Fair Play (Hat Trick, Book 1)

by Samantha Wayland

  Re-crossing her legs, she smiled and thought of Garrick. As she’d thought of him every time the gentle pang zipped through her body from her still-sensitive ass. He’d effectively ruined her plan to focus solely on her interview while she was in town. Her smile widened and she intentionally sat back in her seat, enjoying another zing.

  All eyes were pinned to the ice, following the action as it moved the length of the rink and back. She, on the other hand, had spent most of the night with her gaze riveted to the interim trainer. His job looked fast-paced, hectic even, and exactly the same as working with the Ice Cats.

  She could totally rock this job.

  Her interviews had gone well and she’d left each meeting confident and energized. She knew her stuff. They knew she knew her stuff. She’d played down her name, never mentioning her connections, though prepared to be honest if someone asked. No one had. They either had no idea, or knew for certain and didn’t need her to confirm it.

  Regardless, she didn’t see that as an obstacle. And if it was, it was small compared to the bigger hurdles she had to clear to get this gig.

  Like the fact that she was young. And a woman.

  She couldn’t change either of those things, so it boiled down to whether or not the management gave a damn.

  The previous trainer had been a year older than she was now when he’d started, and he’d been with the team for the almost two decades since. A genetic degeneration of the spine combined with a recent car accident had made the job too painful and dangerous for him. His interim replacement—the assistant trainer, who had a good, if relatively short history in sports medicine and training—seemed competent.

  The sound of a whistle yanked her attention back to the ice. One of the Bruins was down and within seconds the trainer was on his way.

  Savannah immediately knew two things about the assistant trainer—he was nervous and he’d never been a hockey player. He looked damned uncomfortable out on the ice.

  As if the fates had heard her, the trainer stopped short by his player’s side and promptly lost his footing, landing on his ass instead of taking a knee. Savannah winced as he caught himself with one hand. She’d bet his right wrist wasn’t feeling too good right now. Probably sprained. No doubt adrenaline and embarrassment got him back on his knee and over his player to triage the injury.

  Fortunately, the player got up on his own and easily skated back to the bench. The trainer rose more slowly, cradling his hand in the crook of his other elbow as he walked back to the tunnel. As soon as he got there, the coach looked up at the box and reached for the phone.

  Savannah wasn’t surprised when the phone on the bar promptly rang. A vigorous round of swearing behind her confirmed her suspicions. The assistant trainer was out for the game.

  She jumped a foot when a hand landed on her shoulder. She smiled tentatively at the strength-and-conditioning coach, with whom she’d been sitting for most of the game.

  “I need your help.”

  She suppressed the urge to gulp and squared her shoulders. “What can I do?”

  “I’m in for the rest of the game and I’ve got a handle on most of it, but the team doc and I suck at taping and that shit. You’ll probably just be keeping me company, but you should come along in case I need you to keep me honest if someone needs a patch up.”

  Savannah rose from her seat slowly, her dignified carriage somewhat diminished by the huge grin on her face.

  “Let’s go.”

  Garrick stared at the huge LCD screen above the Sugar Shack’s bar. For the love of Christ, Savannah was on the bench at the Bruins game.

  He’d asked the bartender to switch to the game in some vague attempt at solidarity, knowing she was there and hoping by some miracle he’d catch a glimpse of her in the sweet seats she’d texted him about earlier.

  But on the bench? Well, okay, standing next to the bench in the tunnel, watching the game from ice height, which was close enough.

  He’d seen their trainer go down, but what the hell happened after that, he couldn't imagine. Still in her interview clothes, she clearly hadn’t gone to the game prepared to work. She wouldn’t show up at the Ice Cats arena, let alone go out to the bench for a game, without her hair up, her shapeless pullover, and those yoga pants. Garrick was almost certain this would be the first time anyone in high-heeled, knee-length leather boots and a plum-colored skirt suit had ever worked the bench of an NHL game.

  Smiling, he dug his cell phone from his pocket and texted Savannah.

  Having fun?

  The TV cut to a commercial. Garrick caught the bartender’s eye and ordered another beer. He’d been here for two hours and this was only his third. At his size, with his metabolism, he was sober as a judge.

  His phone buzzed and he looked down to see a text from Savannah.

  WOOO!

  God, she was so going to get that fucking job.

  It was just as well, since even with her brothers throwing in a good portion, it wasn’t enough to outbid Robert Kramer. Garrick thought he could pull together another chunk of the bid from his own savings, matching the Morrison brothers’ stakes, but they still needed a fourth to make a go at it. It was a damn good thing he’d been lucky with his investments over the past decade. As much as it freaked him out to think of life after hockey, some part of him had known all along the day would come.

  Sighing, Garrick paid his tab and picked up his beer, sorry to miss the rest of the game. He’d have to watch it on DVR later.

  He’d been trying his hand at detective work all night, hoping to see something—a transaction, a shady character doing shady things, anything—if he hung out at the bar. After two hours, he accepted his plan sucked.

  He wandered through the restaurant, ducked into the back room to watch some pool, and flirted with a couple women who he might once have found interesting, but now left him totally cold. When one put her hand on his chest, he actually felt skeeved out.

  He was going to have to figure some way to get the hell over this when Savannah left. For now, he was quite happily monogamous.

  And there was the masochistic truth.

  By the time another hour had passed, he’d stood in every corner of the Sugar Shack, checked every booth and alcove, even looked behind the damn jukebox. The only things anyone might take exception to at this fine Kramer-owned establishment were the warm beer, cheesy music, and sticky floors.

  Garrick laughed at himself, wondering when he’d become such an old fudd.

  The only area of the building he hadn’t inspected was the back hallway. He’d made it to the men’s room once, but there was no way he was going to get inside the ladies’ room. Even if there hadn’t been a line, which there inevitably was, getting arrested for being a pervert didn’t rank high on his bucket list.

  The back hallway continued beyond the bathrooms, with three more doors lining the way to the emergency exit, which the sign claimed was alarmed. He circled around three times to see where those doors might go, but every time he made his way into the hall, the same guy was leaning against the wall, appearing to all the world as if he were waiting for his girlfriend in the ladies’ room. He was young and had hair so light blond, it appeared almost white. If he hadn’t been built like a professional wrestler, Garrick might have believed he was just some dumb kid.

  When Garrick stepped into the corridor for the fourth time in an hour, Blondie stood away from the wall and watched him carefully.

  Chucking his beer bottle in the trash can outside the bathroom door, Garrick ducked into the stench of the men’s room one last time, resigned to waiting a few minutes before leaving the Sugar Shack for the night.

  As clandestine missions went, he had managed an epic fail.

  He washed his hands, giving an inordinate amount of concentration to the task. The other guys probably thought he had OCD but after four trips into this bacteria farm, all he wanted to do was go home and shower.

  The door from the hallway squeaked and he glanced up into the m
irror. His guts clenched when Blondie came in, followed closely by another thug in matching black t-shirt and cargo pants, and none other than Robert Kramer.

  Oh shit.

  Garrick rinsed his hands and shook the excess water off as if he hadn’t a care in the world. At least two other men were in the room with them, so he calmly reached for some paper towels and turned toward the door.

  He didn’t bother to act surprised to find the Goon Squad behind him. He wasn’t that good an actor. Instead, he moved toward the exit, trying to follow the guy who’d just zipped up and run from the urinal and out the door without washing his hands.

  Blondie clamped a hand on Garrick’s left arm. He stopped, lifted an eyebrow and gave him his best face-off stare. Goon Two grabbed Garrick’s other arm and yanked him back toward the sink.

  The stall door opened to reveal the last of the innocent bystanders and Garrick’s only hope of a witness. Garrick tugged at his arms, trying to free himself. No luck. The man in the stall stared wide-eyed at his struggle, then bolted from the bathroom as if it were on fire.

  Fucking chicken.

  “Let the fuck go of me,” Garrick barked, fighting harder. He almost knocked his captors off their feet, but the bastards held on. Goon Two wrapped a second hand around Garrick’s arm.

  “No, Mr. LeBlanc. That’s not how this is going to work.” Robert Kramer’s smooth voice cut through the room, his vowels oddly rounded. Garrick almost rolled his eyes at the bogus British accent. Was this guy for real? Garrick had researched Robert Kramer thoroughly. He had been born not forty miles from where they stood, had barely finished high school here in Moncton, and had lived here every day since.

  Robert Kramer was about as British as Garrick’s left nut.

  The grips on his arms tightened. The goons appeared to be enjoying their roles as enforcers. Garrick wished them luck. He wasn’t going to make it easy.

  He threw himself at Blondie, checking him hard and sending him staggering into the stalls, his arms wheeling. He caught himself on a partition, narrowly avoiding crashing onto the floor beside the toilet. Garrick shuddered just thinking about touching the floor in this place. Blondie wasn’t nearly so bothered. He was already up, thrusting up his sleeves to reveal a Canadiens tattoo on the inside of his forearm.

  Oh good, Garrick thought gleefully, a hockey fan.

  With another hard check, he forced Goon Two into the sinks, his ass almost landing in a basin.

  Blondie grabbed the back of Garrick’s shirt and hauled him away before he could check his friend again. Garrick threw himself back and slammed his head into Blondie’s face.

  A satisfying crunch echoed off the tiled walls, followed by a howl of pain. Goon Two grabbed Garrick’s right arm again and Garrick narrowed his eyes, prepared to prove that any hockey player worth his salt can punch equally hard with either arm.

  “Stop!” Robert Kramer’s sharp command brought both goons to a halt. “Outside.”

  Did these knuckleheads have to be addressed in single word commands to ensure comprehension? He spun to fight Blondie off again, but Robert Kramer’s words stopped him cold.

  “Mr. LeBlanc, I suggest you cooperate, or I’ll see to it that these two visit Ms. Morrison upon her return from Boston.”

  Fuck. Garrick’s blood turned to ice.

  He wanted to rip Robert Kramer’s fucking lungs out. Instead, he took a steadying breath and walked out of the men’s room, not bothering to check to see if he was followed.

  He turned to go back into the bar, but a hand shoved him toward the back door.

  Well, at least I can finally check out the rest of the back hallway.

  One door was labeled Supplies, and another had a brass clasp and sturdy padlock securing it. The third door had no sign. No padlock. And if he wasn’t mistaken, would allow for a pretty good-sized room between the bathrooms and the alley out back.

  Another hard shove sent him stumbling and his shoulder crashed into the mystery door. It shook from the impact, but held. Damn it. He should have thrown some extra weight into it. He seriously considered trying the knob.

  He jumped back when the door popped open and a middle-aged man poked his head out.

  He immediately spotted Robert Kramer. “Everything okay, boss?”

  Robert Kramer shoved Garrick farther down the hallway. “Go!” he hissed at his goons, but not before Garrick got a glimpse of the room beyond. It was set up like an office, the furniture handed down from the 1970s. Faux wood laminate—sexy. The light from the filthy windows high on the wall was weak, the glass covered in what looked like sheets of standard white copier paper. There were at least four desks, all with sleek computers, some with multiple monitors.

  When Robert Kramer turned, Garrick pinned his gaze to the exit and let the goons move him along. They slammed him into the release bar, shoving the door open with enough force that it crashed into the brick wall and bounced back. No alarm after all. Garrick jumped down the single step and into the alley behind The Sugar Shack.

  The sour smells coming from the dumpster were eye-watering. The snow banks were high in places, partially obscuring their position from the busy streets on either end of the block. He shook himself free from the goons and stood his ground.

  “Mr. LeBlanc,” Robert Kramer drawled. He stood in the door, no doubt intending the step up as a means to look down on Garrick. Guess he should have considered Garrick was a good eight inches taller than he was. Now they were eye-to-eye.

  “I’m not sure what brought you here tonight,” Robert Kramer continued, “or what you thought to accomplish.”

  “Just getting a drink,” Garrick said blandly.

  Robert Kramer got to the point. “Stay away from my business, Mr. LeBlanc. I’m not going to warn you again. If I find you snooping around, I will see to it that Ms. Morrison pays the price. Do I make myself clear?”

  Garrick shook with the desire to launch himself at Robert Kramer. God’s honest truth, the only reason he didn’t was because he wouldn’t stop once he started.

  “Why the fuck don’t you man up and come after me? What kind of asshole threatens innocent women?”

  “The kind of asshole who knows what threats work. Take me seriously, Garrick. Ms. Morrison’s safety depends on your good behavior. Everyone is vulnerable sometime. Somehow.”

  Garrick had never been more keenly aware of that fact than at this moment.

  Chapter Twenty One

  Savannah was tired. Way down, deep-in-her-bones tired. She staggered off the airplane, relieved the Moncton airport was small enough that she would be able to grab her bag and drag her ass to her car within a matter of minutes.

  When she’d arrived in Boston, a quarter-mile concourse hike to an escalator had delivered her down into traveler hysteria to retrieve her bags. But then, in Boston, she’d been walking on air, on her way to interview with an NHL team.

  She still couldn’t believe all that had happened. The entire trip had been exhilarating. And exhausting. Normally a game by the bench was her idea of the perfect night out, but then normally she knew the people, the team, the details.

  The coaching staff had been curious but welcoming, the players friendly. A few had commented on her outfit, which she acknowledged had been highly unusual for the circumstances. Heels and a skirt at a hockey game. Maybe she’d start a new trend.

  For now, she forged down the concourse toward baggage claim. The first time she heard her name called, she shrugged it off. When she heard it a second time, she looked up and found Garrick jogging toward her.

  A slow smile spread across her face. Clutching the shoulder strap of her carry-on, she took off at a run. When she was within a few feet of Garrick, she dropped her bags and threw herself at him.

  He caught her against his broad chest and held her tight, her feet off the ground. Her arms coiled around his neck, her face buried against his skin, his pulse to her lips.

  She didn’t care who saw. She had to leave this city, to get away from the Kramers.
Right now, all she cared about was celebrating her crazy trip to Boston and being held by the one person who really, truly understood.

  “Hey there, beautiful,” Garrick murmured into her shoulder.

  He sounded surprised. Pleased. Sexy. She smiled against his neck. “Hi.”

  “Good trip?”

  She lifted her head and he let her slide down his body, her feet touching the floor gently. “Awesome trip.”

  “You’re going to get that job.”

  She grinned. “From your lips to god’s ears.” She cocked her head. “What are you doing here? I have my car in the lot.”

  Garrick shrugged. “It’s a long story. I had Rhian drop me off, so we can take your car home together.”

  She wanted to ask why, but figured standing in the middle of the airport wasn’t the time. Quickly, they retrieved her bag from the carousel and her car from the parking lot. As soon as she settled into the passenger seat, more than happy to let Garrick do the driving, her burst of energy disappeared and she slumped against the seat, her eyes sliding shut.

  Before she knew it they were back at the farmhouse. She dragged herself from the car and up the front stairs. Garrick grabbed her bag from the trunk and, with a start, she realized she hadn’t even gone to get it.

  She stood on the porch and watched him unlock the door, feeling a bit useless. “I’m sorry, I should have—”

  He cut her off with his kiss. His hand cupped her face as he walked her backwards over the threshold and into the front hall. He pushed her to sit on the long bench, his lips never leaving hers. Dropping her bags at their feet, he hovered there, kissing her gently, their noses bumping.

  Her heart kicked in her chest. His firm lips nibbled at hers, his thumb stroked over her cheek, but he never took the kiss deeper, even when her lips parted in a silent plea for more.

  Eventually he drew back, toed off his sneakers, and knelt before her. “I missed you.”

  This should have been a terrifying admission, but her brain was overruled by her heart.

  “I missed you, too.”