Mr. Hat Trick

by Ainsley Booth

  “So,” I say, drawling it out. “A kinky birdy told me there’s going to be a threesome going on just down the hall tonight.”

  Sasha shifts in my arms and looks up at me, her eyes twinkling. “What? Who?”

  “Simec and Andrushko.”

  “And you’re telling me this, why?”

  I grin. “Small talk?”

  She doesn’t buy that for a second. Nor should she. “You think I want to go watch.” A statement, not a question. She’s not wrong.

  “I’m making the option available.”

  Sasha’s body goes rigid against mine. “What did you tell them?”

  “Absolutely nothing. Andrushko brought it up when we were eating, and Landvic was remarkably curious. I just listened.”

  “But you think you can just invite yourself along to watch?”

  “Apparently, the woman they’re hooking up with is an exhibitionist. Landvic is going to bust in on them at nine. They have a whole scenario planned out. I’m quite certain they wouldn’t care if we happened to be in the hallway at the time. Or if we followed him into their room.”

  Her mouth falls open. She doesn’t say anything, but her eyes sparkle as she searches my face.

  She knows me too well. “That is a very intriguing fantasy, but I think I’d like a quiet evening in with Mr. Hat Trick instead.”

  Thank fuck. I hated the way my Andrushko and Simec looked at Sasha the other day, and truly, the last thing I want to do is take her to see them in all their naked and fucking glory.

  But if she wanted to, I would have done exactly that.

  Staying in and getting dirty in a very private way sounds heaps better.

  Cupping her breast, I brush my lips against hers, then nip and kiss my way down her body.

  Later, long after we’ve showered and eaten supper, I lie awake, Sasha asleep in my arms. I know this is a stolen luxury, but it feels right.

  I want more of this, no matter what it takes to get it.

  25

  Sasha

  Ellie is waiting for me in my office when I return to the university on Tuesday. I’m surprised she wasn’t waiting at the airport.

  I give her a cool look that won’t fool her for a second. “How long have you been here?”

  “Forty minutes. I assumed you’d be an hour early for your office hours.”

  Instead I’m only twenty minutes early, which by my books is cutting it pretty close. But that’s not why Ellie is looking at me like she doesn’t really know me.

  “What is it?” I know exactly what it is, of course.

  She crosses her arms. “You know I love you.”

  “Yes.”

  “And obviously, your life is your own to worry about, and I’m not one to pry.”

  “Mmm.”

  “But you went away this weekend.”

  “I did. I do that a lot.”

  “You went to New York.”

  “I bought you pretty clothes.”

  “Don’t distract me.” Her eyes light up. “Tate was in New York, too. For three games.”

  I give her an innocent look. “You don’t say.”

  “And you ran into him. You let him put a picture of you on Instagram.”

  “Yes.”

  “Sasha!”

  “Yes?”

  “Are you and Tate dating?”

  “I wouldn’t say that.” We’re fucked up. And fucked. And still fucking, even though that’s a really bad idea. Except I’m sore in all the right places, and I can’t wait to do it again. Sigh. “It’s complicated.”

  She laughs. “I know something about complicated.” Then she claps her hands. “Tell me everything.”

  “We’ve hooked up a few times.”

  “You flew to New York for a booty call?”

  I’d fly to the moon to spend time with Tate. “And shopping. It’s secret, so…zip it. The picture was a bit of damage control, because his teammates saw us together.”

  “Zipped.” But she’s grinning at me.

  “Don’t have happy-ever-after dreams for us. That’s not what this is.”

  She frowns. “Why not?”

  “For all the normal complicated reasons that most relationships don’t work out in the long run. Don’t worry about it. We’re having fun, and that’s all that matters. I’m going with him to the Rapscallion Christmas party.”

  She pouts. “Gavin says we can’t go.”

  “What do you say?”

  That gets a sigh. “He’s right. It was fine when it was just our friends, but Rapscallion is now included in Porter’s network of clubs. There will be people there that don’t need to know that Gavin is a member. Mutually-assured destruction only works to a certain extent. We’ll get our public kink when we’re old and retired.”

  I think about the sea of unfamiliar faces at Miscreant and nod. “Probably for the best.”

  She narrows her gaze and searches my face. “What aren’t you telling me? What is that blushing about?”

  I roll my eyes. “We went to the New York club. It’s called Miscreant.”

  “Oh my God. Oh my God. Was it good? Tell me everything.”

  “It was…amazing. Very Eyes Wide Shut. Very classy. The costumes were out of this world, but personal, too, you know? Like the performative nature of the clothes was an intrinsic part of each person’s kink. I can’t stop thinking about it.”

  A dreamy smile softens her face. “That sounds like so much fun.”

  “I know it means you can’t go, but I’m really looking forward to a bigger crowd on Boxing Day. It’ll be interesting to see how the estate setting changes the vibe. The New York club is in a Brooklyn brownstone, and it was very…New York. Hard to explain.”

  “One day…”

  I grin. “One day. Maybe you could go in a mask or something. There were some people disguised.”

  She bites her lip. “Oh, don’t give me ideas.”

  I point to the door. “Go and tell your husband about that. I’ve got office hours in five minutes.”

  “I’m going.” She stands up, and her belly is, I swear, bigger than when she sat down.

  “When are you due again?”

  “Late spring.” My expression must give away my shock, because she laughs. “I’m not that big. It’s mostly this outfit.”

  “If you say so. It’s adorable, of course.”

  “Of course.” She’s still laughing as she heads down the hall, an RCMP officer following closely.

  I take a deep breath and open my computer. Okay, back to work.

  26

  Tate

  Over the next three weeks, the Lumberjacks get our shit together. Coach told us to worry more about each other than the teams we go up against, and he was right. It makes all the difference.

  The eleven games we play in December bring us up two spots in our division. Seven wins and four losses mean I’m flying home to Ottawa with a smile on my face on Christmas Eve.

  My dad picks me up at the airport, and gives me a big Nilsson squeeze at the arrivals gate. When we get to my house, we’re greeted by not only my mother, my brother and my sister-in-law, but also Trevor, Oliver, and Rob. My mom has put on a massive spread, and there are so many presents under the tree, the living room floor space has been cut in half.

  It’s loud and happy, and when a knock sounds at the door at quarter to ten that night, my pulse picks up. I’m not expecting her until tomorrow at lunch, after my family takes off. But if Sasha were here too, it would be fucking perfect—even if she did rip into my friends for being bros.

  Hell, I think I’d like that.

  But when I swing the front door open, it’s not Sasha standing in a swirl of wintery whiteness.

  It’s Brandon Vance, my former Senators linemate.

  “Hey,” I say, holding out my hand as I step back to welcome him inside.

  He takes it and gives me a firm handshake. “Merry Christmas.”

  “Same to you. You didn’t fly home?”

  “Nah, I
sent my folks to Hawaii instead. I’ll see them over the All Star Break. I just went out for dinner with a couple of the guys who are similarly on their own this week, and I was thinking of you.”

  “For sure. Come on in, man. Have a drink.” I feel like a heel for not reaching out myself. “We’ve got a lot of catching up to do.”

  Rob shoots me a quick are you okay look when I introduce Brandon to the room, and yeah, I am. I’d avoided all my previous teammates on my last visit, because we were playing them, and it was too raw.

  But we’re all professionals. Trades are a part of the business. And when we’re two broken old veterans of the game, I’ll want to count Brandon as a friend. Hard to do that if I’ve shut him out.

  He shakes hands with my father and gives my mom a big hug. “Mrs. Nilsson, nice to see you again.”

  “You’re having a good season,” she says before pointing at the fridge. “Tate, I put all the leftovers away. Your father and I are headed to bed. See you in the morning.”

  My brother and his wife also excuse themselves as we settle down with drinks, and suddenly it’s like old times—me and my crew, shooting the shit. I tell my friends about Miscreant—leaving out that I wasn’t alone when I went there—and then the conversation turns to the Rapscallion holiday party in two days time.

  Which just leaves Brandon, suddenly silent.

  Shit. I don’t own the kink landscape in Ottawa, especially since I spend most of my time on the other side of the fucking country.

  “You want to come, man?”

  He shrugs. “I don’t want it to be awkward.”

  “It won’t be. We’re good. I just needed to adjust to being on a new team. I’m sorry if that came across like I was shutting you out of everything, that wasn’t my intention.”

  He nods, and I hold out my beer. He clinks our bottles together.

  “Speaking of the party…” I take a deep breath. “You fuckers are going to have to carpool on your own. I’m bringing a friend with me.”

  I wake up early on Christmas morning, and the first thing I do is call Sasha.

  “Hello,” she says sleepily, after answering on the third ring.

  “Merry Christmas.”

  “Tate.” That’s a gift right there, how she says my name like my voice is the best thing she’s heard in ages.

  But fuck, if it is, that’s shitty. “How’s your visit going?”

  “Nearly over.”

  Uh-oh. “That good, eh?”

  She sighs. “My father and I got into it last night. He gave me shares in the company as a present. That’s not a present. That’s an obligation. So we had words. I’ll be glad to get out of here after breakfast. And I won’t feel even a little bit guilty about taking his plane to get home, either.”

  “Are you personally going to steal it?”

  “Ha. No. And don’t feel badly for the plane crew, either. It’s a relatively short trip, and I’ll make it worth their while.”

  “I have no doubt.” I stretch my arm across my bed, where I’m going to have her, over and over again, in just a few hours. “I can’t wait to see you.”

  “Same.”

  “I hear my family waking up.”

  “I’ll let you go and be social.”

  “I’d rather be social with you.”

  “Soon enough.”

  The warmth of her laughter zings through me, as I shove myself out of bed and get dressed for Christmas morning breakfast and presents with my family, I find myself aching to have her here, now. It wouldn’t be soon enough. Could never be soon enough. In a few short months, Sasha had become the best and most fragile part of my day. A slice of a conversation, a teasing text.

  It isn’t enough. Not by a long shot. When it comes to Sasha, I’m getting greedier with each passing day.

  27

  Sasha

  Christmas morning at the Brewster house is picture-perfect. My mother’s decorator outdid herself this year, although I think that every year.

  This year’s theme is silver and white, so I put on a dark blue silk blouse and white wool pants.

  Picture-perfect. Actually perfect would be pyjamas until noon and unlimited buttery toast.

  One does not eat buttery toast in dark blue silk. Or anywhere in the Brewster house, for that matter.

  We do have unlimited mimosas, though. That’s something.

  I find my mother in the enormous eat-in kitchen, glass in hand. Excellent idea. I pour myself a drink from the fruit juice bar, top it up with champagne, and take a seat at the table. “Merry Christmas,” I say, holding up my glass.

  She gives me a warning look, like she knows I’m just waiting for my father to come downstairs so I can launch back into my argument with him. I’m not sure how she can anticipate that—I’ve never been fired up to fight with him in the past.

  But she is my mother. Maybe she can sense that everything in my life is shifting.

  New opportunities.

  New friendship.

  New passion.

  This isn’t about Tate. He invades where he doesn’t belong, like my churning thoughts about what to do when I graduate.

  I take a big swig of champagne and orange juice, wishing it were buttery toast instead.

  “Your brothers will be here soon,” she says, steering the conversation where she wants it go.

  “What are we having for breakfast?” Besides booze.

  “Your father requested crepes.”

  “Carbs? It’s a Christmas miracle.”

  She laughs, and it’s a genuine, warm sound. “And worth it to see that look on your face, my darling.”

  I wink at her, and that’s when my father walks in. He kisses my mother, then goes to the mimosa bar. “What did you make, sweetheart?”

  Oh, so we’re pet-naming me this morning. “The classic. OJ and champagne in equal parts.” Maybe not equal. I swallow another sip to be sure. Definitely more bubbly. Oops. “Mom says you want pancakes for breakfast.”

  She tuts at me. “I said crepes.”

  “I know, but I’m betting a shiny loonie that Dad asked for pancakes and crepes was your compromise.”

  He laughs, and I think for a second that we’ve done it, we’ve successfully navigated the start to a lighthearted morning. Except then he crosses his arms and pins me with a glare. “Sasha, I’ve been thinking.”

  I groan. “No. No thinking. It’s Christmas morning. We’re doing pancakes—”

  “Crepes,” my mother interjects.

  “And presents, and then I’m flying back to Ottawa.”

  His mouth tightens. “To be with the hockey player?”

  You could hear a pin drop in my parents’ kitchen right now. I’m staring at my father, my mother is staring at me, and the skin around his mouth has turned white.

  What the ever-loving hell? “Excuse me?”

  I rise from the table, glass in hand, because I might need more booze for this conversation, but before my dad can answer, the house is filled with the noisy arrival of my brothers, who probably stayed out late partying with their friends, but manage to look pulled together enough that my mother will take a formal family picture of us in front of the fireplace and post it on—

  Instagram.

  My mother loves Instagram.

  Fucking hell.

  I give her a wide-eyed, jaw-clenched glare, and she waves her hand. “Oh, Sasha.”

  “Don’t Oh, Sasha me, Mom! What did you tell him?” I turn back to my father, ignoring the greetings from my brothers. “Who I spend time with is none of your business. I am a grown-up.”

  “Who is using my private plane to fly around the province. We’ve been through this once. I won’t do it again.”

  “This is—” My cheeks are on fire. This isn’t anything like my past. Tate isn’t anything like Brian. But more importantly, this is so not how I wanted my parents to find out about…whatever it is I’m doing with Tate. If I ever wanted them to find out, which is probably no, not ever. “I’m sorry that I asked
, then. I should have bought a ticket. I bet I still can. Did you know that Christmas Day is not a very busy travel day? Christmas Eve and Boxing Day have it beat. So yeah, I’ll just—”

  “Sit down, young lady.”

  Wow, from sweetheart to young lady in four sentences. That has to be a record, and I haven’t even broken any laws.

  To my immense shame, I sit down.

  Way to be a fucking grown-up, Sasha.

  “Boys, go help your mother with the pancakes.”

  “Crepes,” my mother and I say at the same time.

  My father doesn’t blink.

  They head around the island, and my dad moves to sit across from me, but he stops just as he pulls out the chair. “Come with me. We’ll talk in my study.”

  I roll my eyes, but I follow him. That, right there, is my relationship with my father in a nutshell.

  He sits in an armchair in front of his fireplace, so I flop out on the couch.

  He steeples his hands together.

  I wait.

  This is his circus, he gets to direct it. I’m already composing an apology text to Tate in my head, because I’m going to have to hitchhike back to Ottawa.

  “Last night,” my father finally says slowly, as if he’s picking and choosing his words carefully. “You made it clear to me that you will not be returning to Toronto any time soon.”

  Ever, but I maybe wasn’t crystal clear on that point. “That’s correct.”

  “And I was under the mistaken impression that it was because of your academic studies.”

  “It is.”

  “But your mother has since informed me that you are once again tangled up with an…athlete.”

  He says it like other fathers might say drug dealer or homeless man. I’m not sure my father would object to me dating a drug dealer if he was wildly successful. And assuming the homeless guy wouldn’t have a significant social media following or any reason to be in the news, he’d probably be fine with that, too.

  A man with no fixed address would be preferable to Tate.