Rookie Season (Denver Kodiaks #4)

Chapter 1

SIERRA

TWO DAYS UNTIL CHRISTMAS

“Turn it off! It’s evil!”

“Mariah Carey is not evil.” Nova’s aghast voice comes from the passenger seat of the Volvo as she turns to look at me. Her round blue eyes and pink-tipped blond hair do nothing to make her intimidating.

“Then why do we have to defrost her each December?” I shudder. “She cursed us with this song back in the nineties, and every year, it rears its ugly head. Like one of the four horsemen of the holiday apocalypse.”

I lunge forward and hit the skip button on the car’s entertainment system. “All I Want for Christmas Is You” cuts out, replaced by “Blue Christmas.”

That’s more like it.

I shift to get comfortable in the back seat I share with the stack of luggage that didn’t fit in the trunk.

“What are the other three?” Brooke asks from the driver’s seat.

“Three what?”

“Horsemen.”

I hold up my fingers. “Mistletoe. Candy canes. Christmas lights, Clark Griswold style.”

Out the window, we pass growing piles of snow lining I-70 on our drive out of Denver. The mountains rise sharply in the distance, the sky a crisp, cold blue thanks to the altitude. It’s a paradise so many vacationers flock to. For me, it’s home.

“I never knew you were such a Christmas grinch.” Brooke’s wearing a bright-orange sweater with fur lining the cuffs, her makeup and skin perfect and hair curly and shiny even though we’re on our way to the middle of nowhere.

“Not a grinch. The season is overrated. It’s a huge commercial push to spend money and go to parties and—”

“Listen to Mariah?” Nova finishes.

“Exactly.” She’s getting it now.

Brooke rolls her eyes at me in the rearview mirror.

The three of us are friends. We’ve spent lots of nights out together, and I lean on and trust both of them. But in one important way, I’m the odd one out.

Nova’s married to one of the starting Kodiaks, and Brooke’s engaged to another.

That’s right—the Denver Kodiaks. World champion basketball team.

Me? I’m the team’s unofficial bartender.

Because of the “purveyor of alcohol” thing, I’m one of the more popular people who’s not employed by the franchise.

And sure, I’m friends with the guys and their WAGs.

I give them credit for being down to earth, considering the guys on the team make more in forty-eight minutes on the floor than I do in tips the entire year.

I was still surprised to score an invite to this top-secret holiday weekend.

But the girls must have decided I’m close enough to being a member of this unofficial club to warrant sharing two days and nights of snowy adventures.

“I swear I didn’t pack enough clothes.” Brooke drums her manicured nails on the steering wheel.

“You have that massive suitcase in the trunk,” Nova points out.

“If that was your suitcase, what’s this?!” I nod toward another pink bag occupying an entire seat in the back.

“A few shoes and bathing suits.”

My brows lift. “Bathing suits? Thought we were going to a cabin.”

“It has a hot tub.”

I don’t remember that from the invite.

I do own a swimsuit. Something I bought on sale, probably wedged deep in my drawer from the last time I had a vacation. If memory serves, it’s a black bikini, which makes the beautiful ink I’ve been acquiring for the last six years pop.

But it never occurred to me I’d be swimming when I was tossing clothes in a bag for two days of glorified winter camping.

“We’re going to get up there and find a line of Kodashians, aren’t we?” Brooke’s saying.

“No way. The guys kept it under wraps.”

“Did you see photos?”

Nova shakes her head. “Ryan was close-lipped about it. Barely gave me the coordinates for the GPS. Even Miles couldn’t get anything out of him.”

Brooke’s fiancé is friends with everyone on the team, a guy’s guy, so if he couldn’t get any info, no one can.

“I wonder what they’ve been up to given they’ve been there all day,” I muse.

“Probably sitting around waiting for us,” Brooke decides.

The road is full of holiday travelers even before we have to slow for Vail Pass. This section of highway can turn from beautiful to treacherous in an instant.

After navigating the last of the roads, Brooke turns the Volvo onto a driveway. “I thought we were going to Beaver Creek?” She peers towards the line of evergreens hiding the property.

We head up the driveway, passing into a clearing that reveals a cute cabin with a row of cars in front.

“We’re in the right place.” I nod toward a Range Rover. “Isn’t that Miles’s car?”

“And Ryan’s,” Brooke adds, her voice lifting with excitement.

My friend pulls up her Volvo next to the other cars. It’s like a luxury car lot. The row of vehicles probably costs more than the house I was raised in.

“Are you excited?” Nova asks, beaming.

“Um, yes. So excited.” To be honest, I’m still not sure why I’m here except that I’ve gotten to know the team, their families, and their significant others while hanging out with them at the bar.

I’m looking forward to a couple days of decompressing, but I hope this isn’t the kind of weekend that makes me realize how different I am from all these people.

The car rolls to a soft stop, and I shift out into a foot of snow. Nova squeaks as it invades the tops of her Ugg boots as she runs around to the trunk.

The front door of the cabin swings wide, and a little tan Frenchie bounds out.

“Waffles!” The dog launches himself into Brooke’s arms, and she catches him in a way that suggests she does it often. “Hi, handsome,” she coos.

“Hi, Princess.”

We all look up to find Miles Garrett filling the doorway, his broad smile far from the only million-dollar part of him. The Kodiaks guard is a crowd favorite for his shooting, not to mention that scores of women would kill to have him look at them the way he’s looking at Brooke right now.

“I was talking to the dog.” She straightens, the Frenchie peeking out from where he’s snuggled inside her poofy orange parka.

“Sure you were.” Miles doesn’t seem perturbed as he reaches for her waist to tug her toward him, tipping her face up so he can drop a long kiss on her lips.

Cute.

Not that I’m looking for a relationship, but their vibe is undeniably adorable. Even for this cynic.

Relationships are tricky for me. Most of my time is spent at the bar, but the people I encounter at work don’t really see me, they just see one version of me.

There aren’t enough hours to date after work. Even if there were, my idea of a good time does not involve getting dressed up to bat my eyes at some guy who wants to know if I can tie a cherry stem in a knot with my tongue.

Or worse, one who wants to beat me over the head with his Ivy League education and ask questions about what I want to be “after I get bored bartending.” Guys either think bartending is hot and wild or some pit stop on a more acceptable career path.

I don’t feel inclined to explain why they’re both wrong.

We head inside and find the rest of the crew.

Clay, Nova’s husband, is a basketball legend. He’s huge, with the kind of presence that commands attention even without the tattoos covering every part of him.

Atlas is from Latvia. He’s the tallest and seems like the quietest until he speaks with his booming voice.

The champion Denver Kodiaks come through Mile High twice a week when they’re in town. I should be immune to the room full of extra-tall, objectively gorgeous male specimens.

I am immune, I decide as I take a breath.

The hairs on the back of my neck lift an instant before a cocky voice murmurs behind me, “You missing someone?”

I spin, tripping on my bag and dropping it on my toes.

The man standing behind me fills the entire doorway.

Well over six feet of athlete’s body, honed in the gym and on the court. He’s wearing a Henley, sweatpants, and a Santa hat and holding armfuls of wood.

The hat covers his dark hair, but his sparkling eyes are on full display.

He’s ridiculously handsome, with a straight nose and full lips, even teeth and a strong jaw. The shoulders and flexed arms effortlessly hold enough logs to build a second cabin.

He smells like campfire, as though he’s come from one rather than about to start one.

I’m sure it’s the cold wind blowing in from the open doorway that makes the hairs on my arms lift, not his sheer sexiness.

A shiver runs through me, making my body tingle in a way that has nothing to do with the Christmas spirit.

He’s way too cheerful.

Too cocky.

Too renewed-his-contract-and-looking-for-a-good-time.

If I was trying to remember why tagging along on a winter wonderland escape with the world champion Denver Kodiaks was a bad idea?

It’s because the last time I spent the night alone with one of them, we were both naked.