Playbook Breakaway (The Rookie Hawkeyes #5)

Chapter One

SCOTTIE

My phone buzzes in my hand just as I'm juggling a large black coffee, my duffel bag, at the player entrance to the Seattle Hawkeyes facility. I already know who it is before I glance at the screen.

Mom.

I considered letting it go to voicemail. She's probably calling to remind me about my cousin Corey's wedding for the third time this week, but guilt wins out. It always does with her.

"Hey, Ma." I wedge the phone between my shoulder and ear, nudging the door open with my hip.

"Scottie! Oh good, you answered. I thought maybe you were ignoring me."

"Why would I ignore you?" I'm grinning despite myself as I head down the corridor toward the locker room. The familiar scent of ice and rubber—home in its own weird way.

"Because you're busy being a big-shot hockey player and forgot all about your poor mother back in Montana."

I snort. "Pretty sure you text me approximately seventeen times a day. I couldn't forget you, even if I tried."

She means well. She’s just that kind of mother—always checking in. And I love her for it. With four other siblings at home, all younger than me, ranging from nineteen to twelve, she could easily find something else to do, but she never misses a beat with any of the five of us.

"Seventeen is an exaggeration." There's a smile in her voice. "It's more like twelve. Thirteen, tops."

The sound of her laugh eases something in my chest. It's been two months since I've been home—summer training kept me in Seattle, trying to keep my edge. I know what it’s like to spend most of my professional career on the bench as the third string.

Now that I moved up last year, had my first technical rookie year due to lack of hours, and was traded as frequently as old player cards on the ice for the last five years, I have no intention of going back to that life.

I miss them. All of them. The chaos, the noise, the way my youngest sister Macie still insists on FaceTiming me every time she gets an A in advanced calculus as a sophomore in high school.

She’s a better student than I ever was. The younger two twins used to send me pictures whenever they lost a tooth, but now at twelve, those days are behind us.

"So what's up? You need something, or are you just calling to guilt-trip me?"

"I don't need to guilt-trip you, sweetheart. You do that all on your own." She pauses, and I can practically hear her settling into her favorite kitchen chair, the one by the window that overlooks the backyard. "I'm calling because I wanted to remind you about Corey's wedding in two weeks."

Called it.

"Yeah, Ma. I remember. It's on my calendar and everything. I’m coming for two nights, but with the regular season starting up, I can’t be gone longer than that. "

“Two days is not nearly enough, but I know you’re busy.”

I can feel that reminding me about Corey’s wedding isn’t the reason she called. She could have texted.

“Is that all?” I ask, knowing full well it isn’t.

“And I also wanted to tell you that I've invited Anika to the wedding. I asked Corey’s fiancée to put her on the seating chart next to you. She just moved back to town, and I ran into her mother at the grocery store last week. She has her degree in early childhood development and is starting as a kindergarten teacher at the local elementary school. What luck, huh?”

I groan, switching the phone to my other ear as I push through the locker room door. A few of the guys are already here—Luka Popovich, our right winger, is lacing up his skates, and I can hear Hunter, our left defense, singing off-key in the shower.

"Ma, you can't keep doing this."

"Doing what?"

"Setting me up with random women at family events. It's weird."

"It's not weird; it's called matchmaking. It's literally my job, Scottie. I am a matchmaker by trade, and my oldest son isn’t even married. He’s one of the most eligible bachelors in the NHL, and his own mother hasn’t found him a match. Do you have any idea how that looks to my business?"

She's got me there. My mom's been the unofficial matchmaker of our tiny Montana town for years. She's got a success rate that would make most dating apps weep with envy. But being good at it for other people doesn't mean I want her meddling in my love life.

My cousin Corey is another example of her work. She matched him up with his fiancée, and they seem really well-matched, to be honest.

It’s not that she’s not good at her job—she’s very good at it. But I don’t need that kind of help. Besides, meeting women isn’t exactly a problem for me. Not that I’ll tell her.

"It's your job, not for other people," I point out, dropping my duffel on the bench. "Not for your son."

"Especially my son. Do you know how long I've been waiting for grandchildren? Your father and I aren't getting younger. And Jacob is only nineteen years old. I’ve got at least another five to seven years before he settles down. I might be dead by then.”

And there it is… my mother’s flair for the dramatic.

"You're fifty-three. You’re not dying soon."

"Fifty-four next month, and that's not the point." Her voice softens just a little. "I just want you to be happy, Scottie. You work so hard, and I know hockey's important, but… you deserve someone who makes you smile. Someone to come home to."

The guilt sledgehammer hits right in the center of my chest.

I know she means well. She always means well.

And the truth is, part of me wouldn't mind having someone to come home to.

Seeing Hunter Reed and his girlfriend Peyton, Trey Hartley and Vivi, JP Dumont and Cammy, Aleksi and Kendall.

The list is growing. All my bachelor teammates are starting to settle down.

But between the season schedule, training, and trying to send enough money back home to help with Dad's medical bills and the mortgage, dating hasn't exactly been a priority.

"I know, Ma. I appreciate it, really. But I'm fine. I promise."

She sighs—long and dramatic, the kind of sigh that says she's not giving up but she'll let it go for now.

"Fine. But you're sitting next to Anika at the reception. She's a kindergarten teacher, Scottie. Kindergarten. She's perfect for you. And didn’t you two date a while back?"

Anika Jeeter. The girl-next-door. The girl I had a crush on in elementary school and finally got my chance with in middle school…

for all of three months until I started taking hockey seriously.

I probably ignored her too much, and then she dumped me for Brandon Thorten.

I know this because she told me at the lockers.

She said that I wasn’t paying enough attention to her.

My little seventh-grade heart was broken, but I haven’t thought about her in years. She and Brandon went “steady” until sophomore year, when he became a big-shot football quarterback and started dating the most popular girl in school.

Last I heard, he’s the manager at the local grocery store in Whitefish. Married with two kids. His football career ended senior year, and Anika went to college somewhere in Texas, I think.

"Ma. I wouldn’t say Anika and I dated. There’s hardly any history there. I barely remember what she looks like." Which is true. I couldn’t pull up her face even if the Stanley Cup championship depended on it.

"Well, you’ll have plenty of time to reconnect at Corey’s wedding. She’s really looking forward to it. And she makes the most beautiful sourdough bread. From scratch. She has a small booth at the local market on Saturdays. You’re going to hit it off, I just know it."

“Sounds more like you should date her,” I say under my breath.

“Sorry… what was that, sweetheart? Your dad was calling for me.”

“Nothing. I can’t wait to be home for a couple of days. I’ll see you soon.”

“Make sure to shave, okay? And cut that hair. We want to present our best version of ourselves. Who knows… maybe this time next year, it could be you and Anika walking down the aisle.”

In your dreams, I want to say, but I won’t break her heart right before the wedding.

"I'm hanging up now."

"I love you!"

"Love you too," I mutter, but I'm smiling again.

Before I can hang up, she adds quickly, "Oh, and make sure you call your father later. He's been in a mood all week."

My hand freezes halfway before ending the call. "Is he okay? Do I need to—"

"He's fine, sweetheart. Just grumpy because the physical therapist keeps pushing him harder than he wants to. He’s threatening not to go next month since insurance is saying they won’t cover it. Tell him he still has to go, will you? He listens to you."

Ten years ago, my dad was one of the hardest-working guys at the mill. He'd leave before dawn and come home after dark, smelling like sawdust and engine grease. Then one day, a machine malfunctioned. He spent three months in the hospital and came home in a wheelchair.

He's never complained. Not once. But I've seen the way he looks at the front porch steps sometimes, or the way his jaw tightens when he has to ask for help to reach something off a high shelf.

I send money home every month. It's not charity—it's just what you do. They tried to refuse it at first, told me I didn't need to, that they'd figure it out. But I saw the medical bills stacked on the kitchen counter. I saw my mom's face when the mortgage payment was due.

So I send it anyway. And I don't talk about it.

“Do you need more money next month for the physical therapist? I did not know this was happening. I can wire it to you tonight.” I say.

“No, absolutely not. You do more than you should already, and I appreciate it, I do. Business is picking up for me. Your brother made me my own social media account. I’ve been doing lives and helping coach people through finding the right person.

It hasn’t taken off yet, but it’s promising.

If your father knew you were sending money, he’d probably stop going altogether.

You know he's too proud to let you help.”

I know this, which is why I told my mother years ago to stop telling him about the checks I send.