Page 46 of Hat Trick

The tears threaten again, itching my nose and burning my eyes, and I tilt my face up to the ceiling. Over the years, I’ve grown an impenetrable outer shell. I’ve worked hard to show the world that I’m not a woman on the verge of shattering on theinside.

No one sees thehurt.

No one suspects theinsecurities.

No one but Marshall Hunt, a guy too young for me who can’t be on my radar. I know my track record with men, the way I’m only in it for the sex and nothing more, the way I’m more likely to have a one-night stand with a random stranger than give a guy I know the chance for arelationship.

I would ruin a man like Marshall, and I would hate myself even more than I alreadydo.

But when his pewter eyes meet mine, silently commanding that I give in and accept what he’s offering, I can’t sayno.

He reads me without a spokenyes. Strong arms envelop me, circling my waist and pulling me up against the hard planes of his chest. I catch the scent of his cologne and—who am I?—nuzzle my nose against hispecs.

“I’ve got you,” he rumbles, running a hand over my hair. “I’ve got you,Gwen.”

I squeeze my eyes shut, fighting the stream of inevitable tears. There’s no doubt about it—I don’t deserve a guy like Marshall. But for the span of a breath, I allow myself to wonder what it would be like to have him, to wake up each morning and know that he’s in my corner. To come home each night to a hug just like this one, and a man who would move mountains to see me happy. To love and be loved, for once, inreturn.

And then I push the wisp of imaginationaway.

If I’ve learned nothing else over the years, it’s that there’s no point in hoping. Life will always bite you in the ass with reality—and it always hurts like abitch.

16

Hunt

“You owe us steak.”

Hands clutching to my steering wheel, I send a quick,get-the-fuck-out-of-my-carglare at Harrison and Beaumont. “Yeah, I heard you two the first time—thirty minutes ago. Get out of mytruck.”

When Gwen called, we were at a Brazilian steakhouse after landing at Logan International Airport from our game against Toronto. No matter the day of the week, Gwen James trumps steak.Always.

Andre leans forward in the back seat, dropping his elbows to the center console and somehow—miraculously—shoving his massive shoulders between the two front seats. “Harrison,” he draws out in a sing-song tone that makes me want to punch him, “we can’t fault him. His fair lady has finally called. He’s ready to make a fool of himself and come in two seconds flat. If anything, we should be givinghimsteak. He’s going to need it when he embarrasseshimself.”

Teeth clenched, I mutter, “I hate youassholes.”

“You don’t.” Duke pats me on the shoulder in anaren’t-you-specialkind of way. “But you do owe me asteak.”

I furrow my brow, frustration getting the best of me. “You had steak last night with Jackson inToronto.”

“It was mediocre. Can’t compare to good Boston steak. The fact that you made us leaveafterwe already put in our order has got to be illegalsomewhere.”

I’ve already pointed out that they could have easily taken an Uber home from the North End, but I secretly think they wanted to spend the drive back to Beaumont’s house just giving me shit. If I were in their position, I’d probably do the same. But sinceI’mthe one on a time constraint, they’ve got togo.

“Got it,” I grunt, flicking the locks in my truck so they’ll get the hint.Click, click, click.“Now get the hell out of my truck so I can beat Gwen back to myhouse.”

Beaumont’s brows shoot inward as his phone goes off. “Give me a sec,” he says, raising one finger up. My head drops back and I stare at the ceiling of my truck. Six years after meeting Gwen James and Ifinallyget my shot with her, and there’s a solid chance it’s going to be blown to smithereens because my teammates are the worst jerks on the planet who don’t realize that trash-talk can be toned down off theice.

“Hey baby,” Andre practically coos into the phone. On the ice, Andre is King Sin Bin, aka the toughest son of a gun there is in the NHL. Around us, his teammates, he still toes the line of perpetual bastard—it’s in his DNA. Around his fiancée, Zoe, he’s nothing but a pile of mush. “Oh, yeah,” he goes on, glancing out the window to their shared Colonial-style house, “we’re sitting in the driveway . . . Nah, we’re just having a little talk with Hunt here about sex . . . Yes, with Gwen. Yeah . . . yeah”—he taps me on the shoulder and I glance back—“Zo wants to talk toyou.”

JesusChrist.

I motion for the phone but Beaumont only pulls it away from his ear and taps on thescreen.

“Hello?” Zoe’s sweet voice comes in loud and tinny. “Hunt?”

Someone just put me out of my misery. “I’m here,Zoe.”

Next to me, Harrison chuckles quietly before drawing out his own phone and tappingaway.

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