Page 65 of Hat Trick

That’s what Dave wants. He wants to watch me crumble until I’m dragging my sorry ass back to Southie and knocking on his door, begging forscraps.

Fuckthat.

Fessing up to people you admire and respect that you’ve been inadvertently enabling your coke-addicted brother for the last few years? There’s no other words to say except that it sucked, and it sucked alot.

There were no moves to suspend me, for which I was incredibly grateful, but there’s still the small, minor detail that . . . Dave has disappeared. His phone hits a dead-end each time I call, and I’ve visited his apartment twice now with my lawyer—nada.

Even the landlord mentioned that Dave just up and left a few weeksago.

Which means he’s been planning his takedown for longer than I was even aware, sometime between my last visit at the start of the month and the night down inBrockton.

With no paper trail to follow, all we can do is wait. My publicist is ready to contain backlash, but there’s no point in airing my dirty laundry to the public if Dave only plans to hold his blackmail over my head for the rest of mylife.

I pull down plates from the cabinets, along with glasses for somewine.

On the ice, hockey is a controlled environment. Sure, random shit happens. People break rules whether intentionally or not. People get elbows to the face and we’ve all tripped our opponents with oursticks.

Ithappens.

But even with its randomness, hockey is a game of rules andregulations.

Real life doesn’t always reflect the same moral codes or ethics—at least, douchebags like my brother don’t. It takes everything in me not to sink into the memories of that night. Some people claim that tragedy acts like a highlighter, illuminating every moment until each second is bold and vivid and so damn slow that you worry you’ll never escape its brutalwrath.

The night that I stabbed my father, I was only eight years old. I remember little, aside from the blood staining my hands, purple bruises blooming on my mother’s face, and a kitchen knife protruding from my father’sleg.

Everything else is a black abyss of tears, my mother sobbing to the police, and my brother standing off to the side, watching with a look of glee on his face and covered inblood.

I feel Gwen’s hand to my shoulder like a balm to my nerves, just before she slides her arms around my waist and snuggles against my back. “Something’s wrong,” she whispers, “you’re way tooquiet.”

“Maybe I just wanted to cook you a nicemeal?”

With a small upturn of her nose, Gwen lets me get away with the lie. We sit at the table and drink our wine and chow down on the baked chicken I prepared for us, along with the roastedvegetables.

Gwen expertly smooths over my awkwardness by telling me about her day. “The poor curator,” she says, shaking her head as she stabs a slice of chicken off her plate, “there he was just bringing the panda’s food and thenbam.”

“Butt stuff,” I tease, feeling my mood lighten with the hilarity of the story. “What a way to getinitiated.”

I’m treated to Gwen’s husky laughter. “Poor panda is more likeit.”

My brows shoot up. “Poorpanda? First it was the poor curator and now you’re swappingloyalties?”

She gives a delicate shrug. “I mean, the panda was probablylonely.”

“Buy him a panda blow-up doll. Problemsolved.”

Gwen rolls her eyes but her smile is so bright and lovely, and it’s all for me. “Only a guy would ever suggestthat.”

“That’s because women are worried about the panda when, in reality, it’s the poor curator who’s gettingreamed.”

She wrinkles her nose at that, and it’s so damn cute that I catch her hand and kiss the fluttering pulse at her inner wrist. Being able to touch her whenever I so please . . . fuck, it feels good. No, it feelsright. No matter what sort of shit Dave pulls, I’m not willing to give Gwen up—what we have is toospecial.

I refill her wine glass and then do the same to mine. “Have you heard from your mom atall?”

Her shoulders droop and she stares at the Chardonnay like it might have all the answers to her questions. “No. I should probably call her—scratch that, IknowI should. But I feel like I’ve just reached my breaking point, you know?” She takes a sip of the wine, then rotates her wrist, allowing the Napa Valley blend to gently swirl in the bowl of the glass. “It’s weird, I guess. You can know someone your entire life and still not understand why they do the things theydo.”

Gwen’s astute observation hits way too close to home. Have I ever understood Dave’s motivations? Not really—unless they truly boil down to anger and jealousy only. It’s no way to live, and over the years . . . well, I guess I’ve been holding out hope that Dave’s been operating with something more than just revenge on hismind.

Considering he tied you to a chair, probably not thecase.

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