Page 33 of Hat Trick

No onedid.

Except for Dave, and I was still paying my debt to him for that evennow.

“I’ll get my head out of my ass,Coach.”

It’s a promise Ikeep.

I know what’s riding on this game—the ever-hanging threat that if I don’t play hard enough, if I don’t play smart enough, I’ll find myself back on the farm team, playing on a minor leaguelevel.

I’m as well-known for my ability to pull hat tricks out of my magic hat as I am forbringingmy hat trick, or so that’s what ESPN called it a few monthsago.

Agility.

Doggeddetermination.

Unparalleledskill.

The “hat trick,” according toESPN.

Tonight, I’m relying on my bullheaded focus and skill because the agility isAWOL.

My teeth crash together, despite my mouthpiece, as I’m bulldozed into the boards, my helmet clipping against thePlexiglas.

Fuck.

Vision blurring from the force of impact, I meet the wide-eyed gaze of a little kid. He’s wearing a Toronto jersey and a matching Maple Leafs ball cap. His hands dive into a monster-sized bowl ofpopcorn.

Meanwhile, I’ve got a massive two-hundred-fifty-pound asshole practically humping my back as we both fight for ownership of thepuck.

“Having a hard time today?” Toronto’s D-man grunts behindme.

I eye the puck, driving for it. “You still jerking off to my picture at night,Tompson?”

“Fuckyou.”

“I already do every night in yourdreams.”

I barely allow myself a sigh of relief as I manage to shoot a pass to Carter. I can breathe when the game is over—or when I’mdead.

Carter scores, tying up the score at 2-2.

The rest of the period is a matter of getting the jobdone.

The Air Canada Centre isn’t our house, but by the time we wrap up with another goal at .15 seconds left in the game (assisted by me), we treat it like itis.

Our house, our rules, ourwin.

Not that Coach praises our turn-around post-game. He barks at the media—clearly still ticked off that we dangled our cocks for two periods instead of playingrealhockey—and has us packed up and on our way to the airport hotel within thehour.

Across the aisle in the bus, Harrison props up one arm on the back of the seat in front of him. “I want a steak, a call with Charlie, and my bed—not necessarily in thatorder.”

Carter, seated in the row ahead of The Mountain, twists around to look at us. “I’m feelin’ the need to drop cash on the best steak this city has tooffer.”

Harrison trades a side-eye glance with me, then says to our captain, “You owe me from last time. I fed your assandpaid your bill. Since I don’t sleep with you, I’m feeling the need to collect on steaktonight.”

“Done.” Carter holds up his phone. “Let Sir Google tell us where to go, and I’ll cover you, princess. Think of it as your Christmasgift.”

“Since when did Santa turn into a slow-talkin’Texan?”

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