Lucky Score (The Hawkeyes Hockey Series Book 6)

Perched on a ladder beside my beach house in Mexico, I press a thick plywood sheet against a window with my forearm. While gripping an electric drill in my other hand to secure the sheet into place, I hear my phone ring in my front pocket.

I utter a few curse words as I pull the nail from the magnetic drill tip and place it between my teeth. I hook the electric drill into the holster of my tool belt while keeping my forearm against the plywood. This conversation better be important.

I fish out my cell phone from my cargo pants to see the name on my phone.

Reeve Aisa calling…

He’s probably calling to check in. I have two more weeks left of my summer vacation before I board a plane and head back to Seattle for the start of the new Hawkeyes season.

There aren’t many people I would take a call from in general, let alone while I’m suspended against a building, but my teammates and coaching staff make the shortlist.

I pull the nail from my teeth and then drop it into the pocket of my tool belt.

“Aisa,” I say with my phone pressed to my ear.

“Wrenley… What’s up, man? How are the fish biting today?” he asks, knowing that I spend my entire off-season at my house in Mexico.

He was already here for a week at the beginning of the summer.

My vision glides over the many windows still to be boarded up as a precaution for the offshore hurricane that’s headed our way.

The weather channel predicts that the storm’s trajectory will hit mostly out at sea and off the coastline, but I’ve lived here every summer for the last fifteen years, and I know well enough that a hurricane answers to no weatherman.

Hurricane “Josie”… or as I like to call her after my ex-fiancé, Josslin, will do whatever she damn well pleases, no matter whose family home is in her wake. Much like the woman I have renamed the incoming cyclone after.

“No bites today. I’m boarding up my windows and my neighbors this afternoon and gassing up both backup generators. We’ve got a storm coming in.”

He’s right to assume. I’d be out on my boat if there weren’t a hurricane practically knocking on my front door. Even though half the time, I don’t even fish.

In my case, fishing is more of an excuse to take my boat out of the marina with a cooler full of beer and no timeline to head back to shore. I mostly sit on the boat, enjoying the peace and quiet and the sun radiating against my skin.

The sun—something we don’t get a lot of back in Seattle.

Being out at sea is as remote as a man can get here, which makes it my preferred activity. After all, that’s why I spend my off-time at my beach house.

No one around here gives a shit about hockey, and even fewer people give a shit that I play for a professional team back in the States. Around here, I’m a nobody, which means I get left the fuck alone.

While spending my off-season in Mexico on a mostly secluded beach with Cancun over an hour away, my limited hobbies include fishing on my boat, whether the fish bite or not, whittling driftwood that washes up on shore, and reading whatever suspense thriller novel that I purchased in the airport concession shop on my flight over.

The occasional game of rummy and an authentic southern Louisiana-cooked meal at my neighbor Rita’s beach house, is the only reason I bother to shave once a week.

A trip to Rita and Bart’s local restaurant and bar for some fish and chips and a game of pool with my buddy Silas gives me just enough human contact to prevent me from completely transitioning into a recluse.

With Rita’s husband Bart, passing away a couple of years ago, she keeps me busy with odd jobs here and there at either her house or at her restaurant, Scallywag’s.

Except for the week or two a season when Reeve or Brent show up and want to do all the tourist shit that requires us to drive into town.

Windsurfing.

Scuba diving.

Deep sea fishing.

With every passing year, I feel more of a kinship with Bigfoot. That fucker got his priorities straight the first time. I commend him for his constant pursuit of dodging civilization and living in blissful solidarity.

It’s a goal of mine, too. Once I retire from the NHL next year after my contract with the Hawkeyes expires, I’ll consider retiring here full-time—or maybe even somewhere a little quieter.

Tourism continues to grow, and resorts are expanding further along the coastline. I still have two more seasons in Seattle to consider my options. There’s no rush.

I’ve got one Stanley Cup win under my belt from years ago, but I’m aiming to win one more before retirement. Last year’s loss in overtime was brutal. Especially with Slade getting carried off the ice and sent to the ER. Thankfully, everyone is healthy this year and ready for another shot at it.

“The storm is going to hit near you? I thought it wasn’t supposed to hit the beach?” Reeve asks.

“It’s supposed to miss us, but the weather is too unpredictable to assume it won’t change direction before it does.”

“Why not head back to Seattle early then and get out of there?”

It’s a good question, and several of my neighbors who only live here part of the time, like me, have already left to head back to wherever they call home most of the year.

“I want to be here in case it does come any closer. If any damage is done, I’ll have a couple of weeks to do repairs before I have to come back for practice.”

I also don’t like leaving Rita alone, and I couldn’t convince her to head back to the States for a few days to weather the storm. She has two daughters in Louisiana and a handful of grandchildren she hasn’t seen since Bart’s funeral.

She spread his ashes out to sea and now refuses to leave until her ashes are spread the same way.

“Are you sure that’s smart?” he asks.

“It’ll be fine. Rita has a two-bedroom apartment above the bar. She’s staying there until this blows over. She offered me the other room if I need it. I don’t think the hurricane will be bad enough to require leaving, even if it does get closer to us.”

“Rita is still running the bar?” Reeve asks of my seventy-five-year-old neighbor.

Rita and her husband Bart retired over twenty years ago and moved to Mexico after buying “Scallywag’s. They had always dreamed of retiring down here, and they made it happen.

Two years ago, Bart suffered a heart attack and didn’t recover. Rita wasn’t ready to let go of their dream, so she’s been running the bar with the small, established staff herself. I can’t blame her for grieving the loss of her husband in her own way.

We all process loss and closure differently. God knows that I’ve been ridiculed for how I’ve managed my losses in life, which is why I think Rita should do whatever makes her happy.

“She’s doing just fine. Let her do her thing,” I tell him.

“Yeah, but she has kids and grandkids back in Louisiana. Who does she have there?”

“Me,” I almost say, but then decide to keep my mouth shut.

Reeve isn’t wrong for wanting to encourage her to move back home to be with her family, but it’s also not his call.

“Did you really call me to chat about my bullheaded neighbor? Because if you did, I’m hanging up now. I have actual shit to do,” I say, taking another step up on the ladder to give me better leverage once I hang up on my teammate and get back to work.

I still have Rita’s beach house to board up next and a week’s worth of backup canned goods to put away just in case things get bad.

The last thing on my to-do list today is to discuss the inner workings of my neighbor’s future plans.

I still need to make sure to find the lanterns I have stored in the garage and fill both mine and Rita’s backup generators with gasoline to keep our refrigerators and freezers running in case the power gets knocked out.

I have a few other neighbors that I said I would keep an eye out for their houses, but I won’t be going as far as to board up their windows for them.

Depending on how bad the damage is, they’ll get a call or maybe just a text. Rita, on the other hand, gets different treatment. I promised Bart that I would keep an eye out for her just like he looked out for me when I first bought this house sight unseen fifteen years ago.

The house was rougher in person than the pictures and the realtor led me to believe. It had been abandoned for some time before it went up on the market.

My beach house isn’t the nicest one on the shoreline, but slowly, over the years, I’ve done a couple of things to spruce it up. This is mostly due to Bart griping that my house was the laughingstock of our beach community.

It’s not the luxury beach house accommodations that my teammates are used to with their big bank accounts, but it suits my needs just fine.

Is it due for a fresh coat of paint?

Yeah, it’s about twenty years past due and starting to flake off in some spots.

Could the windows be upgraded to windows of this century?

Sure, that would help with the draft on windy tropical days.

I upgraded the roof a few years ago to metal, which Bart hated but it’s practical with the storms we get, and the kitchen appliances are all less than five years old.

Unlike mine, Rita and Bart’s place is updated and in great shape. Bart took a lot of pride in ownership, and Rita has always kept the inside of the place immaculate.

“Alright, well… take care of yourself, and don’t be a damn hero. The house can always be repaired. You’re a little harder to replace, and we need you in one piece this season. We have a Stanley Cup to win.”

“Yeah. I get it,” I say.

I hear what sounds like a heavy metal door close. Reeve must have just walked into the Hawkeyes’ gym. The familiar sound makes my muscles ache with the need to be pushed to their limits again.

When I’m away, the one thing I miss the most is the regular daily routine in the gym with the guys.

I run on the beach every morning while I’m here and meet Silas at a local gym twice weekly to lift weights, as long as his schedule allows. It’s nothing like the strict regimen I follow during the hockey season in Seattle, but it keeps me in shape.

“Hey, Brent just showed up to lift weights. I’ll let you get back to whatever apocalypse preparations you still have to do. We’ll see you when you get home.”

“See you in a couple of weeks,” I say back.

I end the call quickly, knowing that the conversation is over. Reeve isn’t one for long-out goodbyes, and neither am I. We both have things to do today.

He’s a good teammate and an even better friend. I appreciate that he thought of checking in.

I start to push my phone into my pants pocket and return to work.

These windows won’t board up themselves, and I still have a lot to do before nightfall when we’re supposed to start getting some heavy rain.

Just as I’m about to put away my phone, I hear a text message come through.

I pull the phone up to quickly see who it is. Whoever it is, they’ll get a response later when I have time, but I can at least check to make sure it isn’t Rita.

Josslin

The name reads.

What the fuck does she want now?

I let out a groan at seeing her name on my phone.

I read the beginning of the text without opening the entire thing.

Josslin: I’m worried about you and that storm…

That’s all I can read for now, but I don’t need to read anymore.

For the last six months, I’ve ignored Josslin’s texts, phone calls, and emails unless they pertain to my niece Cammy.

Cammy moved to Seattle last year during her freshman year at Washington University, and we’ve become close as she’s the only family member I tolerate. She comes to all of my home games and sits in my seats or joins the girls in the owner’s box. We no longer need Josslin to play the middleman between us, and the loss of control over Cammy’s relationship with me is probably killing her.

I always thought I’d be married with kids by now but at thirty-eight years old, being Cammy’s uncle might be the closest I get.

Unlike Cammy’s dad and my brother, who I haven’t talked to in eighteen years.

But that’s a memory lane I do not intend to travel down today.

I’ve got one pain-in-my-ass storm to deal with for now. Josslin can wait her turn.

And maybe if I keep ignoring my ex… she’ll finally take the hint and go away.

One can only hope.