Mr. Hat Trick

by Ainsley Booth

  I watch him join them on the couch, as they shift towards him in invitation. “Maybe he’s watched them before…”

  Tate groans. “Yeah. Fuck, see? Now you’ve got me hard as I think about that.”

  I like that. I swallow around the lump in my throat. This is hot, but also nerve-wracking. What if I say the wrong thing? “Tell me how hard you are,” I finally whisper.

  “Painfully so,” he says, his voice catching. “And I haven’t even unzipped my fly yet.”

  “You should do that. You should touch yourself.”

  “Soon. You should, too.”

  I smile. “I’m already naked.”

  “Fuck. Next time lead with that.” He laughs, and I roll onto my side, settling in to watch the video.

  Now I know why he picked this particular one. The first guy is a biter. He’s kissing her neck—although kissing hardly feels like the right word for what he’s doing. Sucking, nibbling, devouring…but it’s hot. It’s hot because it’s winding her up, and when he stops, she pushes into him.

  Practically begging for him to mark her.

  “What’s happening now?”

  “He’s biting her.”

  “Yes. That’s so fucking hot. Do you ever wear turtlenecks?” Tate asks in my ear. “I’d love to leave a line of marks from the back of your neck all the way down to your ass.”

  I have a number of tops that would cover that kind of delicious abuse. “Never,” I whisper.

  “I’ll buy you some.”

  “Do you ever take no for an answer?”

  “Almost always.” He clears his throat. “If this too much—”

  “No.” I say hastily. “No, this is good. Hot. This is very, very hot.”

  “Good.”

  “I may have some shirts that climb my neck,” I admit. “I was just being difficult.”

  “I like difficult. You’re an amazing puzzle, Sasha.”

  The truth is, I’m not nearly as complicated as I pretend to be. “I don’t mean to be.”

  “That wasn’t a complaint.” His words promise something dangerous—that he’s already on his way towards figuring me out.

  What am I going to do with him then?

  I need to get us back on the right track. Dirty, simple fun.

  “So I mentioned that I’m naked,” I murmur. “But I may have forgotten to tell you how wet I am, too.”

  He bites off a curse. “Yes. Tell me all about that.”

  I slide my hand between my legs and squirm as my fingers glance against my swollen clit. I watch the three actors on the screen get naked, and I tell Tate all about how watching them is turning me on.

  In my ear, his voice gets coarser and his breath grows heavy. Before the end of the movie, I’m coming against the hard press of my fingers, and in a hotel room in Boston, Tate climaxes with a shout.

  “Fuck, I just shot come into the air like a fucking fountain,” he says with a laugh. “Good job.”

  “That was fun,” I whisper as I close my laptop and roll onto my stomach, trapping my hand between my body and the bed. I wish you were here so we could do it all over again. I wish it was your fingers I’d just ridden. I wish I could kiss you goodnight.

  “Sleep tight, Sasha.”

  “Mmm.”

  “I’ll text you tomorrow.”

  Tomorrow is a game day. “Good luck. I’ll be watching.”

  14

  Tate

  The road trip at the end of October comes to an end with a loss in Minnesota, and when we return to Vancouver, I call Sasha.

  I expect her to say something about the game.

  She doesn’t. She asks about the flight, and the weather. Safe, easy conversation where I can just close my eyes and absorb the sweet sound of her voice.

  When she pauses, I ask her if she’s in bed.

  “Yep. Just finished composing an email to my advisor where I had to admit that I may have been inappropriately snarky with a student today.”

  “There’s gotta be a good story there.”

  She laughs. “Maybe. It depends how amusing you find a robust defence of logic.”

  From her? I think I’ll find it highly amusing. “Test me.”

  She tells me about how this kid, a second year university student, kept refusing to see the point of a lesson, because it didn’t jive with his life experience. “We were getting to the end of the tutorial hour, and frankly, he was being deliberately obtuse. So I said, ‘Next thing you’re going to tell me is that you need a parachute to go skydiving.’ And you can guess how that went.”

  I frown. “Well, yeah. Of course you do.”

  She giggles. “No. You only need a parachute to go skydiving twice.”

  Fuck. I walked right into that one. And so did the cocky undergraduate student, too, I bet. I bark a laugh of my own. “So you’re sending a cover-your-ass email about that?”

  “Here’s hoping my advisor finds it as funny as I do.”

  “I’m sure they will.”

  “Mmm.” She’s still laughing, and that does funny things to my insides. Then she sighs, and there’s nothing funny about what that does. That’s a straight-up lightning-bolt-to-my-dick sound.

  “You should put your computer away,” I say, dropping my voice to a husky, make-no-mistake-I-want-to-voice-fuck-you level.

  “Okay,” she breathes.

  And then I do. Slow, and sweet, until her sighs are filthy and well-satisfied.

  There's something about phone sex to make my bed feel like home, and after, I sleep like a baby.

  I wake up at seven the next morning totally jazzed for the day ahead. Practice is scheduled for ten, so I have plenty of time for a leisurely breakfast of eggs and bacon and still get to the arena an hour early to give me some bonding time with the boys. Even though we racked up more losses than wins on this trip, it afforded us as a team an opportunity to connect.

  There are a bunch of guys in the player lounge when I arrive. I greet each one as I make my way through the room towards the coffee machine. After making myself a cappuccino, I snag an apple and drop onto the sofa next to Moore.

  I go with the safest small-talk I can think of, because that thing with Gibson fucking Laski’s wife is still really raw with the team. “I bet your family was happy to see you last night.”

  “Yeah. Liam, the little brat, woke up when I got in and he insisted on sleeping in our bed.” He says it with a rueful grin. “All night.”

  “Oh,” I say as I clue in to what he’s not telling me. Kids complicate your sex life.

  “Yeah. I don’t mind, though. He’s the best part of me, and kids grow up way too fast.”

  “Did he like his special edition Percy?” I went shopping with Moore to get a present for his son when we were in Boston. I zeroed in on the Thomas the Train display and found a brand-new issue train that lit up and talked. After helping Max with the world’s largest teddy bear, I may be developing a knack for this kind of thing.

  Moore chuckles. “It was perfect. Thomas makes me super-dad every time, but this one was an extra hit.”

  “Super-dad? I need to learn this soon,” Leclerc says as he parks his ass on the sofa opposite, coffee in hand.

  “You’re going to be just fine,” Moore tells him.

  I have nothing useful to contribute to this conversation, so I drink the last of my coffee and excuse myself to get ready to head out onto the ice.

  Practice goes really well. While Simec, Moore, and I have a long way to go before we’re as slick as my line on the Sens, we’re getting there. By the time practice is over, I’m feeling pretty good.

  “We’re done for the day,” Coach says, then turns to me. “Tate, my office once you’re finished in the locker room.”

  My gut twists. True, I hadn’t been playing to my abilities, but between that last home game against Edmonton and today’s practice, I thought I was getting back in the groove.

  I shower and dress quickly, because when you’re finished in the locker room really means get
your ass moving.

  The door to coach’s office is ajar and he looks up when I knock. He motions me in. “Close the door and sit down, Tate.”

  I nudge the door until the latch clicks, then take the seat across the desk from the man who holds my future in his hands.

  “You’ve been here the better part of two months. The schedule doesn’t really have room for a leisurely adjustment period.”

  Fuck. Just when I feel like things are shifting. “Yeah, it’s been more of a struggle than I expected.”

  “Look, I get it,” he says. “After eight years, you got comfortable, and thought you were going to live out the rest of your career as a Senator. So, the trade was a bigger blow to you than some of these guys who get passed around more than a doobie at a Grateful Dead concert. But trades are a fact of life. Take Mike Sillinger. He played on twelve different teams over his NHL career. Even Gretzky got traded. You’re not the only new guy here. Between my years as a player and a coach, this is my eighth new team. It’s time for you to suck it up, settle in, and make Vancouver home. Understand?”

  I nod my head. “Yeah, I get it.” He’s right, and there’s no point in me telling him I’d already figured this shit out for myself. Sometimes you just have to let the coach be the coach.

  “You know the Senators weren’t looking to trade you.”

  Maybe not. But at the end of the day they did. This is a business, and I’m just a commodity.

  I don’t say any of that out loud, of course. But Coach can read it on my face. “In fact, they really didn’t want to let you go. But the Lumberjacks want a serious a run at the Cup. This is a multi-year plan we’re working, and you’re a big part of that plan—no matter the cost. You, of all people, should understand just how much it means to give up first pick overall in the draft.”

  I do know. But at the time, I didn’t give a fuck what they’d given up to take on my contract, so I didn’t connect it to my own value, both with the Senators and the Lumberjacks. Coach saying all this out loud actually helps cement my resolve to fully commit to life in Vancouver and with the Lumberjacks. If I didn’t understand that this trade wasn’t a rejection before, I do now.

  “There’s more to being a Lumberjack than wearing the jersey,” I say, holding out my hand. “And I’m ready to commit, heart and soul.”

  “Glad to hear it. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  I leave his office feeling a little lighter, more grounded, and determined to really connect with my team and my new city.

  I head to my car, but home will have to wait. My work-day isn’t over yet. I have an appearance on the CBC’s Home Ice Advantage. I’m looking at it as a warm-up for the busy weekend of public appearances I have ahead of me.

  I head downtown to the studio, and I’m glad I scheduled the extra travel time. Traffic across the bridge is a nightmare, because unlike Ottawa, Vancouver’s construction season never ends, even in the early afternoon, before rush hour, it’s brutal. But I’m quickly learning, and by the time I’m parked and escorted to the studio, I’ve still got a few minutes to get my head in the game.

  Roger motions for me to come in.

  “Glad you could make it.” He stands and we shake hands, then both take our seats as a staffer puts a bottle of water on the table in front of me. “We’re up after the news. Any questions before we get started?”

  “No, I think I’m good.” After ten years in the NHL, I’ve done enough of these shows to know the way this goes. I’m going to get asked about the trade, there’s no way in any universe that doesn’t happen and I’m as prepared as I can be to handle those questions.

  I put on my headphones as Roger does the intro.

  “Welcome to Home Ice Advantage. I’m your host Roger Brown, and we’re here with the Lumberjacks’ new centre, Tate Nilsson. Tate, great to have you on the show.”

  “Thanks for having me.”

  “Let’s get right down to the burning question. How did you react when you got the news of your trade? I mean, was it something you were seeking, or was it a surprise?”

  Seriously? How could anyone think I had been looking to get traded away from the Sens? I’m careful not to let my irritation show, and I take a moment to formulate an answer that won’t get me saddled with an image consultant. “I was shocked, but hockey is a job. If you look at the NHL in terms of the corporate world, it’s a bit like being transferred to a different division where they need my skillset.”

  “Do you look on it as a demotion?”

  “No, not at all. I’d say it’s more of a lateral-motion.”

  “But you no longer wear the C on your sweater.”

  Wow, this guy is really going for the throat. And it’s at this point I’m grateful for coach pulling me aside after practice for that pep-talk. It also occurs to me that his little chat coming directly before this interview might not be coincidence. Tricky fucker. “No. But I have a lot on my plate settling into a new situation, so I think it helps some by not having the additional responsibility.”

  “You’ve been here for two months, the Lumberjacks are in the basement, and you’ve only scored two goals. Considering you were one of the top scorers last season, fans have to wonder if your heart is still in Ottawa.”

  “I’ll be honest, there’s always going to be a piece of my heart in Ottawa. I have friends, family, and my roots are there. But Vancouver is my new home, and as with every major life change, it takes time to adapt and find a new groove. We’ve just come off a very successful road trip—”

  “Successful? How can you say that when you lost more games than you won on this trip?”

  “One of those losses was by a goal late in the third period, one was in overtime, and another went to a shootout. We’ve really tightened up as a team and we played every bit as well as the teams we faced.”

  “I know it’s still early in the season, but how do you see the Lumberjacks’ chances making a run at the cup this year?”

  I give him an even look and ignore the smirk I get back. “Our chances are just as good as any other team in the league. We’ve got plenty of talent and drive, and we’ve got nowhere to go but up.”

  “And that’s all we have time for today. Tate Nilsson, thank you for being with us today. And good luck against Washington tomorrow night.”

  “Thanks. We’ll give it our best shot.”

  “And that’s it for this edition of Home Ice Advantage. Join me, Roger Brown next week when Lumberjack enforcer, Boi Landvic will join us in the studio. Stay with us for On Location, coming up after the local news, here on CBC Radio.”

  I gather my jacket and rise before offering my hand. “Thanks for having me,” I say with more alacrity than I feel.

  He grins. “Hey, I know I was rough on you there, but you did great.”

  I’m still irritated, but he was just doing his job. And it’s going to be a long season of more of the same. I need the Vancouver market on my side, so I resist the urge to squeeze his fingers until his knuckles pop. “No problem. Comes with the territory.”

  The next night, we chalk up a win against Washington and I want to go straight home and celebrate with phone sex with Sasha, but that will have wait. A bunch of the boys are heading out for beer and wings, and I feel obligated to join them—for a little while, anyway. We had a great game, and it’s important we continue that connection off-ice as well.

  Landvic, Leclerc, and Onetti are already sitting at a large table when I arrive. “Grab a seat, wings are ordered.”

  Nodding, I take a seat next to Leclerc. “Great game tonight. You made some righteous saves.” And I’m not bullshitting. He more than held his own in those few plays where our defence failed him. I’m tempted to poke at him a little about keeping his mojo for the next game, but we’ve got three days off and I don’t want to risk putting him off. Players can be superstitious fuckers, and Leclerc already has a few…quirks that we accommodate.

  After a basket of wings, a beer, and a bunch of good-natured ribbing, I say good
night to the boys, and head home.

  Friday morning, the sun is shining and I decide to take advantage of the nice day before it’s time to go to an afternoon appearance at the team store. I pull out my rollerblades and head over to the seawall.

  I’m not the only person to have the same idea, but I’m sure it would be even more crowded if it were a Saturday or Sunday.

  The temperature is perfect for a leisurely skate.

  The views of the North Shore mountains are particularly amazing and I can’t resist a selfie. I pull out my phone and fire up Instagram. I double-check the photo of me grinning wide and caption it. Loving #Vancity. I look happy. I am happy.

  Saturday night, I do a last check in the mirror before the limo comes to get me for the gala, and I can only think of Sasha. She’d be all over this. Dressed to the nines and one of the first to make a big, fat donation. I have selfish reasons too. Having her here would make this less far less tedious.

  Don’t get me wrong, I like dressing up, especially for worthy causes, and the glitzy gala scene opens a lot of wallets, but I’m unsure of how to conduct myself.

  Back in Ottawa, I had a reputation—attending these shindigs stag often meant pussy at the end of the night, and I’d spend the evening scoping out my opportunities.

  Here, I can make a new start. A new reputation.

  My alarm goes off at seven on Sunday morning and I struggle to shake the grogginess. It wasn’t a particularly late night, and I’d been judicious with the alcohol, but it’s been a full weekend of public appearances, and they take a lot out of me mentally.

  Sometimes, I think they are more exhausting than playing hockey.

  I’d really like to bail on the breakfast I’m scheduled for, but it’s to raise money for the Lumberjacks’ charity that funds equipment and participation fees to remove economic barriers for kids to play sports, and that’s something I can totally give up some free time to support.

  I have the world’s fastest shower, then head out again to conquer Vancouver traffic, Vancity hockey fans, and my own mental head game.