Axes & Endzones Series by Sara Ney – Read Books Online Free Ebooks good best novels to read

Axes & Endzones Series by Sara Ney – Read Books Online Free Ebooks good best novels to read http://www.booksnovels.com Sat, 10 Oct 2026 20:14:46 +0000 en-US hourly 1 https://wordpress.org/?v=7.1.3 http://www.booksnovels.com/wp-content/uploads/2020/09/favicon.png Axes & Endzones Series by Sara Ney – Read Books Online Free Ebooks good best novels to read http://www.booksnovels.com 32 32 Scouting the Single Dad (Axes & Endzones #3) Read Online Sara Ney http://www.booksnovels.com/scouting-the-single-dad-axes-endzones-3-read-online-sara-ney Sat, 10 Oct 2026 20:14:46 +0000 http://www.booksnovels.com/scouting-the-single-dad-axes-endzones-3-read-online-sara-ney Genre: Alpha Male, Contemporary, Sports Authors: Sara Ney Series: Axes & Endzones Series by Sara Ney
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Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 87536 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 438(@200wpm)___ 350(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)

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Layla Monroe can wrangle youth soccer drama and runaway ferrets with ease. But Fall Fest with zero ticket sales? Crisis! Enter her Hail Hayes Fielder, a grumpy NFL linebacker who owes her friend a favor.

The good news? Hayes shows up.

The bad news? He brings his nine-year-old daughter, who has a to-do hike, swim, and find Dad a girlfriend. Layla’s somehow top of the audition list.

Hayes came to Star Lake for pumpkins, not feelings. But Layla’s smile could crack his defensive line, and his daughter’s already calling dibs. When a festival weekend turns into a week in Arizona—complete with pool kisses, kitchen disasters, and a kid who won’t stop scheming—Hayes realizes he’s in deep.

Was this just a favor between friends? Or the start of something worth scouting out for keeps?

Perfect for fans of single dad romance Grumpy/sunshine Matchmaking kids Small town meets big city Slow burn that combusts

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

Prologue

Layla

The email comes through at 9:17 a.m., sandwiched between a newsletter from an author I’ve been a fan of for years and a message from my best friend, with links to the proposed group girl-trip she wants us all to go on, complete with the jaw-dropping budget for the resort.

But hers isn’t the message that stops me cold.

My eyes drop to the subject line: Congrats! You’re in Charge of Fall Fest.

I click it open. Skim it, stomach dropping into my butt.

Read the email again because surely this wasn’t meant for me.

Hi Layla,

Great news: the Events Committee unanimously agreed to appoint you as our Fall Fest Chair for this year’s celebration. Your calm under pressure, creative eye, and knack for getting people excited made you the clear choice.

Dates & Scope: Fall Fest is scheduled for Saturday, September 8th. You will oversee planning, vendor coordination, and day-of execution. I have put June in charge of volunteers, and George as head of programming—hopefully this alleviates first-time jitters!

I have previous years’ notes, contacts, and planning guides available for your disposal in my office.

Can’t wait to see what you come up with!

Angelina

Clearly this was sent to me by mistake; someone in the Parks & Rec office clicked the wrong name. Slumping back in my desk chair, I stare out the window of my tiny office, eyes gazing at the mountains beyond. Bite down on my bottom lip as they roam back to the announcement computer screen.

Congrats?

Congrats? This is no victory.

Organizing an event was never on my radar!

I’ve been running the Star Lake Community Center for two years, and sure, I can coordinate a youth soccer schedule like nobody’s business. I can talk a knitting club of eighty-year-olds and a high school robotics team into sharing the same multipurpose room without bloodshed.

But Fall Fest?

Fall Fest is sacred.

Seriously. I don’t think you understand the gravity of what I’m dealing with here, and I’m not being dramatic!

Fine. A tad bit dramatic . . .

Think: hayrides, chili cook-offs, donut food trucks, pie-eating contests. Last year, Annabelle had actual living, breathing lumberjacks, one of which turned out to be an actual living, breathing professional football player.

She is a legend.

Having run off with a football player of her own to the sunny state of Arizona, Annabelle coordinated the festival as if it were Star Lake’s Super Bowl. Except now she’s off living her best life as Mrs. Maverick McBride, leaving me—Layla Monroe, queen of broken vending machines at the baseball pavilion—in charge.

I shove my rolling chair away from my desk so hard the wheels squeak on the carpet, as I mutter, “There’s no way.”

With the email printed off and clipped to the board in my hand, I march down the hall toward Angelina’s office, the place where all bad assignments are born. Raise my fist to knock. Give it a few raps before peeping my head inside.

“Angelina?” I greet her. “Can I speak with you for a minute? There’s, uh, been a mistake.”

Angelina—who has been with the rec department over twenty years and is old enough to be my mother—blinks up at me. She’s surrounded by files, papers, Post-it Notes, and awards, all arranged neatly.

“Good morning to you, too, Layla.” She crosses her hands patiently in front of her, pen in hand. “You look like you have something on your mind.”

Good! Because there is!

I plop down in the seat across from her, taking my email and laying it on her desk. Give it a tap with my finger. “I received this email this morning. It says I’m in charge of Fall Fest? Which has to be a huge mistake, ’cause if you recall, I already have a full-time job scheduling the pickleball wars—I mean courts—and organizing the seasonal activity guides. Not to mention soliciting donations for the updates to the building and the after-school programs . . .”

Her lips twitch when I’m done speaking, but she keeps her expression neutral. “There was no mistake.”

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Married to the Scottish Player (Axes & Endzones #2) Read Online Sara Ney http://www.booksnovels.com/married-to-the-scottish-player-axes-endzones-2-read-online-sara-ney Sun, 12 Jul 2026 16:03:46 +0000 http://www.booksnovels.com/married-to-the-scottish-player-axes-endzones-2-read-online-sara-ney Genre: Alpha Male, Contemporary, Funny, Sports Authors: Sara Ney Series: Axes & Endzones Series by Sara Ney
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Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 89519 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 358(@250wpm)___ 298(@300wpm)

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From the author of Falling for the Fake Lumberjack comes a laugh-out-loud scorcher about a burned-out wedding planner and broken-down linebacker brought together by fate—and a booking snafu.

Wrangling lumberjacks for Star Lake’s Fall Fest has wedding and event planner Annabelle Franklin ready to saw some serious wood. When her best friend suggests a staycation, she’s all in. Too bad the cabin she books is already occupied—by a brawny Scot who just won’t budge.

The good news? Callum “Maverick” McBride has abs to spare and a voice that could fell trees (and drop panties). Did I mention he owns two kilts? Recuperating from surgery, the Arizona linebacker just wants privacy. And since he was there first, he refuses to give an inch.

As sparks start melting the ice between them, they concede to sharing the cabin. But after crashing a wedding—and waking up hungover with matching gold rings—any boundaries established are quickly forgotten.

Turns out Annabelle and Callum’s marriage is legit. And fate has another wee surprise in store. They discover that sometimes the best mistakes in life are the ones you choose to keep

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

Prologue

Annabelle

Lucy was right.

I need a break.

If one more person tells me I look tired, I’m going to scream.

But I do look tired. Because I am tired. Because running the Lakeside Fall Fest was basically like hosting a royal wedding, the Super Bowl, and a three-day lumberjack circus all rolled into one, minus the helpful minions and with way more syrup emergencies! Ugh!

The funny thing is—and by funny, I mean cruel and ironic—after it was all over and we’d counted the $80,000 we raised (I’m still suspicious someone added a zero), my first thought wasn’t relief.

It was I need a vacation.

A real one.

One where no one calls me at 6:00 a.m. asking if they can bring their cousin’s boyfriend’s dog to the pancake breakfast. One where I don’t have to talk to the fire marshal about whether or not axe throwing constitutes a “controlled hazard.” One where I don’t have to hear the question “Are we out of syrup?” ever again in my natural life.

But I can’t take a real one because There is No Time.

I text Lucy to complain, thumbs flying across the screen like a woman possessed: I need a vacation. I need three vacations. Possibly a sabbatical. Maybe early retirement. How do I make this happen without abandoning the town or faking my own death?

I stare at the chat bubble, waiting for those three glorious dots to appear.

Nothing.

I hate how impatient I am, waiting for her to reply. I hate how envious I am that she left for Arizona without me, because Harris freaking Bennett, NFL linebacker for Arizona, swept her off her feet like some kind of romantic comedy hero with biceps carved from marble.

She deserves it.

Obviously she does . . .

But also?

Rude!

I’m here, running on caffeine and stress fumes, my hair in a bun that hasn’t been undone in four days, answering emails about lost-and-found jackets, backpacks—and whether or not we can “make the lumberjacks come back for Christmas tree lighting in the square.”

I tap my phone impatiently. Still nothing.

I let out a dramatic sigh, leaning my head back against the porch railing, staring at the gray sky. Even the weather is judging me.

My phone dings.

Lucy:

Omg. Stop. Come to Arizona. Get on a plane. Do It.

Come to Arizona?

I stare at the screen, wanting to reply with a resounding Yes! Yes, you’re right! I’m on my way! Free place to stay! Sunshine!

My thumbs hesitate over the keys.

Except . . . I can’t.

There’s a pancake breakfast meeting on Tuesday. And the Christmas committee kickoff on Wednesday. And Madison Rodriguez and her fiancé are coming to tour their wedding venue on Tuesday afternoon, and her parents will finally be in town.

Annabelle:

You know I would love to, but I can’t.

Lucy:

There is always going to be reasons not to do something. I shut down the studio to fly here, because I couldn’t get anyone to cover for me. Sometimes we have to make sacrifices for our mental health, for example . . .

I sigh. She’s not wrong—there is always going to be a reason not to do something. Still, that doesn’t mean I can drop everything and fly out of town.

I am not like Lucy.

I am not spontaneous.

I don’t live on the edge.

I stare out the window, in the direction of the lake. Yes, I live in a resort town. No, my apartment isn’t anywhere near the water. Too expensive.

But that’s me in a nutshell, isn’t it? Practical. Predictable. Sensible to a fault. I make grocery lists and stick to them. I budget down to the penny. I plan vacations twelve months in advance and still double-check hotel confirmations the night before. I don’t wake up one morning and decide to book a flight somewhere on a whim. I’ve never been that girl.

I wonder what it feels like to be that girl.

To act first and figure the rest out later.

To leap without worrying if the net will appear.

Lucy:

What about a staycation? Go to the lodge and relax! Let them pamper you! Hang out with the tourists . . .

Annabelle:

The lodge is the least quiet place in town. What I need is peace and quiet and not to stare at the white walls in my apartment, day in and day out . . . UGH!

Lucy:

Okay. What about one of the cottages? I had never been in one until I was inside Harris’s and they are So Darn Cute. You would love it.

I chew on my bottom lip, staring at her message. Spontaneity? No, thank you. That’s how you end up lost, sunburned, and accidentally eating something you’re allergic to.

But . . . what if?

What if I did take a staycation?

What if I closed my laptop, threw some clothes in a bag—no, not even pack a bag, just take whatever I can grab in ten minutes—and got the heck out of here?

Annabelle:

Wouldn’t that be weird?

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Falling for the Fake Lumberjack (Axes & Endzones #1) Read Online Sara Ney http://www.booksnovels.com/falling-for-the-fake-lumberjack-axes-endzones-1-read-online-sara-ney Thu, 26 Feb 2026 07:38:10 +0000 http://www.booksnovels.com/falling-for-the-fake-lumberjack-axes-endzones-1-read-online-sara-ney Genre: Alpha Male, Contemporary, Sports Authors: Sara Ney Series: Axes & Endzones Series by Sara Ney
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Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 88460 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 442(@200wpm)___ 354(@250wpm)___ 295(@300wpm)

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A small-town yoga teacher finds something real with a linebacker posing as a lumberjack in this sharp and spicy romance from USA Today bestselling author Sara Ney.

With rugged good looks and muscles for days, Harris Bennett stops traffic no matter what he’s wearing—flannel shirt or football jersey. So when management sends him to Star Lake, Washington, for a team-building retreat, it’s no wonder a local mistakes him for a lumberjack. And Harris leans right into the misunderstanding. Because that “local” looks amazing in yoga pants.

Lucy LeBrandt is a yoga instructor with trust issues: She doesn’t have time for men. But she’s definitely drawn to the hot, goofy lumberjack who seems to know nothing about, well, lumberjacking. He’s only in town for a week. Maybe she can squeeze him in between classes…

Harris has no idea what to do with an axe, and Lucy has no idea what to do about Harris. But they both know exactly what to do when they’re alone together. Can they split the difference between them, or is their romance just one stroke away from “TIIIIIMBER!”?

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

Chapter 1

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 & R and other nature-inspired bull crap.

As if throwing a bunch of competitive maniacs in the wilderness were going to help us unwind and bond and shit.

I mean. What does one do at a lake?

Kayak? Not interested. Go boating? Last time I boated, it included beer and wakeboarding, and we’ve been told not to embarrass ourselves by drinking. Can’t swim—too cold. And have I mentioned I loathe getting touched by things I cannot see beneath the water? Seaweed and such?

Uh, hello—have you heard of the Loch Ness Monster?

Don’t fish. I refuse to. Since I went fishing with my Grandpa Walt the summer I turned nine and got hooked in the ear by one of his errant casts, I will not fish, and you cannot make me. The grudge game is strong with this one.

“Fishing is a state of mind, bro,” my teammate Dex declared after discovering our destination was a mountain town. “It’s you, your worm, and—”

I cut him off. “I’m not touching worms.”

He shrugged. “You can use fake bait. Some of them have glitter.”

“No fishing.”

“Fine.” He sneered at me, disgusted by my lack of masculinity. “Don’t come crying to me when you’re bored out of your mind.”

Bored?

Yeah, I probably will be bored; 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.”

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