I breathe easy when I get my stick on it. A couple of steps forward, then I flick it left to Simec. He taps it back to Landvic, who sends it up ice to where Moore is waiting. Moore takes the shot, but it’s deflected wide. I push in for the rebound. The puck bounces off an Edmonton player, and the goalie smothers it.
“I hear Gibson’s popular with the wives and girlfriends,” I say to an Edmonton defenceman as I skate past him to the face-off circle. I don’t stick around for his reaction. I have a face-off to win again.
I do just that, and race to the front of the net. Moore sends the puck my way, but I take a big hit and go down, the puck stolen by Gibson in the process.
By the time I’m on my feet, he’s in the neutral zone. But not for long. Landvic slams him hard into the boards, drawing a five minute major for charging.
I can’t blame him, but fuck, we’re supposed to be drawing the penalties, not incurring them.
Simec, Moore, and I head back to the bench for a line change.
We manage to kill Landvic’s penalty, and forty-three seconds before the end of the first period, Edmonton gets a minor penalty for hooking Moore.
Even though we start the second period on a power play, we don’t score, and spend the rest of the period unable to gain any significant advantage.
At the end of the second, Coach stalks into the dressing room and room goes silent. “One goal,” he says. “That’s all we need to win this. More would be better, but one goal and solid defence gives us the win along with a shutout.” He spins on his heel and leaves without another word.
Of course, we’ve been fighting for the last two periods to get one goal. But then, so has Edmonton. It’s going to come down to who wants it more—and who will do whatever it takes to get there. That’s us on both counts.
The opportunity comes well into the third period when Simec intercepts a pass deep in our own zone. He spins and snaps the puck to Moore and we take off up the ice. Moore dekes Gibson, then fires to the puck to me. I send it up to Simec and head for the front of the net.
Simec gets caught up in to the corner, but manages to flick the puck back at Moore who immediately sends it to me in front of the net.
It’s a perfect pass. The puck hits the tape, and with one quick snap of my wrist, it flies over the Edmonton goalie’s shoulder to the back of the net. Top shelf, baby.
My first goal of the regular season. Perfect.
When the horn marks the end of the game, we’re still in last place in the league, but we’re no longer sporting a big ol’ zero in the win column.
One-and-three, and the season is young. Next up, I get a re-match with the Sens, and I’ve got fire in my blood to win that one, too.
5
Sasha
I sleep in Sunday, after watching Tate finally—finally!—kick some ass against Edmonton the night before. The only thing on my agenda for the day is a girls’ night at Ellie’s place later in the evening, but before that I should do some shopping, and I’ve got some writing to do, too.
My dissertation is coming along nicely. Secretly, of course, because I’m in no hurry to graduate. But since my advisor approved the framework, I’ve been steadily writing away at it and it’s probably more than half done now. I’ve got a goal of another five pages today, and unless something comes up, that’s totally going to happen.
I can feel it. Today is going to be a rock awesome day.
But as I make my second coffee, there’s a knock at the door, and as soon as I open it, I’m reminded that I do not, in fact, have the ability to predict if a day is going to be awesome or not—because something has most definitely come up.
Something—someone—who knows he shouldn’t be here.
“Tate.” I say his name just like that, a flat acknowledgement that he’s standing on my doorstep.
He ducks his head and gives me a totally calculated, perfectly bashful grin. “Hey, Sasha.”
“This is a surprise.”
He nods. “We have a game here.”
In two days time, but I’m not going to show my hand. He doesn’t need to know I’m following the Lumberjacks’ season. Tate’s season.
“But not here in my apartment,” I say dryly.
“No.” His grin widens. “I’m here to see you.”
Oh, crap. “You want a repeat.” Another flat acknowledgement. He’s made no secret of that fact.
He glances around the landing, and I reflexively step back, letting him into my apartment. This isn’t a conversation for the hallway.
But it’s not a conversation I want to have in private, either. I don’t want to have it at all. “Tate…”
He closes the door behind him, and instead of moving into my living room, he just leans back against the heavy wood and holds up his hand. “Hear me out.”
I cross my arms. “Okay.”
“I know you’re not up for…” He swivels his wrist in an encompassing motion. “Whatever. A relationship, public exposure, or regular text messages.”
I nod. “Yep, and everything in between, too.”
He gives me a baleful look. “Well, not everything. I think I can make a solid argument for an orgasm exception.”
“Pardon?” I blink at him. “A what?”
“I don’t want to push you, Sasha.” He drops his voice, his words sliding into a lower, sexier pitch. “I just want to make you come. On your terms, whatever you want.”
“I—” I gape at him. I’m speechless.
He waits for me to catch up, and I take my time. I look him over. Expensive jeans, perfectly cut to his narrow hips and powerful thighs. Even more expensive boots and belt. A casual Henley stretched across his chest and arms—sculpted muscles I haven’t forgotten since the last time he was here.
Haven’t stopped thinking about, to be honest.
I just want to make you come.
Of course it’s that simple for Tate. He’s an unrepentant sexual being. He’s so orgasm-centric that it’s probably an offer he makes to everyone.
“No thanks,” I finally spit out. I’m not interested in being a casual hook-up for an overgrown boy-child who gets everything he wants. What we did in August was a very hot exception to my no celebrity rule.
He nods mock-solemnly. “No hat trick for Sasha, then.”
And then he smiles, and it lights up his eyes. They’re hazel, but today there’s a mossy green glint to them that is too fresh, too pure for someone as deviant as Tate.
I can’t believe I’m falling for this. “What’s a hat trick?”
“Three orgasms. One with my tongue, one with my fingers, and one with my cock.”
“That doesn’t sound so impressive.”
He grins. “Of course it is. I’m the Gordie Howe of sex.” He holds up three fingers and ticks them off, one by one. “The first one’s in your clit. The second is in your pussy. And the third one, the one that makes you scream so loud your neighbours call the cops? That’s where I’m buried deep in your ass.”
“That is never happening.”
“Never say never.”
“You’re a pig.”
“Definitely. But your panties are soaked right now.”
He’s not wrong.
Why am I more turned on by his disgusting over-the-top ways than I ever have been with anyone else? This is the universe punishing me for setting aside my principles to sate my horny curiosity.
I need to change the subject. “Why…” God, my voice sounds weak. I frown and try again. “Why does that perverted monstrosity of an answer make you the Gordie Howe of sex?”
He winks. “Because Howe’s version of the hat trick was an assist, a goal, and getting in a fight.”
Oral, vaginal, and… “Are you saying that anal with you is like getting in a fight?”
He frowns. “No.”
I laugh, and he scowls at me.
“Anal with me is excellent.”
“I bet it is. You need to work on your advertising.”
“I don’t need to adv
ertise my abilities.”
“And yet you’ve got a little catch phrase for your sex trick anyway.”
I point to the door. “Out you go.”
Yes, I’m showing him out. No, I don’t care that he flew across the country to see me. He didn’t ask first, and if he had, I’d have told him to stay in Vancouver.
To try his hat trick pick-up line on someone who would fall for it.
“Sure thing. You’ve got studying to do, I bet.”
I nod, because it’s a good excuse.
He reaches for the handle, and pauses. His expression shifts, from playful to serious. “You must be getting close to the finish line on your dissertation, eh?”
I take a deep breath, and it catches in my chest. I don’t want to think about that. “Yeah.”
“You want any help?”
I try to laugh, but I can’t. “Uh…”
He moves closer—something he hadn’t done when he was offering me anal sex. Heat radiates off his big, broad body. “All joking aside, Sasha. I’m here for two more days. If you need a distraction, feel free to call.”
I won’t. I can’t.
“Or you know…any time. If you just want to talk.” I must have done a terrible job of hiding my surprise at that, because he reaches out and brushes his thumb against my hand—the slightest of touches before he retreats again. He’s knocking me off-balance with this good guy routine, and I don’t like it. “Hey, don’t be so surprised. I like to talk.”
“About sex.”
“About anything. I’m a social guy.” Something flickers in his eyes and I’m reminded again, for a second, that Tate might be lonely out in Vancouver. But then he winks, and I remember that if he were lonely, he could just pick up a puck bunny or three and fill that void with blow jobs and spanking, or whatever else he likes.
Nails in his back, pleading for release…
He’s not done with his full-court press, either. “Let’s have dinner tonight.”
“I’ve got plans.”
His jaw flexes. “Break them.”
“I don’t want to.”
“Whatever they are, I’ll do you one better. I’ll take you to the nicest place in the city.”
I bet that line works on a lot of women, but it’s the exact wrong thing to say to me. I point to the door. “See you never, Tate. Don’t let the door smack you in the ass on your way out.”
He gives me a long, hard look, then nods. “All right. But I’ll see you round, so…you know. Friends?”
I can’t handle his relentless optimism. “Sure.”
He gives me a long, curious look, like he’s not sure if he believes me. That makes two of us. “You know what? You should come to Rapscallion tomorrow night.”
That doesn’t sound like something I would touch with a ten foot pole. “What is Rapscallion?”
He grins. “Max’s new sex club.”
6
Tate
Somehow, my plan to show up and seduce Sasha for a fun Sunday morning fuckfest turned into her dressing me down and reminding me I was a once-and-done screw.
Fine.
But I don’t think I imagine a hurt look flash across her face as I give her a cocky wave goodbye.
I’m still thinking about that look as I pull into the garage at my house.
My house, where I’ll be lucky to spend a week in total over the next nine months.
Fuck.
I text Rob, and he says he’ll be over soon.
I should grab a nap or squeeze in a workout. Instead, I flop on my couch, legs spread wide, and I close my eyes and think of the fire in Sasha’s eyes.
My instinct is to send her flowers or send her an apologetic text—but since she didn’t like the flirty ones, she won’t want that, either.
I’m fucked.
This is the first time since I started playing pro that I’ve let myself get twisted up about a woman, well and truly, and she can’t stand me.
And now I need to sit with the uncomfortable possibility that my distraction over Sasha has been a part of my rocky start with the Lumberjacks.
Fuck.
Last night’s win in Edmonton was much needed. That’s where my head should be. On my job.
I grab the PVR controller and turn on the television. Sure enough, the last few Sens games are recorded. Good job, Rob.
Somehow this is different than watching them on my laptop, on the road.
That should be me in that jersey. When Brandon skates onto the ice at the first line change, I can see myself right behind him. Now it’s the fucking Russian with the fucking gap-toothed grin. The one whose smack talk got to me in Vancouver.
I’m not a big fighter, I let the goons handle enforcement, but that guy? I want to smash him in the face at the first opportunity.
I watch him closely, memorizing the sway of his body. He’s fluid and fast for a big guy. I can’t underestimate his speed again.
I hear the front door open, and I raise my hand. “Watching some game tape,” I call out.
“Good deal,” Rob says. “I brought you lunch.”
“Thanks, man.” And that’s it. He leaves me to watch the game while he unpacks food, then quietly brings me a water before sinking into the recliner on the other side of the room with his phone.
At the next commercial break, I pause the game instead of fast-forwarding, and I glance over at Rob. “Hey, want to go out for dinner tonight? Somewhere nice?”
He grins. “Fuck yeah.”
Sure, he might not have the sweetest pussy I’ve ever sunk into, but he doesn’t give me grief. “It’s a date.”
He chuckles. “You that hard up?”
Apparently so.
7
Sasha
I’m still reeling from Tate’s unexpected visit when I arrive at Ellie’s place Sunday night. Coming here for a girls’ night means going through a quick RCMP security check, because my best friend is married to the prime minister of Canada—a fact I mostly find no big deal, but every so often it’s kind of surreal.
“You’re good to go, Ms. Brewster,” the young constable says.
I pull my car ahead, and by the time I’m parked, I see our friend Violet Roberts driving in behind me. She gets out of the car and then opens the back door, where I see a baby bucket seat. She covers it with a blanket to protect wee Noah from the chilly October night.
I wait for them, then we walk up to the front door together. I’m dying to ask her about what Tate said, because Violet is Max’s wife. Max, who now has a sex club called Rapscallion, apparently.
What a ridiculous, tantalizing name.
But I can’t ask her right now because we’re standing outside 24 Sussex, the official residence of the prime minister of Canada. This is not the place to talk about over-the-top kink club names and secret news I was not aware of.
Sure, the entrance is protected from the road by a stand of trees, which makes this as normal as it can possibly be, but still. Not the time or place.
Ellie answers the door herself. “Come in, come in,” she says, her hands making a grabby gesture at the portable baby bucket.
Violet hands Noah over with a laugh. “Your favourite person has arrived.”
“I just can’t handle how cute he is,” Ellie says. We kick off our boots and coat while she gets the tiny bambino out of his buckles and blankets. “Yes you are. Yes you are.”
Oh the baby talk is going to drive me to drink. If she keeps this up, I’m going to need to be driven home by an RCMP constable—which might be a nice treat after the day I’ve had.
Violet laughs, and I look over at her. “Did I say that out loud?”
“Maybe.”
Ellie sticks her tongue out at me. “Don’t be a baby party pooper.”
I stick my tongue right back in her direction. “Get me booze, stat.”
She points toward the back of the house. “Beth is mixing martinis in the family room.”
“God bless her.” I leave the new mom and the barely-pregnant
but mucho-excited mom-to-be in the foyer and go in search of booze. Of course Gavin knocked Ellie up, and of course she’s glowing, and of course I’m happy for her. I just have a limit for baby talk, and apparently it’s one minute.
In the family room, I find Beth Evans and Corinne Smith. Beth works in Gavin’s office and Corinne is an RCMP officer who plays on his hockey team. I don’t know Corinne that well, other than having seen her at Max and Violet’s kinky Christmas party last year.
Don’t think of Tate.
I’d done a decent job all afternoon of shoving our fight to the back of my mind. And all it took was seeing Corinne and, whoosh, he’s right back in the fore again, and all I can think about is sitting next to Tate on the couch in Max’s basement. I think by the time she was bent over the spanking bench, Tate’s thigh was pressed up against mine.
That’s all that happened between us that night. Sitting together, watching. A press of thighs and a few glancing touches of shoulders, arms, hands. A roiling churn of confusing heat that had kept me up all night after I left.
Want that had percolated for eight long months after that, until he wound up in my apartment and I propositioned him.
One afternoon.
How stupid had I been?
And will there be couches at Rapscallion?
“Hey Sasha,” Beth waves a silver drink shaker in the air. “Lemontini?”
Hell to the yes. “Make mine a double.”
“Corinne was just telling me about the progress Max has made with the new club.” Beth’s eyes light up as she pours my drink into a sugar-rimmed martini glass. “Have you heard about it?”
“Briefly,” I manage to say. Ten hours earlier and I’m still reeling. As Ellie and Violet come in, I point a fondly scolding finger at my best friend. “Eleanor Montague, is there sex club news you may have forgotten to tell me?”
She frowns. “I don’t think so. You know that Max bought an estate out of town.”
“No I do not know this!”
Violet laughs and looks at Corinne. “You might know more than I do, actually. I haven’t had a chance to read Reid’s latest email, but we’re having an inaugural party on Monday night, just for founding members.”
Mr. Hat Trick Page 4