Page 32 of Hat Trick

The newfound darkness has stripped my chance to make out the emotion in his eyes, leaving us both bare to thepast.

When he speaks, his voice is low. “My father beat my mother. I don’t remember much, since I was wicked young. Idoremember him yelling at her, the sounds of his fists on her flesh.” He coughs abruptly, and I can’t help but wonder if he’s trying to bury his emotions. “Anyway,” he mutters, “when Coach told us to pick a cause, that was mine. It was the least that I could do after . . .everything.”

Now the words flood on back. So many thoughts, questions, hitting me all at once. But the most pressing one escapes: “Did she leavehim?”

The question is nosy and insensitive, but after witnessing the verbal abuse my mother’s husbands handed her on a silver platter, and the truly horrible instances of physical abuse I dealt with at the shelter, it is the one question that I needanswered.

“Later, I think. I wasn’t there to findout.”

Memories of his upbringing hitting the tabloids fill in what he doesn’t—namely, his years spent in fostercare.

My heart aches for that little boy who witnessed such violence; it aches for the young man who took it upon himself to volunteer at a shelter with women who were, no doubt, mirror images of his mother from his memories; and it aches for him now, too, as he stands so strong before me, opening up in a way I don’t suspect is normal forhim.

“Marshall,I—”

He cuts me off with a gentle hand to my face, cupping my jaw and brushing his thumb over my bottom lip in that way of his that is becoming increasingly familiar. “In any case,” he murmurs, his gray eyes watching my mouth, “I’ve always known you were more than what you showed to the world. It’s long past time that you let that woman out toplay.”

Still cupping my face, he bends down and my lungs seize with hope that,yes, this is that moment. Right now, he’s finally going to kiss me. My head tilts back and my lashes flutter shut and I sigh his name in a way I’ve never done for another man. It’s happening.Oh my God,yes—

His lips collide with myforehead.

My eyes springopen.

“Soon,” he promises, and then lets mego.

I draw my arms around my belly, forcing a smile to my face to hide my acutedisappointment.

Soon is not nearly soonenough.

12

Hunt

We’re dragging tonight.

We all knowit.

The crowd knows it, and, since we’re playing in Toronto, the crowd is eating up every lousy play wemake.

Coach Hall knowsit.

He fires into us before the third period, and none of us areimmune.

“You all trying to lose?” he bellows, a formidable voice in a not-quite formidable body. His face is red, his hands jab at the air as though he wishes it was our eyes, and he’s been reaching for the crescendo for the last five minutes. “Beaumont, if I have to fucking tell you one more time tonotgo after their center, I will literally shove you into the penalty box myself. The guy’s a pussy and he cries wolf if you touch him—don’t fucking touchhim!”

Andre’s head hangs as he stares down at the cement between his skates. I don’t blame him—Toronto’s centerisa pussy, and the minute he sees Beaumont coming, the douchebag is already curling up in the fetal position and calling foulplay.

“Hunt!”

I don’t jump at the sound of my name, though my balls threaten to pull a duck-and-run into my body forprotection.

“Yeah,Coach?”

“Where the hellis your head tonight?” Coach growls, prowling the space in front of us like a caged lion. “You leave your shit back in Boston. Are youtryingto miss every fucking shottonight?”

He’s right that my head isn’t in thegame.

It hasn’t been in the game for days now, not since I opened up to Gwen and tore at all my old wounds. It wasn’t pity that she’d looked at me with. No, Gwen decimated me with one knowing glance, as though she understoodfullywhat I’d been through as akid.

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