Falling for the Fake Lumberjack (Axes & Endzones #1)

Chapter 1 Harris

Harris

I know relaxing isn’t in your DNA, but you owe it to yourselves to try—you assholes need it, some more than others.

Coach’s voice carried through the locker room when he made his announcement a few weeks back, half joking—about sending the team on a retreat.

Retreat?

What are we, ten years old?

Management always gets what it wants, and what they want is all the guys on my line sent on a team-building retreat.

Don’t know who pissed in their Cheerios, but it looks like I’m gonna be stuck in some rando lake resort near the mountains for some “well-deserved” R at least I’ll have my own space.

I was lucky enough to score my own little cottage (thanks to my seniority), which is more than I can say for half the linemen on my team, crammed together in the massive lodge at the top of the hill.

Granted, it has a full staff and full amenities. And room service. And a spa . . .

I double-check the address on my phone before pulling into the gravel driveway of my little rental, happy to have finally arrived after a three-hour-long drive from the city. Cut the engine and sit gazing at it several moments, taking in the peace and quiet.

Not a peep, unless you count the birds.

I listen harder.

Huh. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad.

I step out of the truck, pea gravel gritty beneath my boots, and retrieve my overnight crap. With the press of a button, the hatch in back lifts. I grab my bag and heft it over my shoulder, glancing around me at the trees and stuff.

The resort has cottages scattered near the lake, a long stretch of water and shoreline in the near distance. Pine trees line the edge of the property, their needles crunching under my feet along with the gravel, branches swaying softly in the wind.

I raise my nose in the air and sniff; the faint smell of woodsmoke lingering, mixing with the scent of pine, crisp and fresh.

“Ahhh.”

Not bad at all!

Beyond the cottages, a vast lake glistens under the sun’s rays, with dozens of docks stretching out with an invitation to dip your toes into the cool water or jump in—something I will not be doing.

My assigned cottage isn’t big by any means, but the charm makes up for its size. Window boxes. Two matching rocking chairs. I squint at them, trying to picture myself sipping coffee out here like the sort of calm, reflective guy who drinks coffee by the lake.

News flash: I am not that guy.

A stone path leading up to a door painted a muddy shade of green—the same color as the patches of moss that cling to the sloped roof in a way that feels more quaint than neglected.

Best of all?

No roommate.

I drop my bag on the porch with a satisfying thud and stand there, soaking in the silence. No teammates bitching at each other. No Coach blowing his whistle like we’re about to storm the beaches of Normandy. Peace and quiet.

Solitude.

But no key.

Why did I throw out the welcome instructions?

“’Cause you’re an idiot.”

Whatever—I can figure this out. The key must be here somewhere.

“Great start,” I mutter to myself. Nothing says relaxation like breaking into your own cabin.

I glance around like the key’s going to magically appear in front of me. Maybe it’s under the doormat or something—people do that, yeah?

After a few moments of awkwardly patting down random surfaces like a cop at airport security, I spot a little wooden plaque by the door with a cheery Welcome! sign.

Behind it?

The key.

“Wow. Great fucking hiding spot. Took all of three seconds,” I grumble, fitting it into the lock and pushing through the door. “I’m definitely going to be murdered in my sleep.”

Inside it’s exactly what you’d expect: small, cozy, and decorated like it belongs in a catalog for people who use words like vintage hygge unironically.

Dinky entryway. Little living room. The stone fireplace practically screams “roast marshmallows here!” Small kitchenette with a stove straight out of the ’70s and—wait for it—a plaid couch.

Of course there’s plaid. Nothing says lake retreat like plaid furniture older than my grandmother’s perm.

Cute, though.

I dig it.

I toss my bag onto the couch and give the place a closer look. It’s not terrible. Not luxurious by any means, but it’s got a rustic, woodsy vibe people lose their shit for on Instagram. Vintage. Cool.

I wander over to the kitchen, then open a cabinet or two.

The cupboards? Empty.

No surprise there. The last thing management would do is stock us up on snacks, God forbid—it would cost too much money. They probably expect us to forage like wild animals, which would force us to bond with nature.

“Bet Dex is already having the time of his life.” I picture the asshole enthusiastically untangling a fishing line while I’m here trying to figure out the Wi-Fi password.

I plop down on the couch, pull out my phone, and check for service. Two bars. Not great, but better than expected for a place that looks like it hasn’t been updated since the invention of the internet.

“Well, at least I won’t die of boredom.”

Then, something catches my eye that I did not notice on my initial walk-through.

Tacked to the fireplace mantel is a sheet of paper. Dangling there, as if waiting to impart some critical lake-living wisdom. Knowing my luck, it’s probably a list of chores or instructions on how not to burn the place down.

I push myself off the couch and walk over, eyeing the paper, already irritated by its big, bold letters.

Welcome Sentinels and Staff to your team-building retreat! Super, more fake enthusiasm. I skim the next part: Below is a list of activities designed to help you bond with your teammates and foster a deeper connection.

Deeper connection? With Dex and Jude?

Ha!

I’ve heard them both letting it rip and heard them shitting and routinely have to listen to them complain about fractures, pulled muscles, and concussion results. I do Not need to go deeper.

Daily Group Hikes!

Morning Yoga by the Lake!

Fishing Derby!

Translation: forced fun, which is the worst kind.

Why the hell are there so many exclamation points? Who wrote this fucking thing, the cheerleading coaches?

“You have got to be kidding me,” I mutter, resisting the urge to crumple the paper and toss it into the fireplace as kindling.

Morning yoga? Who in their right mind is going to participate?

Unfortunately it doesn’t end there. I groan, reading further.

Team Building! Talent Show Night!

“Talent show? What the actual fuck . . .” I groan. “Apparently we’re in summer camp now.”

And the cherry on top? Trust Exercises!

I roll my eyes so hard I think I might sprain something in my brain. Trust exercises? With these guys? The same guys who steal my bath towel during a shower, then snap me in the dick with it.

I walk back to the couch and flop down dramatically.

“I am not doing a talent show.” They can’t make me. Football is my talent—what more do they want from us?

I didn’t participate in the talent show the one summer my parents forced me to attend camp to socialize with regular kids, who weren’t obsessed with sports the way I was. It was the kind of camp where you canoed, swam, and tie-dyed shirts in the craft shack.

I remember how my pottery looked like a blindfolded toddler had painted it, and chucking it in the trash so my dad wouldn’t see it.

Also me: The evening of the camp talent show, I had faked a stomachache and was sitting in the corner while the other kids embarrassed themselves singing off-key renditions of popular music.

When I was pushed to join them, I miraculously “lost my voice.” Then, during the hiking trip, I claimed I twisted my ankle and spent the rest of the day on the bench, sipping watered-down Bug Juice.

Now here I am, years later—a grown-ass adult—in the exact same nightmare scenario.

Only this time with my teammates.

The same guys who think burping and smashing beer cans on their foreheads are talents.

I look at the paper again. While participation is not required, it is strongly encouraged—top scores will be rewarded with various prizes and acknowledgment!

“Hell. No.”

No thank you, Coach.

If management thinks I’m getting up on a stage and doing anything remotely close to performing, they’ve got another thing coming.

Why do they think we need team-building exercises to begin with?

I see these assholes on a daily basis—there is no escaping them. Between practice, the locker room, conditioning, and the occasional party, I’d say we’re pretty goddamn bonded, fuck you very much.

Apparently, some genius in the business office decided we needed a “retreat.”

I twiddle around with my phone a bit longer, the service bars suddenly disappearing, and swing my gaze to the lake.