Page 60 of Hat Trick

A second later, a bright light flashes in front of myface.

Jesus, did they take aphotoofme?

“Thanks, Evan,” Davesays.

“No problem, boss,” one of the other guys says. He holds up his phone with a victoriouswave.

I’m not so dumb that I don’t understand why they didit.

“Delete the photo, Dave.” My heart ramps up speed, and I take a step toward him—only to fall to my hands and knees, thanks to the zip-ties.

My older brother steps up next to me, giving a little kick to my right elbow so it gives in. “I don’t think I will, bro.” His voice takes on an almost whimsical quality. “Thing is, Marshall, that photo is pretty good evidence. And it’s worth way more than you’ll ever give me. What do you think the press will say about the Blades’ star forward?” He sinks down so we’re face to face. “You think they’ll want you after knowing you’ve been doing some underground fighting of your own? Add some drugs into the mix, and you can kiss your career good-bye.”

A ringing starts in my ears, loud andoppressive.

I’ll take my lick where I can—I snap his jaw back with an uppercut he’s not expecting. Dave falls to his side, cupping his jaw and laughing like he’s just seen the funniest thingever.

“You’re fucking dead to me,Dave.”

My brother pushes himself to his feet. “You’re wrong, bro. I’ve been dead since I got locked in jail afteryoutried to kill Dad.” He opens his arms wide. “Welcome to the club, Marshall. Enjoy your last few days of being the celebrity everyone loves before your new secret life hits thetabloids.”

Memories of that night assault me, blurred by my youth and all the years that have separated me from the moment I picked up that kitchen knife and struck my father in the upper thigh. An eight-year-old kid doesn’t have the strength to do any lasting damage, let alone cause enough blood loss for my old man to end up inICU.

“You can’t pass the blame all onto me.” My knees scrabble on the padded flooring as I try to haul my body upward. “I was protecting Mom,” I grind out, mouth dry, head pounding, “and Iremember—”

“That I tried to finish what you failed to do? Yeah, I did that. But you struck first, andIgot slammed with the charge.” His bleary blue eyes twinkle with masochistic humor. “You’ll get what’s coming to you though. I’ll make sure ofit.”

With a finger wave at his cronies, Dave and his band of douchebags climb under the ringside ropes and then jump down to the arena area. He swoops down and picks up my knife, giving it a side-to-side wiggle that has me seeingred.

“I’ll leave this by the side door for you, bro, although I hate to think I’ll miss you crawling your ass toward it. Consider it my token ofgoodwill.”

23

Gwen

Of all myclients at Golden Lights Media, Holly Carter might be myfavorite.

The blonde sports photographer is Texan to her very core, despite being born in Louisiana, and having an appointment with her is as close as I get to breaking open the champagne and having a girls’ day atwork.

“How are you liking the new office?” I ask her as I pour us two rounds of lemonade—sans alcohol. “Did the renovations work out the way you wanted themto?”

Holly’s red-painted lips widen in a strained smile. “Girl, you have no idea. Working out of my house has been . . .rough.”

I don’t want to prod but I get the feeling she wants to unload. Setting my desktop computer to sleep mode, I take a sip of my lemonade and then place the glass back on my desk. “Things aren’t getting any better withJackson?”

Holly’s husband is Jackson Carter, the captain for the Boston Blades. I’ve met him on a few occasions—Golden Lights represents him but he’s assigned to one of the other publicists—and he’s always been nice from what I’veseen.

My client shrugs and then sinks a little lower in her seat. “God, I don’t know, Gwen. It’s not like he did anything wrong and I know I haven’t either. It’s just . . . sometimes people grow apart. That’sus.”

Her accent thickens as she speaks and it’s clear she’s getting upset. If I had booze in this office, I’d pour her more than just the lemonade. All I can do is push my glass across the desk and offer it to her with a nod. “Pretend there’s vodka init.”

This time, her grin is all the way genuine. “You’re the best, you knowthat?”

I don’t think that’s true but I certainly try to be the best at anything I take on. “I know you don’t have much family here,” I say, wondering if I’m overstepping boundaries, “but if you wanted to just get away for a little, you’re more than welcome to hang out with me for Christmas. It’ll just be me, myself, andI.”

Adaline hasn’t contacted me since the lasagna night incident, and I spoke to Manuel briefly to clue him in that whileIwould never fire him, it might be in his best interest to apologize before showing back up to work. Turns out, the wine-tipping incident was Manny’s last hurrah. The minute he walked out of my mother’s house that night, he’d decided he was never returning. While I applauded him, I wished I could find that similarbackbone.

I won’t be heading over to my mother’s house for the holidays—I never do—but I’m sure I’ll find myself keying open the front door at some point or another to try, once again, with mymother.

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