Portland Wildfire Series by Sawyer Bennett – Read Books Online Free Ebooks good best novels to read

Portland Wildfire Series by Sawyer Bennett – Read Books Online Free Ebooks good best novels to read http://www.books2020.com Sun, 16 Aug 2026 18:14:33 +0000 en-US hourly 1 https://wordpress.org/?v=7.0.4 http://www.books2020.com/wp-content/uploads/2020/09/favicon.png Portland Wildfire Series by Sawyer Bennett – Read Books Online Free Ebooks good best novels to read http://www.books2020.com 32 32 Locke (Portland Wildfire #2) Read Online Sawyer Bennett http://www.books2020.com/locke-portland-wildfire-2-read-online-sawyer-bennett Sun, 16 Aug 2026 18:14:33 +0000 https://www.books2020.com/locke-portland-wildfire-2-read-online-sawyer-bennett Genre: Alpha Male, Contemporary, Erotic, Sports Authors: Sawyer Bennett Series: Portland Wildfire Series by Sawyer Bennett
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Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 81281 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 406(@200wpm)___ 325(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)

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He’s the league’s most dangerous defenseman. She’s the specialist sent to determine whether he’s too broken to save. Neither of them is prepared for what happens when the truth hits back.

Locke Donovan has a reputation carved in blood and penalty minutes. The league’s most dangerous defenseman, he’s an angry, unapproachable loner who fights harder and refuses to let anyone in. The Portland Wildfire only took him because no one else would, and Locke seems determined to prove every rumor true. He doesn’t do teammates. He doesn’t do relationships. He barely does conversation.

Dr. Livia Cross is quiet, brilliant and controlled. Officially, she’s the Wildfire’s new high-performance consultant. Unofficially, she’s been embedded by the league to evaluate one player.

One risk.
Locke.

Her job is observe him, test him, and determine whether he’s safe to stay on the ice, or too volatile to keep playing. But the man she finds beneath the scowl and silence isn’t what she expected. He’s sharp. Watching. Walled off for a reason. And when sparks ignite where there should only be professionalism, Livia’s carefully built boundaries start to crack.

Locke doesn’t trust easily yet he lets Livia closer than he ever intended, long before he learns she isn’t who he thinks she is. And when the truth comes out, it won’t just shatter their fragile connection… it might end his career.

Dark, emotional, and electric with slow-burn chemistry, LOCKE delivers a gripping workplace romance between a guarded enforcer and the woman sent to evaluate him—until desire becomes danger, and the lines between loyalty and love blur beyond recognition

*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************

Chapter 1

Locke

Iknow before I even throw a punch that I’m going to get ejected from the game.

No one is going to want to hear a justification because there isn’t one. There’s no heat of the moment and there’s nothing instinctual. I simply see Morrow coming off the boards with that annoying curl to his lip, disdain for anyone in his way, and heading straight for me.

Christ, he fucking pisses me off.

Nashville’s agitator Leo Morrow is their team’s designated problem-maker, and we’ve played against each other enough to know the other’s secret tool kit. The elbow on the cycle or the slash across the back of the knee when the refs’ eyes are elsewhere. We’ve been chirping at each other the entire game, quiet enough that nobody else heard it. It’s a given that we’re going to drop the gloves. I should probably wait for him to instigate but fuck it.

I feel like fighting now because yeah… I don’t like that curl to his lip.

It’s the third period and the game is tied at two. The Portland Wildfire fans are going crazy, the arena practically shaking from the rafters downward. It’s been loud from the drop of the opening puck—new franchise, new arena, fans who are getting a team of their very own. They’re all here for the violence mixed within the sport, or at least that’s part of my justification for what I’m about to do. These fans aren’t generational loyalists who inherited the team because it’s who their father, and their father before them, rooted for. These people are on the inaugural ride of this crazy train and I’m about to deliver.

Morrow tries to circle past me, but I don’t let him. I ram my shoulder into him, knocking him off balance, and before he can even turn to give me that What the fuck look, I’m throwing my gloves to the ice.

The crowd roars with approval, the desire for blood whipping them into a frenzy. I let that fuel me—a reasonable justification even Coach would have a hard time arguing with—and I have one hand on his jersey, the other balled into a fist that connects with the side of his helmet before he can even get his gloves off.

Morrow’s good, just as big as me, and he strikes back with a vengeance. His knuckles clip my jaw, snapping my head sideways, and I taste the copper tang of blood.

Delicious.

Twenty-two thousand people who came here tonight to watch something happen are getting exactly what they wanted. Some might say I’m a fucking hero.

I manage to tuck in and drive my fist upward, catching the bottom of his chin and popping his head back. Morrow grunts but before he can retaliate, the linesmen get between us.

“That’s enough. Break it up.”

I don’t listen, trying to get my hands free to throw one more punch. The crowd screams out its approval.

“Enough, Donovan,” the official bellows. Morrow is trying to pull loose but I’m not letting him go.

“Jesus, you fucking psychopath,” Morrow snarls as I push hard against all of them.

Unfortunately, my skates slip out from under me and the momentum has me falling. Morrow somehow twists us and he lands on top of me, knocking the air from my lungs.

And then he’s gone, both linesmen pulling him off. He’s skating away from me before I can even get back upright.

“You fucking pussy,” I call out to the retreating Badger.

“Enough, Donovan,” a ref says as he skates up to me, laying a hand on my shoulder.

I shrug it off violently, pulling out my mouth guard out so he can hear me loud and clear. “I’ve played in front of better officials at a peewee tournament, you worthless piece of shit.”

His face mottles red and he points to the door that leads to the locker rooms. “That’s it… you’re out of here.”

“Peewee tournaments,” I snap back, pointing at him. “I’m sure you were fire there.”

The ref ignores me and skates to the glass where officials are eagerly awaiting the call. “At 12:34 of the third period, to Portland, number 18—five-minute major penalty for fighting. Number 18 also receives a two-minute minor penalty for instigating. And a game misconduct for abuse of officials.”

The crowd boos its disapproval, calling the refs blind and biased, although the language is a lot more colorful. I appreciate their devotion to me, but no doubt I deserve the penalties.

I slowly skate across the ice, taking my time. The crowd continues to jeer the refs. I glance up at the center-hung scoreboard—a massive four-sided video board that drops from the ceiling and makes you feel like you’re inside the play. I watch the replay of me attacking Morrow. LED ribbons running the full circumference of the lower bowl pulse in the team colors of burnt orange and forest green while rock music blares, indicating they’re cutting to a commercial.

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Advertisement Crosby (Portland Wildfire #1) Read Online Sawyer Bennett http://www.books2020.com/crosread-online-portland-wildfire-1-read-online-sawyer-bennett Wed, 20 May 2026 17:50:29 +0000 https://www.books2020.com/crosread-online-portland-wildfire-1-read-online-sawyer-bennett Genre: Alpha Male, Contemporary, Sports Authors: Sawyer Bennett Series: Portland Wildfire Series by Sawyer Bennett
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Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 86515 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 433(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 288(@300wpm)

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She’s here to expose hockey’s biggest flaws. He’s the complication she never planned on. Neither one is prepared for the sparks that fly every time they collide.

Juno Paxton has built her award-winning documentary career dismantling institutions people blindly worship. Her latest assignment is her most high-profile immerse herself in the league’s newest hockey expansion team—the Portland Wildfire—for an entire season and create a behind-the-scenes film the league can parade around as “authentic.”

Juno doesn’t buy it. Not the hype, not the hero worship, and definitely not the polished personas of pro athletes. She expects egos, theatrics, and plenty of manufactured grit.

What she doesn’t expect is Crosby Hale.

The Wildfire’s starting goalie is stoic, meticulously focused, and infuriatingly camera-shy. He wants nothing to do with her film, her questions, or her insistence that he “show some personality.” Unfortunately for him, the league wants Juno’s documentary to center on the enigmatic goaltender who refuses to cooperate.

But the more time Juno spends with Crosby, the more she glimpses the steady, thoughtful man beneath his guarded exterior. He isn’t the stereotype she’s built her name exposing—he’s better. The more she learns about him, the harder it becomes to keep her documentary, and her heart, objective. And for Crosby, letting Juno in feels less like a mistake and more like the beginning of something worth fighting for.

Warm, witty, and unexpectedly emotional, CROSBY launches the Portland Wildfire series with a slow-burn enemies-to-lovers romance between a skeptical filmmaker and the goalie determined to stay out of her spotlight… until she becomes the one thing he can’t turn away from

*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************

CHAPTER 1

Crosby

The practice facility is like nothing I’ve ever seen before. Touted as the most state-of-the-art and luxurious in the league, the esteemed owner of the new Portland Wildfire apparently spared no expense.

Then again, Patrick Rowe is a fucking billionaire a few times over, so why should he go on the cheap when outfitting his new hockey franchise?

The facade of the one-hundred-and-sixty-thousand-square-foot building is dominated by sweeping walls of glass and steel panels in muted slate and graphite tones. The main entrance is recessed beneath an overhang of glass and metal, the doors framed by towering windows that flood the lobby with natural light during the day. The team crest is etched directly into the stone, a massive twenty-foot-diameter circle of the Cascade Mountain Range, bordered by evergreen trees and wildfire flames.

The facility sits in Beaverton, Oregon, close enough to downtown Portland to be considered convenient, far enough to keep the noise out. It gives the team space to work without an audience, and I chose to purchase a home here rather than in the city. I’ll spend far more time here than I will at the actual arena for games.

Rowe definitely gets bragging rights over the sheer enormity of the place. It has two full ice rinks—one regulation size and a secondary development rink—housed in the center portion and flanked by two outward wings. The eastern side of the building houses the main locker room, the medical and rehab suite, the strength and conditioning gym, and a full-size sit-down restaurant called The Blue Line where, rumor has it, the chef will prepare meals for you to take home if you ask nicely.

The western wing houses the executive team—coaches’ offices, the general manager’s suite, as well as video review rooms and a sports science and analytics center. I heard there’s even a leadership office suite for whoever is elected captain and assistant captains of the team. There’s also a team meeting auditorium, assorted conference rooms and a media zone for interviews and press conferences.

I’ve been around this league long enough to know when a facility is meant to inspire and when it’s meant to impress. This one does both and I consider it a massive perk for coming to this team as a free agent.

The sun is barely up, and the September air has an early-morning bite. I glance to the southeast and while I can’t see it today, I’ve been told Mt. Hood is often visible.

Training camp starts in a few days, but the entire team meets for the first time today. Most came in the expansion draft held at the end of June whereas others like me were free agents. Because we’re an expansion team, we’re comprised largely of players the other teams didn’t want, which means we’re ragtag at best.

At worst, we might be a hot mess, but it’s way too soon to know that.

I check in at the security desk and step through a turnstile after I scan my badge, which had been hand-delivered to my house yesterday, along with a welcome gift package from Patrick Rowe. It was a matte black box with the Wildfire logo embossed on the top and a soft velvet lining. Inside was a Ferragamo travel bag, a Jaeger-LeCoultre watch, and a set of Bose QuietComfort noise-canceling headphones. I’ve always been great at math, and some quick calculations led me to believe our new owner probably dropped three hundred grand on these player gifts.

Not too shabby.

I move past the security checkpoint and head left to the west wing, following signs to the team auditorium. It’s not my first time here, as we all got tours upon our arrival last week, but it’s no less mind-boggling. It’s built like a private cinema with stadium-style, tiered rows that rise gradually from the front of the room to the back. Each chair is wide and padded, upholstered in mocha-brown leather with black piping, built-in armrests, and the Wildfire logo in the team colors of burnt orange and forest green embossed into the headrests.

At the front of the room spans an enormous wall-mounted video screen that stretches nearly wall to wall and floor to ceiling. It can operate as one massive uninterrupted display or split into three independent panels, allowing coaches to run multiple video feeds simultaneously.

At the front corner of the room sits a low coaching podium and integrated control station. From here, staff can control video playback, lighting, audio and screen configuration. Additional monitors are mounted discreetly around the room for presenters, ensuring coaches never have to turn their backs on the team.

I’m the first to arrive and I take a seat in the tenth row, direct center. Not because I need to be seen, but because it’s where I can see everyone else as they enter.

As a goalie, that’s habit.

It’s my job to read a play before it happens and you can’t do that if you don’t have the best line of sight as well as understand angles.

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