Page 5 of Rookie Season
“I’ll go get the drinks from the car,” Sierra says.
My head snaps up so fast. “You need a hand.”
“No, I’m fine?—"
“Wasn’t a question.”
I follow her outside, picking up the boots I kicked off at the door on the way, and trail her to the car.
Getting everyone here was the first part of my plan to get the guys to have the best Christmas ever. I wanted us to escape and have time to ourselves without the cameras or scrutiny—to go off-grid.
The bonus was getting Sierra up here with us.
She works as hard as we do. Probably harder. Her dad’s bar is the center of Kodiaks social activity. As long as I’ve been here, she’s held it down. No vacations. No days off.
The dry, funny, take-no-crap angel at Mile High pretends she’s seen and done everything in this world.
She barely acknowledges I’m alive unless I’m trying to buy a drink.
Except for that one night she definitely did…
Suddenly, I’m hot despite the cold temperature.
“Your drive okay?” I ask, feeling my way into this conversation with a softie.
“Every person in Denver and their dog was on their way up here.” She rounds to the open trunk.
I peer in the back. It’s full of bottles and mixers. “You did not disappoint, bartender.”
You might expect a team of huge guys to party hard over the holidays, but some of us don’t even drink and the rest of us are lightweights because of our training and metabolisms.
“Couldn’t leave you high and dry.”
“An altitude joke in the first ten minutes. I love it.”
She passes me the box of liquor. Her hands brush my arms, and a little zing of electricity has my abs flexing on instinct.
“So, what’s the holiday cocktail? Donner & Blitzen? Merry Cranberry?” I ask. “Don’t tell me you didn’t come up with one.”
Sierra looks up at me through thick, dark lashes and folds her arms. “Scrooge Special.”
“Sounds fantastic.”
Her little laugh is surprised and delightful and totally un-Sierra.
She grabs a duffel bag from the back and shoulders it before closing the trunk with a grunt.
I adjust the box in my arms. It’s light, especially after the wood from earlier, but it’s also my job to work out twenty hours a week. It’s not ego to say that I’m strong and it shows—it’s fact.
Sierra doesn’t spare a glance at my arms as she starts past me.
What the hell?
They’re my best feature, as voted by my fan club.
Here’s the thing: I’m a good basketball player. A really good one. Less than one percent of guys who play ball seriously get to the pros. I not only made it but was drafted high, started my first season, and won a championship.
We’re talking rare air.
