A Merry Little [Hat Trick] Christmas

by Samantha Wayland

  A Merry Little

  ~Hat Trick~

  Christmas

  Samantha Wayland

  Also by Samantha Wayland

  Destiny Calls

  With Grace

  Hat Trick Book One: Fair Play

  Hat Trick Book Two: Two Man Advantage

  Hat Trick Book Three: End Game

  Crashing the Net

  Home & Away

  Out of Her League

  Checking It Twice

  Take the Shot (in the Changing on the Fly anthology)

  A Merry Little (Hat Trick) Christmas

  Copyright © 2016 Samantha Wayland

  Published by Loch Awe Press

  P.O. Box 5481

  Wayland, MA 01778

  ISBN 978-1-940839-14-1

  Edited by Meghan Miller

  & Chelsea Kuhel (www.madisonseidler.com)

  Cover Art by Caitlin Fry

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are a product of the author imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  With the exception of quotes used in reviews, this book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from the publisher, Loch Awe Press, PO Box 5481, Wayland, MA 01778.

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

  Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be scanned, uploaded or distributed via the Internet or any other means, electronic or print, without the publisher’s permission. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000. (http://www.fbi.gov/ipr/). Please purchase only authorized electronic or print editions and do not participate in or encourage the electronic piracy of copyrighted material. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  Dedication

  For Mr. Wayland and the bug, for being the reason I love Christmas again.

  Acknowledgements

  Many thanks to my long-time editor, Meghan Miller, without whom I would be lost. Thanks also to Caitlin Fry, who creates my covers beautiful and puts up with my sometimes random and often vague feedback and still manages to make sense of it. And a big thanks to Chelsea Kuhel, who generously took this project on at the last minute.

  As always, Stephanie Kay gets the award for the world’s most patient cheerleader and whip-cracker (depending on the day). And Victoria Morgan get the award for ruthlessly seeking out and destroying passive voice and excessive adverbs better than anyone. My stories are always, always better because of her hard work. She is also responsible for the idea for the candy cane striped…er…gift within this story, though certainly not on purpose.

  Chapter One

  Henri Girard wasn’t born yesterday. God knew, the multiple massive ice packs wrapped around both his knees were testament to that. He picked at the Ace bandages holding them in place and told himself to be patient. He’d played sixteen minutes in tonight’s game, and his body wasn’t soon going to let him forget it. Too bad the next game was the day after tomorrow, and there were another fifty-something to go in the regular season.

  And they were going to make the playoffs, too, if he had anything to say about it.

  So went the life, and pains, of a veteran hockey player. He still enjoyed the game, the competition, and the team, even if it hurt a little more every year. It didn’t help that the rest of the guys on the team all looked like babies. Good god, they had these fresh faces, almost no scars, and visors on their helmets so they had a shot at making it to thirty-six without a face like Henri’s.

  The sport had changed in a lot of ways since Henri had been drafted at eighteen. In the almost twenty years he’d spent in this league, he’d seen countless players come and go. Teams changed, coaches were fired, management was overhauled, rules improved. He got punched in the head a lot less now, which was nice. And the crackdown on dirty hits meant he might actually have a few years left in him.

  He’d been here in Boston for the better part of the last decade, and hoped to finish his career here and retire to the city. His family back in Montreal would be appalled, but he had four kids entrenched in their schools and activities in the community. He had no desire to uproot them. He knew plenty of guys who had been forced to drag their families back-and-forth across the continent because of trades—or worse, guys who’d had to leave their families behind at home so that they could have stability, even if it meant they couldn’t see their father much.

  That would suck. Henri wasn’t about to volunteer this information to management or his agent, but at this point, he’d retire before he moved to a new team. And his hope, which he was speaking to management about, was that he’d be able to get a job with the team going forward. Player development sounded pretty good to him. He already spent plenty of time with some of the younger guys, trying to help them keep their heads on straight while millions of dollars, scores of beautiful people, and countless other temptations were within easy grasp.

  He could hear two of his less successful projects arguing out in the hallway right now. Well, no—it wasn’t fair to call them projects, when in fact Jean-Michel and Noel were his friends. Also, it wasn’t fair to call the incessant bickering they were always engaged in “arguing”, since that made it sound far more productive, purposeful, and adult than it really was.

  Fortunately for the two of them, Henri was one of the only people who understood what they were yelling, as it was all in French. Every once in a while, one of them would say something that would make the team’s Athletic Trainer, Savannah Morrison, smile, so Henri suspected she understood the swears, at least, which probably meant she’d learned her share of Quebecoise French in the locker room. If she knew more than that, she’d never let on.

  But then, she was pretty good at keeping secrets, Henri suspected.

  He watched as she moved efficiently through her space, grabbing what she needed before tackling the next problem. There were always a lot of little things to deal with after a game, and tonight’s had been chippy as hell, so a steady stream of guys had come through while Henri had been sitting there. It had taken the team a while to trust her, as not one of them had ever had a female trainer before, but she’d more than proven herself. New guys sometimes paused, but the rest of the team and management made it clear that any shit would not be tolerated. Hell, no one even made fun of her adorable fuzzy Santa hat, the pompom swaying whenever she bent over her work, and hockey players never showed that much restraint when the opportunity to chirp someone arose.

  No one would ever admit it—because if they did, Savannah would have their hides—but most of the guys felt a least a little protective of her. Rhian, though, took it to another level. Even now, he sat on one of her tables, his back to the wall and arms crossed over his impressively wide chest, watching her and her staff work. As far as Henri could tell, Rhian didn’t have any reason to be there. He must have changed out of his hockey gear and into his game-day suit in record time. His hair was wet, so he’d at least bothered to shower, but he’d shown up not long after Henri had hobbled his ass into the room—still in his Under Armour and unshowered, because who the hell was he trying to impress?—for his ice down.

  Rhian’s weird behavior would be interesting if it had happened only once. But now, the third time in as many games, it was becoming a pattern.

  Henri knew Rhian and Savannah had been friends before they had both come to Boston—Savannah first as the newly hired trainer, then Rhian s
hortly after as an unexpected call-up when half of Boston’s defense was either suspended or injured. Henri also knew Rhian rented the in-law apartment above Savannah’s garage in Newton, and that Savannah lived with her boyfriend, Garrick—a nice guy Henri had met a few times at various team functions and games, and who was actually part owner of the team in New Brunswick where Savannah and Rhian had met.

  What Henri didn’t understand was Rhian’s newfound protectiveness. Up until recently, Savannah and Rhian hadn’t spent more time together than Savannah did with any of the guys, except that they sometimes carpooled to and from the airport. This week, though, he’d found Rhian having his pre-game nap in the quiet room twice, and seen him leave with Savannah after several of their games. Savannah had to be at the arena long before the players showed up, so it wasn’t like Rhian sharing a ride was convenient. In fact, just the opposite, if it meant Rhian had to prepare for their games in a room intended for concussion testing, not naptime.

  So why, suddenly, were they attached at the hip?

  Savannah turned, just then, and banged said hip against the corner of the counter, hissing as she jumped back and rubbed the sore spot. Rhian twitched, but didn’t move otherwise, his gaze still impassive and pinned to Savannah. She didn’t seem to notice, as she was too busy glaring at the counter as if it had leaped out to bite her, when, in fact, it was the second time tonight she’d bumped up against it. She’d also almost tipped over her tray a few times, which was wholly unlike her.

  If Henri had to guess, he’d think someone’s center of gravity was shifting a little. Which, when combined with the way her fleece was a little tighter across her chest—not that he was looking in any sort of inappropriate way—and her face was a touch rounder than usual… well, Henri would bet good money he knew what was going on.

  And perhaps why Rhian was hovering so close? Maybe Garrick had asked Rhian to keep an eye on her?

  If Henri knew anything, it was that Savannah could take care of herself, and that many pregnant women were not so keen on being coddled. Lisa, his darling diminutive French figure skater and wife, would have strung Henri up by his balls if he’d asked someone to follow her around for one minute during any of her four pregnancies. Savannah was no fool, though, which meant she knew what Rhian was doing and was letting him get away with it.

  Henri didn’t know what that meant, but he was a nosy bastard—as more than one teammate had woefully noted—and it was going to niggle at him until he figured it out. Not that he’d stick his nose in where it wasn’t welcome. But he was observant, and, in his experience, there were all sorts of things he could learn just by sitting back and watching the people around him.

  Speaking of which, the bickering in the hallway grew to a crescendo when Jean-Michel accused Noel of being weird—nothing new there, since Noel was a goalie, after all—and Noel shoved them both through the door and into Savannah’s office.

  Unfortunately, Savannah was standing with her back to the door and didn’t see them coming until they’d bumped into her. It wasn’t a hard hit, by any means, but she staggered forward, barely catching herself against one of her tables. Before she had a chance to right herself, Rhian was across the room and in Noel’s face. Henri didn’t know if he’d ever seen Rhian move that fast, and that was saying something, since he was generally considered the fastest defenseman in the league.

  “Fucking watch it, guys!” Rhian barked.

  Savannah spun, digging her fingers into Rhian’s back where perhaps she thought no one would be able to see. Henri cut his eyes away before she caught him watching.

  Had Rhian bothered to look back to see the expression on Savannah’s face, he probably would have shut his mouth at that point, instead of demanding, “You two need to apologize. And be more fucking careful.”

  Savannah’s knuckles went white where she gripped Rhian’s jacket and drilled into his back. Rhian’s hands curled into fists.

  Henri started to unwrap his knees. Quickly.

  Noel and Jean-Michel looked horrified, though Henri suspected neither had any idea of why they were being chewed out by one of their best friends for something that happened virtually every day around the rink. The boys practically lived in this office when they could get away with it. They turned to Savannah for advice about everything.

  “Uh, sorry, Savannah,” Jean-Michel said, almost like a question.

  “Yeah, sorry,” Noel repeated, though he kept his eyes on Rhian. As a goalie, Noel was trained to focus on the real threat at all times.

  Savannah jabbed Rhian one more time before she stepped around him to face Jean-Michel and Noel directly. “No worries, guys. It was an accident.”

  Both boys glanced at Rhian, uncertain.

  “What can I do for you?” Savannah asked, her voice bright.

  “Uh, nothing,” Jean-Michel confessed. He gestured at Henri. “We came to see if Dad was done, and maybe if he and Rhian wanted to go out for drinks.”

  Rhian glanced at Savannah before turning to gaze out the door over the guys’ shoulders. “I can’t.” He stepped forward, forcing them to part to make way for him. “I’ve got to go ask Coach something,” he muttered before darting out the door.

  Noel and Jean-Michel watched him go, obviously hurt.

  Henri sighed. Children. Like the four he had at home weren’t enough to deal with. He hobbled up to Savannah’s side. “I think I’m all set. I’ll take these jokers out of here so you can finish your work.” He turned to the jokers in question. “And stop calling me Dad.”

  They both ignored him.

  Noel turned to Savannah again. “We’re sorry,” Noel said. “We didn’t mean to interrupt.”

  Savannah waved them off, rolling her eyes. “You’re fine. Go have some fun. You earned it. Just don’t forget—”

  “Protein!” Jean-Michel and Noel said in unison, then grinned.

  “We know,” Noel added.

  Henri put a hand on each of their shoulders. “Okay, guys, help the old man—who is not your dad—back to the locker room so we can get out of here.” He glanced at Savannah to check one more time for himself that she was fine. “Have a good night, Savannah.”

  “You, too, Henri.”

  Henri was feeling magnanimous enough that he didn’t even flinch at her attempt to pronounce his name properly in French.

  Rhian charged down the hallway, past the locker room, and around the corner as quickly as he could without actually breaking into a run. As soon as he was out of sight of any of the guys still loitering around the arena, he started trying doorknobs until he found himself alone in the janitorial supply closet.

  He didn’t bother turning on the light, just yanked the door closed and pressed his forehead to the cold metal.

  Fuck. He was fucking this up.

  He sucked in a deep breath and held it for a second before letting it out. Then he did it again. He kept it up until the feeling of ants crawling over his skin eased and he could roll his shoulders back down from around his ears.

  Fuck.

  Savannah was being patient with him, but it was only a matter of time before she got well and truly pissed at his behavior. Freaking out on the guys for bumping into her was not what she needed. He knew that. She didn’t need anything from him, not at work when she was focused on trying to do her job without vomiting. He knew she was strong and that she could take care of herself. That she was never going to do anything that would put herself in danger. But it felt like every minute she was out of his sight—and there were so fucking many of those minutes, goddamn it—something terrible might happen.

  He couldn’t stop worrying.

  He felt like his brain had been stuck in fifth gear for the better part of the last month, and the only saving grace was that he was still able to focus on hockey when he needed to. If his anxiety got to the level where it started fucking up his game, then he’d really be screwed.

  He took another deep breath, held it for one second, then let it out.

  Okay, he neede
d to chill. He needed to go home and relax. Just be with Garrick and Savannah and be reminded of how much he loved them and that they loved him just as much. It always felt a lot better once he was home. Once they were safe from the outside world and prying eyes.

  With a final deep breath, he let himself out of the closet—ha—and went back to find Savannah packing up for the night. He hovered in the door, wondering if she’d lay into him the moment they were out of earshot of anyone else, but she just gave him a lukewarm smile and finished up.

  Ugh. He’d rather be yelled at.

  The ride home was quiet. It often was after a game, win or lose. Savannah was also more tired these days, and she often fell asleep in the passenger seat. Tonight, she didn’t, but she didn’t say anything either. Mostly she looked out her window, occasionally turning her head to look at him for a few seconds before looking away again.

  Rhian thought he might be the one in danger of vomiting in the car tonight.

  Garrick was stretched out on the couch under one of Savannah’s Christmas blankets, half asleep in the gentle glow of the lights on the tree in the corner. He’d barely had the wherewithal to shut off the TV after the game before zoning out, but he snapped awake when he heard the car doors close. He sat up, rubbing his eyes, clearing his vision just in time to see Savannah step into the house and send him a worried look he was becoming all-too familiar with. She was followed by Rhian, who appeared more like a chastised schoolboy than any two-hundred-and-twenty-odd pound professional hockey player should be able to pull off.

  Oh boy. Another rough day.

  Garrick went to the door to the mudroom and watched as they shucked coats and bags. Rhian didn’t make eye contact with either of them as he sorted out his gear, shoving the smelliest of it into its designated closet and tossing the washable stuff through the laundry room door for later. Savannah slid past Garrick to get to the kitchen and he pulled her in to press a soft kiss to her lips.