We’re gathered on the deck of Coach’s lake house, a huge log cabin with tons of windows and a wraparound porch, isolated in the middle of nowhere. Fire pit. Two piers. Jet skis, speedboat, and pontoon. It’s more than enough to keep us occupied while we’re stuck here for twenty-four hours.
No one has dared touch anything in the house for fear of breaking something or messing shit up.
Coach would kill us.
The place is meticulously maintained and obviously worth a shit ton of money.
Beer cans popped, we’re gathered on the wooden deck, taking up every chair we could find in the storage shed, waiting for a few stragglers. Gunderson, Pitwell, and three others haven’t arrived yet.
“The look on your face when you walked into the practice gym the next day after those dicks stiffed you with that bill.” Oz Osborne laughs in my direction. “Priceless.”
Zeke Daniels—notoriously quiet—chuckles into his beer can, lips twisted into a smirk. “I wish I would have seen your expression when you saw your Jeep.”
“Fuck you, assholes.” I laugh. “I’m lucky I wasn’t alone—those fuckers just left me there.”
“Yeah they did.” Oz laughs, high-fiving Tennyson. “Do you know how long it took to find some girls to wrap your Jeep like that? Like an entire five minutes.”
They laugh again, the noise echoing in the woods. It’s taken a full three hours with these guys to finally laugh everything off; their good-humored ribbing feels like an opening for a place in their tight inner circle.
“I have to ask, why did y’all keep doing that shit to me?”
“Because you say things like y’all.” Daniels snorts and rolls his eyes. “We’ve never had a new guy join the team so late, seemed reasonable to make you earn our respect.”
“By wiping my Jeep down with Vaseline?”
Oz takes a drink of beer. “Huh, is that what they used? I thought they’d use cooking grease or some shit like that.” He’s impressed. “Vaseline is way better.”
“Haha fuckers.”
“What the hell is taking every else so long to get here?” Brandon asks, craning his neck toward the driveway, trying to conjure up the stragglers. He’s seated next to Ryker, the asshole who gave me a ride to the Pancake House but left me stranded there.
“Don’t know.” Osborne checks his cell phone, casting a glance around the group, making eye contact with several of the guys. They glance at each other, Oz’s brows rising when Johnson’s eyes flick to the cell phone in Oz’s palm.
His brows rise, too.
Weird.
If I hadn’t been staring straight at him, I would have missed it. A queasy feeling settles in the pit of my stomach. They’re planning something; I would bet money on it.
There are three of us on the deck now, the rest methodically disappearing one by one as cell phones start pinging with notifications.
“Where the hell is everyone going?” I wonder out loud, wanting to keep track now that my radar has gone up. “Are we doing a bonfire or what?”
“Um.” Oz doesn’t meet my eyes. “Changing into swimsuits.”
“Y’all brought suits?” My eyes narrow. “It’s not even sixty degrees.”
The shore down by the water is lined with three kayaks, two canoes, and a rowboat; Coach’s kids must use that shit when they’re here. If the weather would cooperate, thirteen athletes stranded in bumblefuck with no gym for miles would be having a field day with those water toys.
But, it’s fifty-four fucking degrees and windy with a storm approaching from the west. No one is getting in the water, not without freezing their balls off.
“You afraid of a little shrinkage, New Guy?” Ryker jokes.
Hardly.
I’ve seen these douches naked in the shower and have nothing to be ashamed of.
In the driveway, Gunderson’s car door opens. Slams.
Then another slam echoes, causing everyone to turn.
My throat drops to the pit of my stomach when that bright familiar hair is tossed, the russet waves popping against the green leaves of the trees. She bends, ass in the air, to retrieve something from the front seat, and I stare, dumbstruck.
What the hell is Laurel doing here.
“Well looky who it is, New Guy, your two favorite people: Gunderson and Fire Crotch,” Johnson says as he ogles her.
I take a shot, rising out of my seat and landing a fist in his ribcage. “Don’t call her that, dickhead.”
“Sorry, but her hair is red.” The idiot says it like I’m the asshole here. “That makes her a fire crotch.”
Ryker sniffs. “Do her curtains match the drapes?”
Johnson laughs, rolling his dull brown irises. “Like he would know.”
What the hell is she doing here?
Laurel is gorgeous, a delicate juxtaposition against the rustic landscape. Fiery red hair in a high, flirty ponytail, her tight white tee is smoothed over her set of fantastic breasts, black leggings showing off her sexy, incredible figure. White Converse crunch the loose gravel beneath her feet as she takes a few tentative steps toward me.
Wiggles her fingers in greeting. “Surprise?”
That is a fucking understatement.
“Was it a mistake coming here?” She raises a hand to her hair, fingering her ponytail. “You don’t look as excited as I thought you’d be.”
“I…”
Her blue eyes scan the shore down by the lake. The deck. Peer into the house through the panoramic windows.
“Um, where are all the girls?”
“Girls?”
“Yeah, the girls. Rex said there would be a bunch of girls here? He said…” Her voice trails off. “Well shit.”
I stuff my hands into the pockets of my jeans. “I don’t know how to tell you this, so I’ll just say it: this is a mandatory team buildin’ weekend. There are no girls here.”
“Oh my God.” Laurel’s skin burns as bright as her flaming hair, fists clenched into balls at her hips. “Gunderson, that jerk! Now I’m stuck here with a bunch of guys?”
“It’s fine, we’ll manage. Let’s grab your stuff and stash it in my room until we figure this shit out.”
“I’m going to kill that roommate of yours. I knew I shouldn’t have trusted him. God, I feel like such an ass.”
“Don’t worry about it.” My hand goes to the indent of her waist as we make our way to Gunderson’s car to grab her stuff. “To be honest, you’re a sight for sore eyes. It’s nice having a friendly face show up.”
A beautiful, sexy, smiling face.
Her scowl is adorable. “I’m still going to kill Gunderson.”
Yeah. I am too—the whole lot of those dickheads.
I grab her bag out of the trunk—a large, quilted, floral duffle bag with a cross-body strap—hike it over my shoulder, and lead her back toward the house.
She trails along behind me, small hand slipping into mine.
I stare down at our clasped hands as we step up onto the cedar deck, smile down at her, helping her up onto the raised porch.
In the short time I was at the car gathering Laurel’s things, the guys were evidently busying themselves picking up the beer bottles and cans from the patio. Daniels holds a black trash bag open while everyone tosses the garbage inside.
He gives Laurel a nod, his weird, piercing gray eyes checking her out skeptically. “What’s up?”
She blushes under his scrutiny. “Hi.”
“Laurel, you remember Zeke Daniels? Don’t mind his pissed-off expression, he has resting dick face.”
“Okay.” She laughs as we pass him, allowing me to lead her into the house. Inside the log cabin is more wood, split logs from floor to ceiling, a massive fieldstone fireplace standing eighteen feet tall.
With the impending cold weather, someone had the foresight to light a fire.
Facing it, a leather sectional and an ottoman covered in cow print fabric. Plaid pillows and fuzzy throw blankets.
“Wow. This is incredible.” Her mouth tips down at the corners. “It’s a shame I won’t be staying.”
There’s a bunkroom above the garage, but we drew straws and I ended up in one of the guest rooms overlooking the lake, so that’s where we head.