Page 8 of Hat Trick

A free icerink.

“Commandeered”skates.

My gaze catches on the gold Rolex encircling one thick wrist, a Rolex that the Blades’ GM gave him when he came up from the farmteam.

Marshall Hunt has come a long way from hisroots.

So haveyou.

I withhold a wince. I don’t suspect that my transformation is nearly as noticeable to the outside eye ashis.

“Gwen?”

Glancing up past his wide chest, to the buttons he’s undone at the column of his throat, I meet his pewter eyes with a little shiver.Remember, you arenotinterested.Staring at masculine perfection makes it hard to remember that fact. “There’s no music playing,” I finallysay.

There is, but the soft jazz isn’t exactly inspiring any of the partygoers to break it down on the dance floor. Instead, everyone is still shoveling food into their mouths as they toss back the endless supply ofbooze.

“Once upon a time, you didn’t care if you were the only woman belting out ‘It’s Raining Men’ with just the jukebox as your partner-in-crime.” He holds out a hand, palm up. Even with a foot separating us, I can make out the hard callouses that scar his flesh. “Dance with me,Gwen.”

Ican’t.

It has nothing to do with my interest in Marshall and everything to do with me. His words are a stark reminder that I’m no longer that carefree girl who was willing to climb on top of tables in dirty barrooms, singing outrageously at the top of herlungs.

That girl has been gone for a long time now, replaced by bitterness and tension and a fake superiority complex. And even if I’m no longer quite the latter anymore, either, I’m still not the girl he remembers fromcollege.

She’s disappeared, and I’m not quite willing to jump into the fire to pull her backout.

My heart lurches at the sight of Marshall’s hand slowly falling back to his side, and I feel that increased distance between us acutely.Take his hand, take his hand, take his hand.The words flip on repeat in my head asthe handsome smile on his face fades. With a cool expression, his mouth flattens into a firmline.

“Right. Have a good night,Gwen.”

It sounds so final, but this . . . this is what I wanted, right? To cut thecord?

“Marshall,” I start awkwardly, “listen, I’m sorry. It’snot—”

His gaze hardens. “Spare me theit’s not you, it’s mespeech.”

But what if that’s actually the case?I want to say.What if, for once, I’m trying not to follow so directly in my mother’s footsteps? What if I can’t get my mother’s pestering about traitorous best friends and good-for-nothing husbands and skin-deep loyalty out of myhead?

I don’t get thechance.

Marshall’s hands go to his lean hips, and he lowers his head, lashes sweeping down as he stares at the floor between us. His chest expands with a deep breath and the words that follow claw at myheart.

“I’m done, Gwen. We’ve been doing this for years now. Me chasing you; you pullin’ away. I’ll admit I haven’t been a saint, but I’m done watching you flit from douchebag to douchebag without ever once looking at me.Reallylooking at me. I’m younger, so what? You’ve dated guys twice your age. I witnessed a painful time in your life? Sowhat, Gwen. It happened six fucking years ago.” His gaze cuts to me, and I feel that look like a punch to the stomach. “Get over it. Don’t get over it. Doesn’t matter to me. If you need me, you know where to find me. Until then, I’m done playinggames.”

My brain scrambles for words, any words that I can possibly say to stop the impending train wreck but I’ve got nothing. Zip. Zilch. Nada. My heart pounds erratically in my chest, my skin grows clammy, and then I watch as Marshall shakes his head, as though disappointed to realize that I don’t have the balls to take a leap of courage, before giving me a two-finger salute and stalkingoff.

I don’t expect tears to spring to myeyes.

I don’t expect to feel the sudden loss in my chest from his suddendeparture.

And Icertainlydon’t expect the new mantra which has kicked off in my head:what have you done, what have you done,whathaveyoudone?

It’s quite easy to see what I’vedone.

I’ve singlehandedly pushed away the only man in my life—aside from Manuel—who has seen beneath my icy (read: bitchy) exterior to the woman who’s been lost foryears.

A hand presses to my back, and I immediately catch the scent of Zoe’s perfume. It’s the one I convinced Andre to buy for her birthday a few months back when he dragged me to the mall in search of the perfect “presents.” Plural, notsingular.

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