Mr. Hat Trick

by Ainsley Booth

I’m going to figure this out.

  And I promise myself that by the next road trip, we’re going to return with more wins than losses, so Roger Fucking Brown has to eat his fucking words.

  15

  Sasha

  November rolls in with a wintery blast. For me, at least.

  I stare out the window at the swirling whiteness as Tate tells me about the balmy sunshine he’s just landed in for the Lumberjacks’ southwestern road trip. He sounds tired already.

  “Tell me that the traffic is horrid, at least,” I say.

  “Brutal.”

  “That’s some small comfort. I’m wearing sweatpants over long johns right now.”

  He chuckles in my ear. “And I’m sure they’re sexy.”

  I glance down at the grey cotton pants and imagine Tate peeling them off me. “I need to move to an apartment with a fireplace.”

  “I have two fireplaces at my house in Ottawa. One of them is in my bedroom.”

  He’s made the invitation before. We’ve talked almost every day since his game here, and more than once, me staying at his place the next time he’s in town has come up.

  I don’t know how I feel about that.

  When it comes to Tate, I have ugly, vicious waves of jealousy. How many people have been fucked in front of that fireplace in his room? How many at one time? How many on back-to-back days?

  Of course, there have been other men in my room, too, but they all pale in comparison to Tate in every way.

  “Or…” He rolls right over the silence that I give him instead of an answer. “You could come and stay with me in New York, and we could get a suite with a fireplace.”

  “When are you in New York?” It’s such a farce that I ask him. I know he’s there for a week after American Thanksgiving, playing games against the Rangers, the Islanders, and the New Jersey Devils.

  “End of the month.”

  “Mmm.” I already have my flight booked, of course. Shopping trip with a side of dirty banging—there was no way I wasn’t going to make that happen. “That could work.”

  “Email me your flight details and I’ll have a car pick you up at the airport.”

  I smile. “Email me your hotel room details and I’ll show up wearing nothing but lingerie under my winter coat.”

  “Okay, have it your way. Will you stay with me the whole time?”

  I don’t hesitate on this point. I’ll put up a lot of walls between us, but I’m not going to lie about how much I want him. “Yes. I can arrive late on Friday and stay until Monday morning.”

  “Do you want tickets for the Friday night game?”

  Any tickets he could get me would be too good. Probably sitting next to wives and girlfriends and visiting parents, and exactly where the cameras would focus over and over again for reaction shots. “I probably won’t be able to make the game, but I’ll find you afterwards.”

  “For sure. I can’t wait.” And that’s why I can’t lie to him about how much I want him—because he’s an open book about being into me, too. For all his frat boy tendencies, Tate is way more emotionally available than anyone else I’ve ever dated.

  He’ll need to learn to harden up if we’re going to be hooking up on the regular. Because we’re going to burn out. We have to. We’re too different.

  I tug a blanket around me and hunker down against the cushions of my couch. “Tell me more about L.A. Are you going out tonight?”

  “We’ll definitely go out for dinner. Nothing crazy, though. We didn’t get much sleep last night, or the night before.” He tells me about the back to back games at home in Vancouver—a win against Detroit—and then a hard-fought loss in Calgary last night, followed by a second late night flight to L.A. He groans as he admits he was up reading until almost five this morning. “And then we had a team meeting.”

  “That’s exhausting.”

  “Yeah. But we’re finally gelling. Even last night, we held our own hard against the best team in the division. They want to keep us focused on what’s working, but also keep adjusting the game play so the other teams can’t read us.”

  “That’s something I didn’t realize before,” I say as I burrow deeper into my blanket nest. “How dynamic and fluid the plan is. What lines start, that kind of thing.”

  He makes an impressed sound. “Someone has been paying attention.”

  Ooops. “Maybe.”

  “I like it.” He clears his throat. “Are you maybe going to take a nap, too?”

  I wriggle my hand under my many layers of clothing. “Is that code for touching myself to the sound of your voice?”

  “It is now.” He pauses, and when he starts talking again, he’s shifted position, because his voice sounds different. “You don’t have anything else to do right now, do you?”

  I have like six other things I could be doing. None of them trump Tate’s dirty talk in my ear as a blizzard rages outside. “Nope. I’m yours until you need to sleep.”

  16

  Tate

  “Yo, Nilsson, hurry the fuck up!” The guys hammer at my hotel room door again, and I shake my head.

  I’m grinning, though. Good-natured harassment is a form of love in the NHL, and getting to this point was a real challenge. I’ll take whatever they want to dole out.

  I swing the door open and gesture for Simec and Andrushko to come into my room. “I need two more minutes.”

  “Pretty boy has to be pretty,” Andrushko rumbles.

  I flip him the bird.

  Simec whistles as he lifts one of the four bottles of hand-crafted reserve bourbon I’m taking with me to Moore’s house for Thanksgiving dinner. “What is this good shit?”

  It’s five-hundred-dollars a bottle of gratitude and appreciation. After a rocky fucking start to the season, the Lumberjacks made me an alternate captain yesterday before our game against the Flyers.

  “A little something for after dinner.” I put my tie on and pocket my phone and my wallet, making sure I’ve got my hotel key before we grab the bourbon and head downstairs.

  Zack Moore grew up in South Jersey, just across the river from Philadelphia, and he has a sprawling house in the same neighbourhood.

  The entire team will spill into his home for Thanksgiving, because we’re on an east-coast swing and he happens to be the only guy from this corner of the world.

  I’m definitely aware that Moore—the team captain, and the Lumberjack who has been with the team the longest—pulled this dinner together in part because of me. We had a rocky adjustment when I joined the team in August. That was all on me. My head was elsewhere. Back in Ottawa, for reasons.

  Now my head is right where it needs to be—in the game, eyes on the prize at the end of the season.

  Our hired car pulls up behind another identical one, and there’s one behind us, too.

  Inside, we find Moore in the kitchen, pulling the biggest turkey I’ve ever seen out of the oven. “We got some help with the rest of the food,” he admits as he sets the pan holding the roasted bird on the stove. “But it wouldn’t be Thanksgiving if I didn’t do this myself.”

  His wife drifts by, a kid on her back, and he grabs her and gives them both a kiss.

  “All right,” he says, clapping his hands. “Let’s go check out a bit of the game while that rests, and then we’ll eat. Sound good?”

  “Sounds great.” I hold up one of the bottles of bourbon I brought. “And I have a little something for after dinner.”

  His eyes light up as he takes the bottle. “Damn good stuff, this.”

  “Thought it might be worth a little indulging.”

  Andrushko plunks the two bottles he was carrying on the counter, too. “Hardly a replacement for a warm body, but since this is only action I’ll see tonight…come to Papa, bourbon baby.”

  “It’s come to Daddy, you Russian freak,” Simec says. “And we’ll be back at the hotel with plenty of time to head out, if you want to find a warm body.” He shoots me a look. “You could come out with us, Nilsson. I’ve got some
numbers from the last time we were here…”

  “Nah, I’m good, man.”

  “Doesn’t need to be anything raunchy.”

  I almost choke on my tongue. Actually, it would, but I’m not available.

  Simec keeps going. He’s got his phone out now. “Yeah, this girl.” He flashes me a picture of a blonde. “She’s in the PR department for the 76ers, I think. She’s really sweet. And gorgeous.”

  “Yeah, still not interested, but thanks.” I shake my head. “Much appreciated. Seriously. But I’ve got a friend back in Ottawa. It’s all good.”

  That turns three heads towards me in a hurry.

  Andrushko frowns. “You got a girl? Did we know this?”

  Shit, no. And I’ve said too much. I roll my lower lip between my teeth to keep from telling them all about Sasha.

  How she’s a Valkyrie with fire in her eyes. How she takes zero shit from anyone. How she’s suspicious of men and money, and men with money most of all.

  But also how she’s sweet when she thinks nobody’s looking, when it really counts. How she’s nice when someone’s world has been rocked. How she’s smart all of the time, but never wants anyone to notice.

  And she’s gorgeous, too.

  Instead of telling him any of that, I wave off Andrushko’s frown and Simec’s curious look. I point them toward Moore’s oversized family room, where the rest of the team is watching a football game. And I change the subject to the new cross-training regimen our physical therapists are on about. Work. That’s where my focus is.

  Not in Ottawa, and the secret friendship I have with Sasha.

  Not on how my head is here now, but my heart might be somewhere else.

  She doesn’t want my heart.

  My cock, yes. And that’s hers whenever and wherever she asks for it—with the caveat that I’ve got sixty NHL games to play in the next four months, and we live on opposite sides of the country.

  Details.

  17

  Sasha

  I fly into New York on the day after American Thanksgiving. Tate has an evening game against the Islanders, so instead of interrupting his pre-game routine, I catch a cab to the mid-town building where my father owns two condos. The concierge recognizes me immediately.

  “Ms. Brewster, we weren’t expecting you, but this is a pleasant surprise.”

  I grin and wave my hand at my suitcase. “Don’t panic, I’m not staying here. I just need to ditch my bag for the evening.” I scrawl the hotel name and room number that Tate had texted me on a piece of note paper. “And I can swing by later or tomorrow to pick it up, unless…?”

  He gives me a patient smile that I will definitely reward him for handsomely with a Christmas gift when I leave the city. “We will see it delivered there at your convenience.”

  “You are the best. I’m heading out for the afternoon. I’ll have some purchases delivered here over the weekend, too. They can be forwarded to Ottawa as usual.”

  With a grateful wave goodbye, I return to the steady flow of foot traffic on Fifth Avenue. All the shops are decorated for the holidays, and I glide in and out of familiar department stores. By the end of the afternoon, I have three holiday dresses for Ellie, a couple new work outfits for myself, and a tie for Tate. Of all my purchases, it’s the only one I keep on me. The others are sent back to my father’s building.

  The tie is green and purple, just like the Lumberjack jerseys, and I might give it to him this weekend, because it’s not really the right Christmas present for him.

  Besides I’m not sure if we’re going to exchange presents.

  I mean, of course I’m getting him something, but the trick with gift giving when you’re not sure if it will be reciprocated is to keep it light and thoughtful. A token of sorts. Not a tie. Something that shows that you’ve been paying attention in a non-creepy, casual observation kind of way.

  Something that says, I notice you. I see that you’re—

  I come to a dead stop in the middle of the sidewalk, and people swerve around me. At least two of them curse, because hello, New York, but I don’t care.

  I know exactly what to get Tate for Christmas.

  Now I just need to find it—and I don’t have time today, because I need to get out to Brooklyn.

  I slot that shopping task into my calendar for Sunday. It might be something best ordered online, but if I can find something one-of-a-kind here, that would be even better.

  Feeling quite proud of myself, I hail a cab.

  At the arena, I dodge and weave around the Islanders fans thronging toward the entrances. I know there are a lot of tickets still available for tonight’s game, so I ask the young man working at the box office window to give me three of the cheapest seats and hand over cash.

  Inside, I make my way up the top level and find my seats, right in the middle of the row. I sit in the middle of the three, thus ensuring I don’t have to share an armrest with anyone.

  One can afford to be a diva when one sits in the nosebleed section.

  I pull out my phone and catch up on some emails while I’m waiting, but as soon as the teams are lined up and ready to come onto the ice, I tuck it away.

  Tate is announced right in front of Andrushko, a defenceman. My favourite centre charges onto the ice, and when Andrushko follows, he pats Tate on the ass with his hockey stick, and Tate gives him—and the crowd—a flirty smile in response.

  I’m going to tease him about that later.

  The Lumberjacks win, and so easily it’s hard to remember that they’re still trailing the bulk of their division. My cheeks hurt from grinning. As the final buzzer sounds, I pull out my phone again. I’m not fighting my way through the drunken crowd.

  Sasha: I’ve arrived in the city. Will meet you at your hotel at eleven. Saw the game, too. Good job.

  Let him think I’ve just landed and I watched the game on the airplane. It’s for the best he doesn’t expect me to show up in person.

  Once the din has died down, I make my way back to street level and catch one of the waiting cabs. I give him the name of Tate’s hotel, then sit back and think about how I want this to go.

  Naked, really. That’s my agenda.

  When I arrive at the hotel, I find the ladies room and strip out of my clothes, carefully folding them into my bag before I button my coat back up.

  As promised, I’m only wearing a bra and skimpy panties underneath it.

  As I press the button for the elevator, Tate replies.

  Tate: At the hotel and freshly showered. Where is your gorgeous ass?

  I don’t reply, but I’m grinning when I knock on his door a minute later. “It’s right here,” I say, peeling my coat open and cocking my hip to one side.

  He takes a step back, and I look my fill of him as I move inside and hand him my jacket. He’s bare-chested and his sweatpants are hanging low on his hips.

  That’s even better than lingerie.

  “You had a good game,” I said, ignoring the way my heart is trying to hammer its way up my throat. What is this weird feeling battling at my insides?

  Oh, sweet merciful crap, I really missed Tate.

  And now he’s here, and we’re both half naked, and I’m trying to make stupid small talk.

  “You watched, then?” He hangs my coat up, then sits wide-legged on the bed and pats his thigh.

  My heart does that thumping thing again. I stop in front of him and put my hands on my hips. “I did. My favourite part was right before the start. I liked the way Andrushko hit you with his stick.”

  “You know, listening to our conversations, some people might get the mistaken impression that you don’t like me.”

  “How about that?” I climb into his lap and kiss him, because I can’t pretend I don’t need his mouth right-the-fuck-now. “Mmm.”

  We kiss long enough for us both to be breathless, and for his heavy erection to grow to distracting thickness between my legs. But I’m not going to get it just yet, apparently. He tugs at my ponytail. “Are you hun
gry?” The corner of his mouth twitches. “Do you like me enough to buy me dinner?”

  “Yes.”

  “I want steak.” He gives me a slow, filthy appraisal that tells me we’re ordering room service instead of going out. “And maybe lobster.”

  “Whatever fuels you best, alternate captain.”

  “You noticed the A, too?” He grins. “Excellent.”

  “Don’t read too much into my interest. It’s all purely physical. I can’t help it if your body is a gift from God that demands my attention.”

  “Of course not.” He tumbles me sideways. “Strip out of that very sexy lace while I order us in some dinner.”

  I peel my bra off first, as he picks up the phone. Then I stretch out on the bed and wait until he’s on the phone with the kitchen before I begin tugging my panties down my hips.

  His gaze turns hot, but he doesn’t skip a beat in ordering. “And we’ll have some ice cream,” he says, looking at my breasts, then my belly, and finally at the pink skin between my legs. “What do you have in a berry flavour? Perfect. Thank you very much.”

  After he hangs up the phone, he leaps on top of me and lightly slaps my hip.

  “What?”

  “Bad girl. Distracting me when I’m ordering steak you’re going to have to pay for.”

  “And ice cream, too.”

  “Raspberry,” he whispers as he presses his mouth to the sensitive spot behind my ear. “Just like your nipples.”

  Okay. I’m here for this. I stretch beneath him as he kisses my neck, then my breasts, licking and sucking at my nipples until I’m panting for more. I get it. I get his fingers and his mouth between my legs, and an orgasm so good it makes my thighs shake and little bright spots dance in front of my eyes.

  But it’s what he says after I catch my breath that really makes my head spin. He looks up at me, his cheek pressed against the inside of my thigh, and he gives me a funny half smile. “You were a little testy when you arrived.”