The puck drops and Sebastian passes it back to Harris. Tucker smashes some poor fucker into the boards as Harris passes it back to Sebastian.
We’re all off, racing to the other net as our opponents try to get into a defensive position.
The goalie on the Icebreakers is damn good and he looks ready.
But he’s got the best player in the league coming at him. Sebastian gets around the guy in front of him and shoots a beauty at the net.
The goalie shifts at the last second and the puck smacks off his stick. It bounces away—still live—and Svensson manages to grab it.
I get into position as we get ready to execute Coach’s plan.
Fourteen seconds.
Svensson passes it to Harris, who fakes a shot on the net. He’s so good, he gets everyone to react, then he quickly passes me the puck.
I pull back, ready to unleash a game-winning slap shot.
Come on, man.
With a grunt, I let it rip as hard as I can. The puck flies off my stick and heads right for the open corner.
For a split second, there’s silence in the arena.
The silence is interrupted by the dull thud of the puck slamming into the goalie’s shoulder pad.
Are you kidding me? Fuck!
The puck bounces off, still live as the crowd lets out a collective groan.
Tucker fights some big fucker for it and then passes it back to Sebastian.
There’s no opening, so Sebastian passes it back to me.
Eight seconds.
I should take another shot. That’s the plan, but I pass it to Harris instead.
The Flamethrower yanks back his stick and lets it rip with a devastating slap shot.
This time, the goalie doesn’t have a chance.
The puck rips into the top corner of the net and the crowd explodes into cheers.
I watch with my stomach dropping as the boys swarm him. The spotlights are going, the crowd is roaring, and I want to join in the celebration, but I head to the bench instead.
“That was your shot to take,” Coach Moss says as he gives me a disapproving look.
I drop my head. “Sorry, Coach.”
The boys come skating back and just as I’m feeling lower than an earthworm, Harris puts his hand on my shoulder.
“That was a great pass, bud,” he says with a smile.
“Oh. Thanks!”
I can’t help but smile as he skates away.
We close the game out and it’s a big celebration in the locker room.
Some of the boys are dancing on the benches. Some are cracking beers.
I sit down on the bench and text my dad. I always do after a game.
AUSTIN: I choked on the slap shot
DAD: You almost had it. You’ll get into your groove. It’s still your first year. Don’t be too hard on yourself, you’re doing great.
AUSTIN: Thanks dad
DAD: I’m proud of you son. Are you going home?
AUSTIN: Nah, big party tonight
DAD: Okay, don’t party too hard and don’t forget where you came from. Stay focused.
“We’re headed to Carmella’s tonight,” Nolan says as I turn off my phone. He’s only wearing a towel around his waist. “Big party. Lots of A-listers going to be there.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah,” Edvard says as he puts his arm around Nolan’s shoulder and takes a long sip from his beer can. “A few basketball players in town—Dennis Frazier, Steve Swoopes. Some huge rapper I never heard of, and apparently, there’s a movie filming nearby so there’s going to be some hot actresses popping by. It’s going to be lit.”
“You coming?” Nolan asks.
I grin. “Definitely.”
CHAPTER TWO
Austin
Carmella’s is packed.
It seems like everyone who’s anyone in San Antonio is here.
We walk past the huge line and the bouncer lets us in—perks of being a Hyena.
There are beautiful women everywhere.
They’re not like the girls from back home.
I make eye contact with a girl in a small black dress. She looks airbrushed. Her tits are impossibly high and hard, and her face looks like it took all afternoon to be painted on. She’s wearing these crazy high heels and every strand of her hair is perfectly in place.
You’d never see a girl like that walking down the streets in the small town I came from. People in Michigan would think she was an alien.
I can’t even imagine what my family would think if I brought a girl like that back home for Christmas dinner.
She gives me a blank stare as I walk with the boys to the VIP section.
“This place is crazy,” Nolan says as he puts both hands on my shoulders as we walk in. “It’s good to be a star!”
“Yeah,” I say with a grin.
It is good to be a star. Everywhere we go, we’re treated like royalty. We drink ten thousand dollar bottles of champagne and beautiful women flock to us like we’re gods.
We hang out with professional athletes and celebrities, it’s awesome.
Although, if I’m being honest with myself, it’s not that great.
It’s costing me a fortune. Sometimes those bills come and they’re in the six figures. I’m a rookie and I’m not making as much as some of these other guys. Nolan just signed a three-year contract for twenty-four million dollars. Many of the people in here are making tens of millions of dollars a year.
I got stuck with a bill the other night that was one hundred and thirty-two thousand dollars. I nearly had a heart attack when I saw it. I think that’s how much my parents paid for their house. My dad would have walloped me if he knew what I was spending on one night that wasn’t even that much fun.
I don’t like the music they play in places like this. I like guitars and raspy voices, not alien instruments that are playing off-key. And it’s so loud, you can barely hear anyone talk.
And the women… They’re beautiful, but it seems like they’re only around to drink our champagne and take pictures with us to put on their Instagram pages. I tried to talk to some of them, but they all kept asking me to take them shopping.
I’ve been more homesick than I thought I’d be. I miss the pub in my little town with the local bands playing and the dance floor where people actually dance and don’t care who’s watching. I miss my family and I miss the mountains. I miss the fall leaves and the snow. The feeling of skating on a frozen pond.
It’s always so hot here. This scorching desert air is brutal.
We move to the back of the VIP section and it’s full of basketball players, women, a couple of players from the football team, and more women.
Nolan orders a bottle of the most expensive champagne they have and I feel my throat tighten a little.
“I just bought a house,” he tells me as the waitress leaves.
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah,” he says. “I’ll have a big party when it’s ready. I’m putting an ice rink in the basement.”
“Cool!”
“You thinking of buying a place?”
I’ve thought about it. My contract is for three years, so I’ll be in San Antonio for at least that long. I have to park my money in something and start building equity or it’s just going to disappear on nights like this. If something doesn’t change, I might not have anything to show for myself at the end of my career. That happens to a lot of guys.
“Yeah, I should start looking.”
The ten thousand dollar bottle of champagne arrives and Nolan pours out some glasses. He’s making eight million a year, so he can afford it.
“Cheers to another win!” Nolan says as he holds up his glass. We all clink glasses and holler.
Ugh. It doesn’t even taste good. It’s way too bubbly.
I look around for Harris, but I know he’s not going to be here. He never comes out with the team. In his early days, he was always practicing, but now he’s probably with his family.
