Hat Trick

by Kristen Hope Mazzola

  Damn it. At least I have better aim on the ice.

  My best friend rolled his eyes at me. “One week left of singlehood. Man, are you ready?” Sean chuckled a little before taking another gulp from his three-fingers pour of Jameson.

  I shrugged. “As ready as I’ll ever fucking be. I’m just ready to get this whole thing over with.”

  Sean slapped my shoulder harder than most would find friendly, but that was just how we were with each other. “It’s going to be great man. I’m really excited for you and Marsheila.”

  “You fucking hate her. You’re not fooling anyone.” I rolled a maraschino cherry around in my mouth, savoring the sweetness for a second.

  He gasped dramatically, putting his hand to his chest. “When have I ever said anything of the sort?”

  “Come on, dude, you know I’m right. How about every fucking time you’ve been drunk since the day I told you I was going to ask Marsheila to marry me? It’s been nonstop slurs of ‘You’re making a huge mistake, man. Don’t do it, dude. That old ball and chain is going to ruin your fucking life.’”

  “Me? No, I would never.” Sean flashed a quick grin. “What kind of best friend would I be if I didn’t question the biggest decision of your life?”

  I shrugged. “A crappy one, I guess, but still, we’re a week away. I think we both know this is going to happen.”

  Sean threw up his hands. “You’re right. I was only looking out for your best interest. If that’s marrying the Wicked Witch of the West, then by all means, be my guest.”

  “You barely even know her.” I slammed my empty glass down in front of the bartender. “Bar temptress, another.”

  She pushed her short black pixy-style hair away from her face with the back of her hand, giving me the stink eye. “You know I cannot stand it when you call me that, Gavin.”

  She started to make my second Manhattan, giving me a coy smile. “Oh come on, Jordan, you know I’m just messing with you.”

  Jordan smiled at me, setting the glass down on the soaked coaster then putting two cherries in, just the way I liked. “You haven’t changed one bit since high school. You’re still the same pompous jerkoff you’ve always been.”

  I took a long swig. “Yes, and that’s why you love me.”

  She grabbed her stomach as she let out a deep laugh, slapping her tiny hand onto the counter. “In your fucking dreams, Gavin. In your fucking dreams.”

  Jordan would never admit it, but Sean and I were the only two people she even remotely tolerated from our graduating class. The three of us had been a little wolf pack since any of us could remember, growing up just a few houses apart in the old neighborhood near Huntington Station.

  It helped that we were some of the few that went different routes than the conventional college education after high school. Jordan Bates was one of the best bartenders in the city; she even went around the country helping bars train their new drink slingers. Sean was one of New York City’s finest; wearing that blue uniform suited him well and he burst with pride every time we talked about it. And me, I was the hooligan of the bunch, playing hockey for the New York Otters.

  Even though hockey was my dream, it was a hard sell. Most people thought I had lucked into the role because of my old man. It didn’t help that I was drafted to the team he fucking coached—that fact actually made my life a living hell. Of course, I was proud to wear the red, white, and blue uniform—I had wanted to since I was a little kid, but that had been back when my dad was still my hero, not a washed-up jackass that treated me like the scum of the earth.

  “Sean, how was work today?” Jordan started cleaning up the bar, our cue that it was getting close to time to get the heck out of Dodge.

  Sean slouched back in his seat. “It was a fucking day of it to say the least.”

  Usually, Sean was pretty forthcoming with stories from his day. He loved telling us about all the crazy shit people tried to pull, lies they thought would get them out of whatever charges were about to be brought against them, how stupid some people could really be, etc. When he kept quiet, we knew something seriously messed up had happened during his shift. Jordan poured him a few more fingers of whiskey as his eyes started to well up with tears. We both knew that meant they had lost someone that day, and we sure as shit weren’t going to press the issue. If Sean wanted to talk about it, he would.

  He stared down at the amber liquid, his pointer finger tracing the rim of the glass. “It’s sad when a parent dies but their kid survives. It’s miserable when anyone dies, but a mother dying in front of her daughter in a car crash is downright awful.” He slammed back the rest of his drink and grabbed his coat from the stool next to him. “I think it’s time to call it a night. See you guys at the rehearsal dinner?”

  “Yeah, man. See you Friday.”

  Shaking hands—check.

  Sweat dripping down my ass crack—check.

  Everyone’s eyes glaring at me while I stand outside in the blaring sun with a goddamned bowtie nearly choking me to death—check.

  I couldn’t believe two years had flown by the way it had. Ms. Marsheila Rhodes was about to be Mrs. Marsheila Hayes and my life was going to fall into place perfectly like I had always thought it was going to. We even had an offer in on a little house out in the ’burbs with a large front porch and a damn white picket fence.

  How sappy can I get?

  I wasn’t usually such a fucking-sentimental-ass-goober, but standing under a pink and white flower-covered altar with the chick officiant giving me a reassuring Don’t worry honey, this will all be over before you know it smile and my best friend patting my shoulder with a This is going to be an awesome day, bud gleam in his eye…it was starting to get to me.

  We waited…and we waited…and we freaking waited some more.

  Fuck, where is this woman?

  The music from the string quartet was starting to get on my nerves as they started to play their set for a third time. Our guests were fidgeting in their white folding chairs as they looked around, muttering to themselves. It was starting to get pretty embarrassing.

  “What the heck is taking them so damn long?” I mumbled to Sean, wiping the beading sweat off my forehead.

  He just shrugged, shaking his head. “You know how Marsheila has to be perfect. They’re probably still trying to get her hair just right.”

  This waiting game was getting absolutely ridiculous. We were already running thirty minutes late. At the current rate, we were going to miss our cocktail hour completely, which was the only part of the whole event I actually was looking forward to. The rest of the day I had agreed to just to make the little wifey smile.

  Happy wife, happy life.

  Happy wife, happy life.

  Happy wife, happy life.

  I had to keep reminding myself why I had thrown so much money down the drain for one fucking party. Seventy grand flushed down the toilet for five hours of mingling with people, half of whom I couldn’t stand or didn’t even know.

  What a fucking crock of shit.

  Out of the corner of my eye I saw Hillary, my soon-to-be-wife’s little sister, start quickly shuffling around the group of seated guests, trying to wave me over to her.

  Hillary’s eyes were glassy and wide as her hands trembled, handing me a note. I stared at her, shaking my head. A tear rolled down her face as she whispered, “I am so sorry, Gavin. I couldn’t talk her out of it.” She shoved the note into my hand before turning around and bolting away in her tan heels and short flowing seafoam dress.

  I dropped to my knees right there in the soft damp grass.

  I didn’t want to know why—all I needed to know was that my life had shifted on its axis in one second flat.

  Sean started to pull me up by my armpits, forcing me to stand. I couldn’t control it—I was fucking raging, slipping into shock, and I took it out on the closest target. I clocked my best friend right in the jaw. Tears were streaming down my face as he grabbed his cheek, staggering backward a bit. “Holy fuck man!
”

  I was frozen. All eyes were on me. No one was moving, not a word was spoken. My heart was crumbling. The silence was maddening.

  Sean wrapped me up in hug, wrestling the note out of my hands.

  “Get off of me!” I was seeing red as I screamed into his face.

  “You just punched me, dude. You need to let me see this.” His eyes were locked on mine as I thought about pulling his shirt over his head like a jersey, but my better judgment kicked in just in time. I gave in and watched as Sean opened the handwritten note from my now ex-fiancée. His eyes got wider and wider as they read down the page.

  “Fuck her man. Let’s go get fucking drunk.”

  I tried to take the note from his hands. “Why don’t you just wait until tomorrow for this? Let’s make the best of all the money you blew on this shit show.”

  Sean put the note in his pocket and I turned to the guests. “It seems like there won’t be a wedding tonight, I guess that’s something to celebrate.”

  So, in our tuxes, with all the guests that were there for me, we went and got plastered at the open bar, ate a shit load of amazing filet mignon with wild Alaskan salmon along with everything else at the buffet, and danced our night away. The best part by far was the food fight the ensued once the cake was brought out. The extra cleaning and damages bill that came a few days later was totally worth it.

  I had paid for that shit; I figured I might as well use it to begin the next chapter of my life as a fucking single man. The evening turned out to not be what was expected, but it was one of the best nights in my life—a complete and total liberation of Gavin Hayes.

  Chapter 3

  Brayden

  “Way to fuck up out there today, rookie. At this rate, you’re going to make a great duster.” Gavin snickered as we walked past each other in the locker room.

  “Thanks.” I rolled my eyes. There wasn’t much to say, which fucking sucked. I hated biting my tongue.

  He smelled like absolute dick as he dripped with sweat, walking over to the showers. His cocky ass smirk made me want to deck him right there, but punching the coach’s son was probably not going to be a good move when I had just joined the team. Hazing was expected; all the guys gave me a hard time and I had tough skin, but there was just something about Gavin that I couldn’t fucking stand. It probably went back to the days when our dads were teammates. Our rivalry very well could have been our own, but it likely bled from our fathers’ propaganda.

  My dad was Reggie Cox, one of the best left wings the New York Otters had ever seen. He was named captain his second season and had that C on his chest until he was forced to retire due to a knee injury he sustained from being hooked in the middle of a playoff game. The Otters ended up losing the game and hadn’t gone to the Stanley Cup since. That’s when everything went to shit for my family. It was the beginning of my father’s end, when he turned to the bottle and opiates, becoming the meanest son of a bitch on the fucking planet.

  “Reg. Stop. You’re hurting him.” My mom pleaded as my father’s grip tightened around my upper arm. I just glared at him for a few seconds; this was nothing new. I knew standing up to him would only make matters worse, but it was getting to the point where I just didn’t care anymore.

  “Dad, I promise I can do better.” I tried to pull away, but that only made his nails turn in, digging slowly into my tender flesh, even through the jersey. Dad’s power was a real bitch and he abused it knowingly.

  “You’re going to learn how to do this slap shot if we have to be here all night.” His face was boiling red as he spit the words out at me, our noses barely an inch apart.

  The rest of the team watched from the bench, most of their jaws dropping to their chests as our coach reamed out their teammate again.

  My mom leaned over the wall, trying to reach out to her husband—yet another failed attempt to break through his rage.

  “Dad, please. I promise I will get it right this time.”

  “You fucking better, or you’re going to be a damn good duster and Connor will be my new starting left forward. How would you like that?”

  “I want to play.” His grip finally loosened and I was able to skate back over to the rest of my teammates.

  “Gentlemen, settle down.” Coach Hayes cleared his throat for the hundredth time, adjusting his tie, fidgeting, and sweating.

  “What’s going on with Coach? He looks like he’s about to start shitting bricks.” Donaldson leaned over, muttering low enough that only I could hear him.

  I shook my head, sitting in the rumbling locker room, hair still dripping from my post-practice shower. “I don’t know, man.”

  Gavin Hayes stood up and went over to his father. “Shut the fuck up, guys. This is serious.”

  “Coach’s son to the fucking rescue.”

  Donaldson was really starting to get on my nerves. Just because I was a rookie didn’t mean I was someone he could bitch and moan to about the team. To me, we were all brothers—end of fucking story. Him acting like a teenage mean girl was going to eventually get him knocked the fuck out.

  Ignore him. I had to keep reminding myself of the advice Myla force-fed me every night over dinner when I would come home and unleash all my pent up rage from the day.

  “Men, we have to name a new captain. You all know Nikolaev isn’t returning this season. Since my son is on the team, I have decided it’s unfair for me to appoint our next one. Instead, we’re going to put it to a vote. Everyone is eligible. Think of leadership. Who do you want to be your voice on the ice? Who do you trust enough to let them wear that C on their chest? Write his name down and put it in the locked box I have on my desk. This is the only fair way to do it.”

  We all took slips of paper and a bunch of the guys started chatting in the corner. It wasn’t unheard of for a team to put selecting a new captain to a vote. It was respectable that Coach wanted to remain unbiased, particularly because it was clear that his son Gavin was the right man for the job. Personally, I thought he was a fucktard, but most of the guys respected the shit out of him and he was damn good at pep talks on the ice.

  Staring at the blank piece of paper, I tried to come up with anyone else’s name to write down. Nothing. Gavin was the going to be our next captain. He was going to make my life hell, but maybe I would become a better player because of it.

  Gavin

  “Cheers, to Gavin being named captain of the Otters. Who would have thought a fuck-up like you would ever become a leader of the team?”

  I rolled my eyes, clanking my goblet against my brother’s, my mother’s, and finally my father’s crystal glasses. “Thanks, Pop.”

  I cut into my rare steak, watching the juices pool on my mother’s fine china—the crap she only brought out for special occasions. It meant a lot that she thought of this as a celebration, but who the fuck were we kidding? The team had only picked me because there was no better option, and the fact that Gideon Hayes was my father; they probably all thought that was what they were supposed to do.

  Griffin gave me a quick eye roll followed by his reassuring wink, trying his best to laugh off my father’s rude display of persistent disappointment in me. “Dad, don’t be so hard on Gavin. He’s the right man for the job—his teammates think so at least. It’s good they trust him.”

  “Bunch of idiots if you ask me, but the majority had its say.” Dad slurped his cabernet like a heathen, wiping the driblets from his brassily chin with the back of his hand. You can take the hick out of the backwoods and move him up to New York, dress him up in his Sunday best, but you can never take the backwoods out of the hick when booze and disappointment start to soak his blood.

  “Gideon, you’re drunk. Don’t be mean.” Mom always tried to just chalk the nasty shit Dad said up to being drunk. Usually, she was right, but I knew the crap currently spilling out of his wine-soaked mouth was his true feelings.

  I knew the moment I was drafted to The Otters that my father was not going to be happy about it. He wanted me to go to any o
ther team—then he could just be proud of his son and I would be some other coach’s problem.

  “Griffin, don’t you have a fight coming up?” Anything to get the conversation away from me.

  Griff sucked on his teeth while he nodded. “Yeah, I got challenged by Chuck Williams. I’m going to have to go up a weight class to meet him, but I’ll never back down from a fight.”

  Griffin was my little brother by five years. He was fresh out of college and already making a huge name for himself as an up-and-coming boxer. Sports News had named him ‘Fighter to Watch’ this year, and I knew my dad was way more excited about that than anything I had done since the fifth grade.

  “Griff is going to make this family proud, that’s for damn sure.”

  Way to rub salt in the wound, Pop.

  “How about that lovely girl, what was her name, Griffin? With the long dark hair?”

  I started to laugh. “Which one?” I teased, and Griffin kicked me under the table.

  “Things aren’t really working out. I have been pretty busy training, too much to have time for a high-maintenance chick like Marissa.”

  “Marissa, that was it. She was lovely. You should still try, son. You don’t find nice girls with such good breeding every day.”

  Breeding. My mother was all about the status of our relationships—if we were living up to our legacy with the women who were sucking us off at night. Who the fuck cares?

  “We’ll see what happens, Ma.”

  My little brother was the stereotypical New Yorker: thick accent, sharp dresser, knew everybody. The only things we had in common other than our last names and hatred for our old man were our love for ink and slutty women. Even though we were so different, I would do anything for the kid and he always had my back, too. It was a family thing. No one was going to mess with either of us if the other one had anything to say about it.

  “What about you, Gavin?”