Mr. Hat Trick

by Ainsley Booth

  “My what?”

  Ha. Now who has the advantage? I turn my face towards him and exaggerate my whisper. “Dirty. Bestie.”

  “No, that’s not a thing.”

  “I think it is. He smacks your ass with your hockey stick every single game. You’ll record that on video during the photo shoot. Bare ass, just a little jiggle—”

  “Zero jiggle. Bite your beautiful tongue.”

  I give him a wicked smile. “That’s going to go viral. Dirty besties. Totally a thing.”

  32

  Tate

  The next morning, I wake up to sunshine streaming in the window, and sunshine in my arms as well.

  My alarm quietly beeps at me, reminding me I want to head to the arena in an hour, but I’m in no rush to get up and do my usual routine because Sasha is in my bed.

  In Vancouver.

  This feels like a big deal. Bigger than her spending two nights with me in Ottawa.

  “Morning,” she says sleepily, and my heart bounces up and down like an eager puppy.

  I kiss the soft skin behind her ear. “Nice way to wake up.”

  “Mmm.” She stretches against me, and I fill my hands with her curves. She drained my body of all possible come last night, with her mouth and her hands and her pussy, and I should probably keep some energy for my morning skate, but damn, she gets my blood pumping.

  “You feel good.”

  She arches against me, and we rub like that for a few minutes, slow and naughty. It’s not going anywhere, it just feels good. And when she giggles and pushes me away, because she needs to pee and brush her teeth, I follow her. I give her privacy for the first task, but then I yank her into the shower with me.

  Work is going to keep me away from her for two games over the next five days. Games, plus practice and press and team meetings.

  Every other second is ours.

  And not just for sex.

  “What are you going to do today?” I ask her.

  “I’ll call around, see if I can find a spa.” She takes my hand and slides my fingers over her fuzzy mound, with the short hairs there that she likes to wax away every so often.

  I rub my fingers through her lips and around her clit, mentally reorganizing my morning to make room for an orgasm for her. I’ll eat breakfast at the arena.

  It’s good to get back on the ice with the team. We’re all jacked up about playing Chicago tonight. They’re having a great season, leading their division, and we haven’t played them yet.

  The odds are not in our favour, either.

  Coach keeps his notes short and to the point. “Get some rest this afternoon. And come back ready to fight. Now get out of here.”

  I walk out with Landvic, who apparently bought himself a Lamborghini for Christmas.

  “What the fuck is that?” I ask, pointing at the bright yellow monstrosity.

  “Shut the fuck up and get in your reliable Mom car.”

  I tap the key-fob, making my Land Rover beep. Mom car. What the fuck is that nonsense? “Leave my wheels alone.”

  “You opened the door.”

  “Get in your banana and screech out of here,” I say, laughing.

  I crank the raggaeton on the drive home and tell my SUV I’ll never replace her with a flashy sports car.

  When I get back, Sasha’s strolling up the street.

  “Perfect timing!” she calls out. “Did you have a good skate?”

  “I did.” I kiss the corner of her mouth. Her skin is all dewy and she smells faintly of flowers and grass. “How was the spa?”

  “Amazing.” We head inside, hand in hand. “Plus how sweet is it to be able to walk outside in a light jacket?”

  “Pretty awesome.”

  “And during my massage, I figured out what was wrong with the chapter I’m working on in my thesis.”

  I open the door to my apartment. “Quality multi-tasking. I approve.”

  “How much time do we have before your game?”

  I grin. “I need to leave in two hours. I was thinking we could have a nap.”

  “I like the sound of that,” she purrs.

  “Good. Oh, and I arranged for a ticket at the box office for the game for you.”

  Her brows pull tight. “You don’t need to do that.”

  “Because you don’t want to come to the game?”

  “Because I won’t use it.” She moves closer and brushes a light kiss across my lips.

  I frown. Sometimes I like how she pinches back against my efforts to be more couple-y. I like how she resists, because I fucking love the chase.

  But something about this irritates me. “You could just say you don’t want to come to the game.”

  “Should I say that?” She’s not picking up on my annoyance, because her eyes dance.

  “You are maddening.”

  “But freshly waxed, so you’ll forgive me.”

  Always. I’ll forgive her to the moon and back, and not just because every last inch of her pussy is mine to bite and slap and lick and—

  Sigh. “Completely forgiven. But I don’t think I’m off-side for wanting my girlfriend to come and see me play.”

  “I watch all of your games. And I’m not your girlfriend.”

  “You aren’t?”

  “Not exactly.”

  That’s news to my cock. “Huh.”

  “Freshly waxed, Tate. Focus on that.”

  So I do. I peel her clothes off and we have the most energetic nap in the history of naps.

  But when her seat stays empty for the entire game—a match which we predictably lose, although only by a single goal—the irritation returns.

  33

  Sasha

  The Pulpmill was almost sold out tonight, and it takes forever to navigate my way out of the arena. That was a hard loss, and I feel bad for Tate.

  I know better than to worry about having distracted him, but after the miserable mood he was in after the loss in New York, I want to be there when he gets back.

  Best laid plans.

  For the second time today, he beats me home, and I’m getting out an Uber as he emerges from his underground parking spot.

  He’s scowling.

  Shit.

  And now I can’t pretend I watched the game from his apartment, either.

  He doesn’t say anything as I approach. We go upstairs in silence, and the first thing he does is go to the fridge for a beer.

  He doesn’t offer me one, so I help myself to a glass of wine and drain half of it in the kitchen, trying to figure out what to do next.

  I give him some space to brood, but I’m also a guest in his apartment, and if we don’t talk soon, this is going to get weird and awkward.

  I top up my glass and head into the living room.

  He’s slouched on the couch, legs spread wide, beer untouched.

  “I know you had a rough game—”

  “I’m not pissed about the game, Sasha.”

  The way he says my name pulls me up short. “Okay.”

  He doesn’t look at me. “Where were you?”

  Oh. I sigh. “I was there.”

  “No you weren’t.”

  “I was.”

  “I looked for you.”

  “I wasn’t in that seat. I—I bought my own ticket up in the rafters.”

  He frowns, finally focusing his gaze on my face. Still pissed. “What?”

  “I don’t like the spotlight.”

  “Nobody would have paid you any attention.”

  I shrug. “And they pay me even less attention when I’m in the nosebleed seats.”

  He works his jaw back and forth as he looks at me. Less pissed, just tired now. “When? Have you done this before?”

  “In New York.”

  He sighs, a rough, hard exhale. “Shit, Sash. Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Because…” I trail off. Because I don’t know. Because of complicated, weird history. “I always warned you I’m not an easy girl to date.”

  “That’s bull
shit.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  He holds out his arm and I go to him, setting down my glass. He kisses the top of my head. “It wasn’t a bad loss tonight. We held our own against the best team in the league. It was fine.”

  Now I feel like crap. I really am sorry that I can’t be what he wants, that I can’t read him…in hindsight, I guess I see how he wanted me to come to the game tonight in a real way, he wasn’t just being polite. “I’ll come to the next game if you want.”

  “You don’t need to.”

  “Wait, let me re-phrase. I’d love to sit closer to the ice for the next game.”

  He squeezes my shoulder. “I can find you a mid-level seat above the bench.”

  In every way that I’m a terrible girlfriend, Tate is a dream boyfriend. Compromise is his middle name. I crawl into his lap and lift his hand holding the beer bottle. “I don’t deserve you. But you are the best.”

  “You. Are. The. Worst.”

  Tate just laughs at me and wiggles the rollerblades he bought me—a bonus Christmas present, apparently—in the air. “It’ll be fun.”

  “I don't understand. I'm here for an entire week of hardcore kinky sex. Nobody said anything about getting road rash.”

  “I thought you were here to visit me, in all the fun west coast ways I could imagine.” His voice rings with barely restrained laughter. “And I bought you matching protective gear.”

  I see that. I’m not impressed. So I go frosty. “I’m here for your tongue. And your cock. Not recreational fun.”

  Tate shifts closer. “You flew across the country because you can't get enough of my athletic prowess in and out of the—”

  “I’m really just here for the orgasms, I promise.”

  “You say the sweetest things.”

  “So we should get naked.”

  “No.”

  “Tate…”

  He grins wickedly. “It's sunny again, and Coach gave me the day off, but I need to get in some active rest. I’d rather do it with you. Let's go rollerblading.”

  I look at the knee pads. They’re cute.

  He sets the blades down and moves closer, dropping his head to dust soft, coaxing kisses along my jaw. “Please, Sasha…”

  And because he is the best, and the worst, we go rollerblading along the Seawall around Stanley Park.

  The pathways are crowded, which makes sense since it’s such a nice day, but we’re in no hurry, so we take a leisurely pace. The blades Tate ordered me are amazing, I have to admit.

  Plus the scenery along the way is breathtaking. The Vancouver skyline pokes up on our right, across an inlet, and the mountains beyond seem to stretch on forever. We wend our way along the path, dodging slower skaters and being passed by cyclists. Lions Gate Bridge comes into view, and it reminds me a little of the Golden Gate Bridge in San Francisco. I goggle at the sheer size of it as we pass underneath. The supports on the suspension bridge are massive.

  The highlight of the Seawall for me, though, is Siwash Rock, which Tate points out. It’s a tall rock sticking out of the water just a few feet from the seawall. And it has a tree growing out of the top, looking to me a bit like Sideshow Bob’s hair from The Simpsons.

  “You are a regular Vancouver tour guide now,” I tell him when we return to his Land Rover.

  “Wait until I impress you with my local sushi knowledge.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “We’re going to this awesome place in Kits.” He winks at me. “Kitsalano.”

  I stick my tongue out at him. “I figured it out.”

  Over lunch—which is awesome, and better than any sushi I’ve had in recent years—he tells me about adjusting to life on the west coast. It’s not just abbreviated names for locations and a different climate. It’s also living on his own, well and truly, for the first time…ever.

  “I know what that’s like.” I find myself telling him all about my first year in Ottawa. How I resisted going home for the holidays, because I was worried I’d get homesick. “I never did, though.”

  He nods. “Right. It was different for me, I guess. I embraced the homesickness a bit too much in the beginning. But I’ve adjusted now. I’m really loving this city.” He takes my hand and squeezes my fingers. “Although I’d like to see you more often.”

  The look on his face is way too serious. “Come on. Let’s go home and have a nap.”

  Nap. Best euphemism ever.

  Later that night, while we’re vegged out on his couch flipping through the Netflix menu, Tate gives me a curious look.

  “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  I raise one eyebrow. Mm-hmm.

  He grins. “Okay. I wasn’t going to say anything, but…the team is throwing a New Year’s Eve party for the players and staff.”

  I know exactly where this is headed, and I won’t make him ask. “Yes.”

  “It’s totally fine if you don’t want to go, and if you would be willing to, we don’t have to stay long. Just make an appearance, take a turn around the room, and shake a few hands—wait, what?”

  “Yes. I’ll go. But if we get to arrive late and leave early, I’ll even be mildly enthusiastic.”

  “You’ll come to my game tomorrow and be my date for New Year’s Eve the next night?” Tate tangles his fingers with mine. “What did I do to get so lucky?”

  “You understood me.”

  He laughs and tumbles on top of me. “I’m going to kiss you at midnight, and there will be fireworks, Sasha,” he promises as he nibbles and kisses my neck.

  “I’ll hold you to that. And I expect you to win tomorrow, by the way.”

  He nods soberly. “Of course.”

  The next night, while I watch from a seat that he knows I’m sitting in, he does just that. And he scores a hat trick.

  On the ice, and then again once we’re back at his place.

  34

  Tate

  After Sasha returns to Ottawa, we head out on a road trip that doesn’t start well. Simec is injured in Montreal, knocking him out of the next few games. Onetti joins our line, but he doesn’t read Moore and I as well as Simec does, and we’re scoreless until we get to Columbus. A win there bolsters us, and we take the next game against Washington—and I score two goals that night.

  But the next game, in Minnesota, is another loss, and we find ourselves in the middle of January still clawing our way up the division standings as the decided underdogs.

  There’s a growing narrative in the media that something is wrong with the basic equation of our team. So far, we’ve done a good job in our dressing room of ignoring that, because it’s not true. When we win, it feels right. We win when we click. And when we don’t click, we don’t win, which means we can fix this.

  But we’re running out of time.

  Andrushko is named to the All Star team, which is a nice morale bump. And he deserves it—our defence has been on point as we’ve moved into winter. We’re still losing games as often as we win them, but never by much. A goal, maybe two.

  We arrive in Banff for a much-needed few days break between our games in Minnesota and Edmonton and the first thing I do is call Sasha.

  The Christmas and New Year’s week spoiled me. Going a month without seeing her is torture.

  “I’m still at the university,” she warns. Code for don’t be inappropriate.

  “I have to head out for dinner soon, anyway.”

  “It’s good to hear your voice, though,” she says softly. “Tell me something fun.”

  “We’re going skiing tomorrow.”

  “Cool!”

  “Yeah. Getting out on the slopes is a nice alternative to the usual workout, even though our insurance riders have a lot of constraints on where and how we can ski. And then we’ll probably end up spending most of tomorrow afternoon in the chalet, chilling.”

  She laughs. “That sounds like a real hardship.”

  “I’d say you should fly out, but it’s a team-only thing.”

  “I’m s
wamped anyway. My dissertation committee requires serious hand-holding, it’s ridiculous. I thought they would be helping me, but it’s the other way around. They can’t pick a date to meet without twenty-seven emails back and forth that all end with, ‘Can Sasha help figure this out?’ No, Sasha bloody well can’t, she’s bloody well writing the last chapter of her analysis. Except of course I can, and I do, and each day that passes cements my desire to get the hell out of academia.”

  She takes a deep breath, and I tell her take another. “Just for good measure.”

  I get a delicate growl in my ear for that.

  “When did you last eat?” I ask her.

  “I had oatmeal for breakfast.”

  I look at my watch. “It’s almost seven for you! Go find some food. Call Ellie, see if she wants delivery.”

  “That’s a good idea. Okay, I’m going. Don’t hurt yourself tomorrow.”

  “I won’t. Gotta stay pretty for when I see you in two weeks.”

  “And don’t have too much fun, either. Remember, I’m miserable here.”

  I chuckle. “Easiest promise to make, ever. I’m not going to have any fun at all. This is a work thing, no matter how they dress it up. A training day like any other.”

  Maybe not quite like any other training day, I think as I watch our physical trainers set up a team-building exercise on top of a mountain. The slopes are open for other skiers, too, and we’ve attracted some attention.

  I’m always happy to pose for pictures with fans, so while we watch the defensive lines run through the exercise, I shake hands and say cheese until my cheeks hurt.

  Then it’s our turn. As a line, Moore, Onetti, and I need to cross-country ski a mini obstacle course—on a custom set of skis built for three people. Two skis, six toe clips.

  And we aren’t allowed to speak. We need to watch each other’s body language, and at two exchange points, switch out the leader.

  It’s harder than it looks, and it looks fucking insane.

  By the time we make it through—in the second-fastest time, bested only by Andrushko’s line—we’re drenched in sweat. But we’re also working better, which is the point.