The Hat Trick Box Set

by Samantha Wayland

Garrick’s worried voice called to him through his spiraling panic. He looked at his friend, his lover, and shook his head frantically, flailing for an explanation for his behavior. For a reason to escape.

  Fuck reason.

  Leaping to his feet on the mattress, he made it one step toward the door before Garrick hooked his legs and threw him down on the bed.

  His mind went blank. He couldn’t draw enough air to scream. He thrashed, desperate to fight his way out. Away. He battled against Garrick’s hold.

  “Rhian! Rhian!”

  He had to get away. Back to his apartment. Lock himself in. Be safe.

  Not like this. He couldn’t stand to be like this.

  Heart pounding as if he’d sprinted for miles, he kept fighting. Garrick’s breath wheezed past Rhian’s ear when his elbow slammed into Garrick’s chest. He almost broke free. Then he was flying, the world spinning as he was lifted right off the bed and flipped face down.

  He howled with frustration and terror, his cry cut off when something huge and warm crashed down on his back. Garrick. He let out another hoarse shout and heaved upwards to throw the weight off. Garrick yanked his arms out from under him and they slammed down onto the mattress together. Powerful fingers threaded through his, stilling his hands.

  He gasped. Gasped again, drawing more air this time.

  At last he heard a voice.

  “Breathe, baby. You have to breathe.”

  He did. Once. Twice. The pain in his chest easing. The chaos in his brain cleared enough that he could focus on Garrick’s voice. His scent. His warm weight.

  Shuddering, Rhian sank deep into the cool cotton beneath them. Defeated.

  “You’re safe, Rhian. I promise. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

  Too late. It already has.

  Garrick struggled to regulate his breathing as he whispered into Rhian’s ear, the soft words rushing from him until the hard muscles beneath him went lax.

  Holy Christ, what the hell was that?

  He lay still, not sparing Rhian an ounce of his weight, and blinked against the sting in his eyes. When Rhian’s eyes finally fluttered shut, Garrick pressed his damp cheeks to the soft cotton of Rhian’s shirt.

  He’d tackled and pinned Rhian to the bed because he’d been afraid his friend would hurt himself. He stayed because it seemed to help. He didn’t know why. Or how. It didn’t matter, as long as it worked.

  Garrick never wanted to see terror like that on Rhian’s face again. Ever. Wide, sightless blue eyes with pin-prick pupils would haunt him for the rest of his life.

  Neither of them moved nor spoke for a long time. Garrick would have remained there all night if needed, but eventually Rhian shifted beneath him.

  Garrick pressed his cheek to Rhian’s and rubbed against the coarse stubble, soothing himself.

  “Better?”

  Rhian nodded.

  Garrick had zero experience with panic attacks, but he was pretty sure he’d just witnessed one, or some version of one at least. Rhian seemed calm now, but Garrick worried whatever had possessed Rhian still simmered beneath the surface.

  “Will you be okay if I get up?”

  Garrick felt Rhian take some deep breaths and waited. Eventually, Rhian nodded.

  Garrick eased himself off Rhian and rolled to lie beside him on the bed.

  “Are you okay?”

  The tiny shake of Rhian’s head was heartbreaking.

  “What can I do?”

  Blue eyes opened, locked on the door to the hallway and beyond. The undiluted sorrow in his gaze tore at Garrick.

  He didn’t know what the hell was going on in Rhian’s head, but he knew that if Rhian got up and left, he’d never come back.

  He put a hand on Rhian’s back, his touch light. “Will you stay here tonight?”

  Rhian rolled over and searched Garrick’s face for something. He wished he knew what.

  It was a long time before Rhian nodded.

  Garrick slowly crawled from the bed, then reached to pull Rhian up.

  “Wait.”

  Garrick froze, his hand suspended above the bed.

  Rhian dug in his pocket and drew out a sheet of notebook paper. Without a word, he handed it to Garrick.

  Garrick unfolded the note and frowned down at the blackmail demand for a good long time.

  Shit.

  Refolding the paper, he put it aside and turned a singular focus to the tasks needed to get them both into bed for the night. Rhian allowed Garrick to pull him to his feet and strip him. He never took his watchful gaze off Garrick’s face.

  Rage burned in Garrick’s gut, but he kept his face blank and movements steady. He shucked his clothes and threw them on the floor with Rhian’s. God, how he wanted to rip that note into tiny pieces and burn it, all the while cursing its author to the outer reaches of hell. He didn’t do or say any of those things. Right now, his only concern was Rhian.

  He tugged down the covers and took comfort when Rhian, beautiful and naked and scared witless of something, crawled beneath the sheets.

  Garrick slid in behind him, giving him plenty of space. He wanted to wrap himself around his friend and hold on for dear life, but he wrestled back that need and satisfied himself with towing the heavy covers up to their necks as they settled on their sides facing one another.

  Rhian’s gaze was clear. Sadness still tugged at the corners of his eyes, but not a hint of the panic remained.

  “What are you going to do?” Garrick asked quietly.

  Rhian sighed. “I don’t know.” He explained where and when he’d found the note. “I think it might be Steve.”

  Garrick nodded.

  “Maybe I should pay it. At least until this thing with the Bruins is settled, one way or another.”

  “Can you talk to him?” Garrick asked. He would have preferred to strangle the bastard, but he kept that to himself. Rhian had to decide what to do. Garrick’s job was to support that decision.

  “I don’t know. He’s pretty fucked up. This whole thing is fucked up.”

  There was no arguing with that. “You know he’ll never stop asking you for money if you pay.”

  “I know. But what if he outs you? What if he has proof?”

  Garrick cupped Rhian’s jaw in his hand and leaned in until they were almost nose to nose. “Do not worry about me, do you understand? Whatever decision you make, you make the one that’s right for you.”

  “But the deal? The league?”

  “I don’t think they’d care, and fuck them if they do. I’ll warn Savannah, but that’s it, as far as protecting me, okay?”

  Rhian looked like he wanted to argue, but Garrick held his gaze, narrowing his eyes until Rhian nodded, reluctantly. Garrick released the breath he’d been holding.

  “We don’t know if there’s proof,” Rhian said slowly.

  Garrick racked his brain for a time they might have been seen or heard and came up blank, unless someone could see into his second-story bedroom window. He fought the urge to jump out of bed and close the curtains. “I don’t think there can be.”

  Rhian nodded. “Yeah. I’m not going to pay.”

  Garrick ran a thumb along one of Rhian’s cheekbones. “Okay.”

  Rhian’s eyes fluttered shut and Garrick traced a pattern on his skin for a while. The warm bed, late hour, and emotionally draining evening dragged them toward sleep. Garrick barely had the wherewithal to roll over and switch off the light. When he turned back, Rhian surprised him with a hand on his chest.

  “Garrick?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I’m sorry you have to trade Justin.”

  He put a hand over Rhian’s. “Me, too.”

  “But I know you’re doing the right thing. Anyone who knows you will understand that.”

  Garrick swallowed past the lump in his throat. “Thanks.”

  Rhian pulled his hand from Garrick’s chest and rolled away. Garrick’s arms twitched with the need to drag him back. Then his sweet, panicky, confusing-as-al
l-hell friend scooted across the bed and planted his ass in Garrick’s lap, wriggling back until his shoulders were tucked against Garrick’s chest.

  Garrick spooned around him, holding on way too tight. “Thanks,” he whispered again.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The next evening, Rhian paced the tiny confines of his living room with his phone clutched in his hand. He was trying to get up the courage to call and cancel his dinner plans with Garrick when the phone rang. He nearly dropped it.

  Jesus, he was strung a little tight tonight.

  Sergio’s name popped up on the screen a second before he answered. “What’s up?”

  “My friend, are you sitting down?”

  Quite suddenly, his ass landed on his landlord’s brand new coffee table. “Oh my god.”

  “Well, you can thank god, or you can thank me, but either way you report for duty in Boston in one week.”

  One week! He started laughing. Hysterically. “Have you told the Ice Cats yet?”

  “Dude! You land an NHL contract and that’s your first question?”

  Rhian laughed again. This was so fucked up. He didn’t know what to say. What to do. His dreams were coming true and his first thought was that he only had seven days until he left Garrick. His laughter started to sound a little maniacal, so he choked it back and got the details from Sergio.

  The contract was only a one-year, two-way, and then “they would see”, but that meant that even if he didn’t stay in Boston, he would get moved to the Bruins’ feeder team in Providence. From there, he knew he could work his way back onto the ice at the Boston Garden. For good.

  He hung up with Sergio, grabbed his coat, and ran out the door. There was only one person he wanted to share this moment with.

  He was tearing onto the highway before he had second thoughts. He and Garrick probably shouldn’t be alone together. Hell, the blackmailer could be watching right now. But that wasn’t what worried him. Not really.

  The trouble was all the emotions crowding in his head and heart. Twice today alone he’d caught himself watching Garrick like some love-sick puppy. At one point, Rhian was sure Mike had caught him at it, too, but Mike had laughed about something else and moved on. Thank god.

  After that, Rhian had decided he couldn’t spend any more time alone with Garrick. He’d planned to call Garrick and tell him he wouldn’t be over for dinner, hoping that if he ended it now, he could get over whatever the hell was wrong with him and go back to being Garrick’s friend. With some time.

  Now he only had seven days left. Seven days until he wouldn’t see Garrick again until he moved to Boston to be with Savannah. Seven days to do as he wished, then months in Boston with Garrick’s girlfriend to remind him why he was going to have to get the fuck over it. Seven days until the mutually agreed-upon return to just friendship.

  Seven days to indulge.

  A thrill shot down his spine. He knew what he wanted. Physically, at least. Emotionally, he was a big hot mess. But the sex? He was crystal clear on what he wanted there.

  God, who knew good news would make him so fucking horny? He laughed as the miles flew by, still buzzed on adrenaline when he parked his car behind Garrick’s farmhouse, hiding it from the street. The good feelings carried him right to the back porch before he paused.

  He wasn’t acting like himself at all.

  He’d never had anyone to share this kind of news with, so it was strange and new. And nice. Through the backdoor’s window, he watched Garrick move around the kitchen and felt warm, in spite of the winter winds ripping through his coat. He grasped the doorknob, ready to let himself into the house, knowing he was welcome. Expected. He cherished that feeling.

  This must be what it feels like to come home.

  His hand slipped from the knob.

  Garrick was busy painting a thick maple ginger glaze, judging by the jars scattered across the granite island, over what appeared to be salmon. At his elbow, a pile of fresh cut broccoli waited to be tossed into the steaming pot on the stove. Two wine glasses and an open bottle sat on the kitchen table alongside two places set with cloth napkins and heavy stoneware plates that suited the room, and the man, perfectly.

  It was all so…domestic. Foreign.

  Garrick turned around and the ache in Rhian’s chest was replaced by an unwilling snort of humor. Garrick’s bright red apron read: Give Blood. Play Hockey.

  Garrick looked up and the smile in his eyes pulled Rhian through the door.

  “Seriously, Garrick, where did you get that apron?”

  Garrick glanced down at his chest, which dwarfed what was probably a normal-size apron. “You like it?”

  “I love it.”

  Garrick grinned. Rhian’s heart skipped a beat.

  “Maybe I’ll let you take it with you to Boston,” Garrick said. He chucked the marinade brush onto the counter and reached for Rhian.

  Rhian let out a victorious whoop as Garrick yanked him into a hug. Their chests crashed together, then Rhian was holding on for dear life as his feet left the ground, laughter bouncing off the walls as the last of his disbelief, the final traces of shock, were swept away by unadulterated joy.

  He’d done it. He’d made it to the NHL. The brass fucking ring.

  His feet hit the ground with a thud and he stepped out of his first-ever bear hug with a light heart and bone-deep gratitude. That was just what he’d needed. To tell someone who understood. Who cared. For the first time in his life, there was someone in the world who gave a crap. About him. His dreams, his hard work, his achievements.

  He would never be able to explain this to anyone, let alone Garrick, but he couldn’t let it pass without acknowledging it to himself. This was good. And he was happy.

  So was Garrick, judging by his huge smile and shining eyes. He grabbed Rhian’s face between his hands and planted a loud kiss on his forehead. Rhian laughed. It was the damndest thing. He’d seen countless fathers do the same to their sons at hockey practice over the years. No one had ever done it to him, though.

  Garrick left him grinning like a simpleton and bent to check the racks in the oven, his faded jeans tight across his gorgeous butt. Rhian’s jeans got a lot tighter too.

  Happiness really did make him horny.

  Searching for a distraction, he poured them each a glass of wine, then propped a hip against the counter and watched Garrick. He tried to focus on his lover’s confidence and competence in the kitchen— not his broad shoulders and thick thighs.

  For a guy with a terrible reputation as a ladies’ man off the ice and a hard-ass on it, Garrick was frighteningly comfortable flipping through his Martha Stewart cookbook. Rhian bit his lip to keep from laughing.

  He managed to contain himself until Garrick pulled out a huge chipped mixing bowl and set it on the counter next to a giant block of butter before gathering various baking supplies from the cabinets. When, after digging around on one particular shelf, Garrick triumphantly brandished a bag of chocolate chips, Rhian broke.

  An uncontrollable guffaw burst from him, his laughter only getting worse when Garrick slowly put the chocolate down on the counter and looked at him with one brow raised.

  “What’s so funny?”

  He heard the warning in Garrick’s tone and grabbed his wine glass. After almost snarfing its contents up his nose with another chuckle, he put it back down.

  That one eyebrow arched higher.

  “Nothing,” he blurted. “Really. It’s just, well…you’re making chocolate chip cookies, aren’t you? You’re actually making me chocolate chip cookies. From scratch.”

  “Yeah, so?”

  “It’s just so…so…”

  “What?”Garrick challenged, his gaze narrowing.

  “Well…”

  Garrick stared. Waiting.

  “Cute.”

  Garrick chuckled. It had been a long time since anyone had called him cute, but he didn’t mind. He didn’t even mind being laughed at. He was, after all, standing in his kitchen in a silly a
pron, making his boyfriend chocolate chip cookies.

  His boyfriend? Ack! Not boyfriend, of course. Friend. Lover. Whatever.

  He put that thought away for another time. Right now he was having too much fun enjoying Rhian’s light mood and easy laughter. In the year he’d known Rhian, he’d never seen him so relaxed. So perfectly happy.

  He could only imagine how great it felt. He’d been riding on a high since he’d gotten the call from Rupert, telling him Boston had made their move. He’d checked the clock a thousand times, waiting for Rhian to get here, worried he would cancel. He’d had to exert a truck-load of restraint not to storm out to his back porch and dragging the man into the house when he’d hesitated to come in.

  But somehow Rhian had made it through the door and Garrick could see right away something was different. He supposed making it to the NHL would change any man, but it was more than that. The tension that had buzzed beneath the surface since that night in Charlottetown was gone. Rhian was here, with him, fully.

  His friend was back, only now he was openly staring at Garrick’s ass when he bent to retrieve something from the cabinets. He contemplated turning around and letting Rhian get an eyeful of what his attention was doing to the fit of Garrick’s jeans.

  No. Dinner, then cookies, then bed, you damn horn-dog. He had a plan and he was sticking to it.

  Standing at his shoulder, Rhian peered down at what Garrick was doing, a wide grin on his face. Garrick chuckled again. Who knew he would be so excited about fresh-baked cookies?

  Garrick carefully measured out the ingredients, nearly dumping the cup of sugar on the counter when Rhian’s lips brushed the back of his neck.

  Holy hell.

  Rhian didn’t let up. Garrick kept working, determined to finish the damn cookie dough while Rhian drove him out of his ever-loving mind with a zillion little nibbles and licks along each vertebra from his nape to the collar of his shirt. Garrick did a goddamn admirable job of keeping it together until Rhian’s hips snugged up against his ass. A big hand spread across his stomach to hold him in place while his errant and intensely distracting lover nudged his stiff cock between his ass cheeks.

  Garrick promptly forgot the recipe he’d known by heart since he was twelve.