by Piper Rayne
My Lucky #13
Piper Rayne
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
© 2021 by Piper Rayne
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.
Cover Photo: Cover Lab
Cover Design: By Hang Le
1st Line Editor: Joy Editing
2nd Line Editor: My Brother’s Editor
Proofreader: My Brother’s Editor
Contents
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Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Epilogue
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About My Lucky #13
Lucky.
The one adjective used to describe my entire hockey career. I prefer to call it hard work, at least I did until my game went to complete crap. I haven’t scored in eight games and the team owner is talking about trading me.
I’ve never believed in superstitions. Never needed one. I suppose I was “lucky” in that way. But now the best way to refer to me is desperate. I’d wear the same socks for an entire year just to be the high-scoring center I used to be.
Imagine my surprise when after spending New Year’s Eve with a woman, I score a hat trick in the next game—that’s three goals in one game for you non-hockey lovers. Now, I have to track her down and bribe her to do it again before every game. Get your mind out of the gutter, I’m not talking about it.
I find her and when I get to know her better, I end up spending more time thinking about her than my game, but she’s made it clear she wants no part of me. She’s going to learn that I didn’t become a professional hockey player without having to fight for what I want.
Chapter One
Aiden
After a long shower, I throw myself onto my couch and click on the television. I’m greeted by my name coming from the announcer’s mouth and I can’t switch the channel fast enough. But before I grab the controller, the same old tape from nine games ago plays on the screen. I slide my ass to the edge of the couch as if I haven’t seen the exact game-winning goal replayed thousands of times since I fell into the slump of all fucking slumps.
See that guy on the ice? The one who undressed the defenseman and buried the puck in the net? That’s me. Nine fucking games ago. Which is the last time I lit the lamp. My teammates rush over to me on screen, patting me on the head, congratulating me. Those were the good days. The happy days. The days I earned my nickname, Shamrock.
Now, I’m down eight games without a goal scored. The trade deadline is creeping up, and the owner has me by the balls.
“I guess we’ll see what happens tonight,” the sports commentator says. “Maybe something over New Year’s changed Drake’s luck.”
I click off the television and toss the remote onto the sofa cushion. Screw them.
I hate seeing that clip because it’s the old me. Even if my game comes back, I won’t be that same naïve player who automatically expects to score every game. Up until recently, I was always lucky, could always count on things lining up for me in a game. Hell, that’s how I got my nickname in the first place—because I didn’t need any of those stupid superstitions the rest of my teammates subscribe to in order to have a good game.
I head to the fridge to make myself a sandwich before the game, repeating the same old mantra in my head that there’s no such thing as superstitions. I’ve never believed in them, and I won’t believe in them now.
When that analyst said New Year’s, all I thought about was the woman I met at the team owner’s New Year’s Eve party, Saige. After I spent most of the night with her, she turned out to be my agent’s date. Karma at its fucking finest.
All these years traveling and on the road and I finally meet a woman who intrigues me only to discover it can’t go anywhere. Because my agent, Joran, is like an older brother. He took me on when some others didn’t see my value. He’s negotiated all my contracts, gotten me what we both felt I deserved, and stuck his neck out for me more than a few times. No woman is worth fucking up my relationship with my agent.
I eat my sandwich, dress in my suit, and head out to the rink. Because it’s just after New Year’s, the weather is pretty mild in Florida. I’m not surprised that once I’ve slid into my high-end SUV and pulled out of my driveway, Joran’s name shows up on my Bluetooth screen. He wants to boost me up and act as though he’s not fearful that I’m not gonna perform again tonight.
“Hey, Joran,” I say.
“Just checking in before the big game.” He’s obviously in his car too from the amount of road noise in the background.
“I’m good. On my way to the rink now.”
“Awesome. Listen, I wanted to tell you this story I just heard from an agent at our firm.”
“What story?” I entertain him because, well, I’m out of ideas on how to get out of this slump. Desperate times and all.
“He said he had a client once who kept striking out at the plate.”
“Baseball?”
“Just listen to me, okay?”
“Okay.” I’m already tuning him out as I signal to make a right turn.
“Finally mid-season, all the announcers are talking about him and the team GM is calling him into the office. They’re reworking his swing, calling in other hitting coaches. Nothing works.”
“Is this supposed to be an uplifting story?” I brake when some idiot changes lanes and cuts me off.
Joran chuckles. “Hold on. I’m getting there.”
I change lanes and give the guy the finger when I pull up beside him at a red light. Of course he pretends not to see me, his vision focused straight ahead.
“He saw a shrink and voilà, some deep shit from his childhood came up. Once he got it all out and made amends, he hit a two-run homer the next game.”
My shoulders sink. I don’t have any childhood shit to deal with. I have parents who, if anything, almost put themselves in the poorhouse for me to pursue a career in hockey. I didn’t have a pro father who worked me tirelessly until perfection. My parents hired coaches and sought out the best teams for me.
“Well, I don’t think that’s my problem.” I slam down on the gas when the light changes, then return the favor to the jerk by cutting him off the same way he did me.
“That was my way of telling you that Gerhardt wants you to see one. In fact, he’s hired a shrink for the entire team and you’re first on the list.”
“Seriously, a psychologist?” Talking about the stress I’m under because
I haven’t scored isn’t going to get the puck in the net.
“Gerhardt thinks it’s the golden ticket,” he says.
Gerhardt is Carl Gerhardt, owner of Florida Fury and ultimately my boss. I can’t really say no to his request for me to see a psychologist, but I’m not sure what we’re gonna talk about. Unless they’re some miracle worker with voodoo magic they can sprinkle on me, I’m pretty sure this is gonna be a waste of time. My game is absolutely pathetic these days.
“Fine. When do I have to see her or him?”
“It’s a her, and you’ll see her tomorrow. Unless you can make magic happen tonight. Hey, I heard a rumor about you and a hot blonde on New Year’s Eve.”
This is how out of touch Joran is with what’s happening around him. During the party, he was so consumed with schmoozing that he didn’t know where his date was and has no idea that the hot blonde he’s referring to was his date.
“It was nothing.”
“Did you get a good-night kiss? Maybe that’s the lucky charm you need? Getting laid on the regular does amazing things for an athlete’s games.”
He’s not wrong, but I think sex can do one of two things to an athlete—either become a distraction or help them get rid of the pressure. I haven’t had a serious relationship since I entered the NHL. Too many puck bunnies hanging around locker rooms to trust that they want me and not my paycheck. The women I see never last longer than a few dates and that’s always been in the off-season.
“No good-night kiss.” I’m too embarrassed to say that I went in for a kiss and got a drink thrown in my face.
The memory flashes back through my mind.
“So what do you say? Can I kiss you?” I leaned in, millimeters from her beautiful face, and she closed her eyes as the guy with the microphone announces two… one.
Just as I was about to make contact with her delicious lips, a splash of white wine landed on my face.
I backed away and wiped my face. “What the hell?”
“I’m sorry. I can’t.” She walked away and up the outside staircase of the mansion.
Shortly after, I found out she was there with Joran—when he introduced me to his date, the same woman I’d been flirting with all evening.
“Listen, I need to play some pregame music and get in the zone. I’ll talk to you after the game.” My thumb hovers over the End Call button on my steering wheel.
“Yeah, of course. I’ll be watching and no pressure, Aiden, you’re gonna get out of this.”
“Talk to you later, Joran.” I hang up and let my favorite song, “’Til I Collapse” by Eminem, filter through the SUV, hoping it will drown out all the doubt.
Four hours later.
“Holy fuck!” Maksim opens a bottle of champagne and sprays it over the entire locker room.
You’d think we just won the Cup.
“I bought this on the way here today. I knew today was your day.” He dumps the bottle over my head while I grin.
Ford slaps me on the back. “A fucking hat trick. You’re a damn beast.” He opens his mouth and Maksim pours some champagne down Ford’s throat.
The entire team is all smiles and cheers. I sit in the locker room while everyone’s talking about the big power move, our goalie’s shutdowns, and my blast from the point. Nothing has felt better in a long damn time.
“What did you do? Taco Bell? Socks? You look like you got a haircut,” my teammate, Tweetie, asks from across the room. “What’s the new superstition? Because I speak for all of us when I say that we’ll make whatever it is happen for you.”
I rack my brain, thinking about what I did differently between this game and our last one before New Year’s Eve. I wasn’t lying when I told Saige on New Year’s Eve that I’ve never really had superstitions. Never before now. But I need to keep this momentum going, so I think about my breakfast, my lunch, and my dinner. Same things I’ve had before any other game. I got to the rink at the same time as normal. All my clothes have been freshly laundered.
“Did you get some? Because isn’t that girl the lucky chick. She’s got you for the entire season.” Ford unlaces his skates, and I shake my head before something else clicks in my brain.
I’m pretty sure no one’s superstition has ever been crashing and burning while hitting on a woman.
“DRAKE!” Coach Vittner calls from his office.
I slip on my slides and walk across the room still in my pads. My teammates are all patting me on the back for a great job. It’s one of the best things about being on a team when you do things that boost everyone.
“Yeah, Coach?” I peek my head in and he gestures me to come inside.
“Close the door. You guys are way too loud tonight.” But he’s smiling and I catch an open bottle of Jack Daniels on his desk. Looks like even the coach is celebrating. “Good game tonight. I’m proud of you. Whatever you did, you need to fucking repeat it for the next game.”
“I didn’t do anything differently and I don’t really believe in superstitions—”
“You’re a hockey player.”
Okay, I should clarify it’s not that I don’t believe in superstitions, I’ve just never needed them. I guess I’m new to the whole obsession.
“I just wanted to call you in here because you played great tonight. I got wind of what could be gossip, but if your performance doesn’t stay like it was tonight, there’s a chance your bags are packed by the end of February.”
“Trade?”
He sighs. “If it was my decision, it’s a no-brainer. I knew you’d be where you are tonight. But it’s the big man. He makes the decisions. Let’s give it to him right in the ass for even thinking of getting rid of you.”
I fucking love Coach Vittner, and this is why. He’s a true leader and goes to bat for his players all the damn time.
“Shit. Just as the pressure was easing up.”
He chuckles. “I tell you this to encourage you to do everything in your power to score and win, not to make you depressed like some teenage boy who hasn’t touched his first tit. Come on, Drake. You’ve got this.”
“But what if next game I don’t?” Even I hate the unsureness in my tone.
“Oh fuck, that’s not what I wanna hear. I wanna hear you say you’re gonna score. You’re gonna win. You’re gonna screw Carl Gerhardt right up the ass.”
“Well…” I cock my head.
“Too far, I know. But go out there and celebrate tonight. And whatever you did before tonight’s game, repeat it.”
“Yes, sir.” I turn, and with my hand on the doorknob, I stop. “Coach?” I turn back and he’s drinking his Jack Daniels from a paper cup. “The whole superstition thing is like twenty-four hours before game time?”
He shrugs. “Every hockey player has their own. I guess you’re about to find out what yours is. But don’t go experimenting and fuck it up. Anything that’s different in your life, do before next game.”
“But—”
“Drake, we’re not building a damn rocket here. If this is about some girl you slept with last night, hate to break it to you, but retrieve that phone number out of the trash. We’re talking about your career here.”
I nod and leave Coach’s office.
Maksim comes up to me, naked, swinging his huge dick way too close to me. “What do you need me to do? Pick up food from a certain place? Not touch your shit? Wear your jockstrap? Hell, you name it.”
“Yeah, Shamrock, we’re your men. Whatever you need us to do to make this a streak.” Ford comes alongside Maksim, looking down. “Goddamn, remind me never to do a porno with you.”
I think long and hard. “I think I have to track someone down. Maksim, do you have a business card from that woman we met on New Year’s—Saige?”
“The cute blonde?” he asks.
“I knew you went home with her when we couldn’t find you. Home alone, my ass.” Ford flips me off.
“Yeah, the blonde.” I nod at Maksim.
He reaches into his bag and hands it to me. “Here
you go.”
I sit on the bench and twirl the card around in my hands. I have to be delusional to be thinking she has anything to do with my performance on the ice tonight, right? But why risk it?
I shove the card into my bag and hit the showers. My career is everything and I need to protect it. I have to keep this up, no matter the cost.
Chapter Two
Saige
“Good morning,” I say to my assistant, Tedi.
She glances up and blows a strand of her dark hair away from her face. “There’s nothing good about the morning.”
I drop a pastry bag on her desk and her eyes light up. “Unless there’s a chocolate croissant in there.” I smile at her before walking past her desk, and I hear her open up the bag to discover that there is, in fact, a chocolate croissant for her. “Oh, I love you.”
Our office is small, but we tried to work out of my apartment, and I kept finding her on the couch, watching reality television and saying she’s a great multi-tasker. Not that all the blame is on her—she’d suck me in and then I’d start doing my client’s social media from the couch in my pajamas.
She takes the croissant out of the bag and stares at it as if it’s a naked Chippendale dancer. “Come to mama!” She takes a huge bite.
