Page 9 of Hat Trick

I can’t stop myself. I lean back into that hand, into our friendship, and Zoe catches me with an arm around my waist. I may not have known her for years, but this girl, she’s become as close to a sister as I’ll everhave.

“What did you do?” she murmurs in my ear, echoing my own thoughts as she fits a champagne flute into myhand.

Whatdidn’tIdo?

In advocating the “love is horseshit” slogan, I may have inadvertently ruined my only chance at discovering that the exact opposite istrue.

I search the crowd for familiar broad shoulders. Noluck.

I tip the flute up to my lips for a healthy swallow of thebubbly.

“Everything,” I say to Zoe, “I screwed upeverything.”

4

Hunt

“So,you and Gwen put on quite a show at my engagement party lastnight.”

I’m flat on a bench press at the Blades’ training facility when I hear Beaumont’s wry remark. I don’t answer immediately. Hell, I don’t even know what to say because he’s right. Not only did Gwen and I put on a show, I lost my temper for the first time in what feels like forever. I never lose my cool, notanymore.

I learned impulse control around the time Northeastern recruited me and took me out of the shithole where I’d beensurviving.

Still, staring down at Gwen’s pained expression as I lit into her . . . I hate that. I hate that I made her feelless thanwhen I’ve been trying—for years, at that—to show her that she’smorethan all that icy attitude she hands out like candy. I’ve seen glimpses to the woman underneath that hard shell of hers when she thinks no one is watching. I’ve seen her give without comment about how it might inconvenience her. Gwen tries damn hard to keep up the Ice Queen façade—is it wrong that I’m tired of trying to crack what I know is just afront?

Six years of doing the chasing with sporadic-as-hell glimmers of hope has worn medown.

I take a deep breath, preparing myself for my final push of the morning. Weight-lifting is my thing. Some people like cardio. Some people like sitting on their asses and working out their thumbs flipping TV channels. Me? It’s all about arm curls and dumbbells and bench presses. If I didn’t spend my days training for the Blades, I’d probably be one of those crazed CrossFitnuts.

Seems like my own slice ofparadise.

Metal clangs against metal as I set the crossbar back on the rack. Then I swing myself into an upright position and meet my best friend’s gaze. If you believe the media, I’m the white light to Andre Beaumont’s dark shadows, the angel next to his Belial, the ball of sunshine next to his stench ofsulfur.

The media knowsshit.

Beaumont plays hard on the ice because it’s required of him. And, yeah, the guy hasn’t always been the most chipper fellow on the block, but the last eight months or so have done a lot to ease the bleakness from his black eyes. His girl Zoe has donethat.

And last night, instead of playing up my special platter of sunshine and laughter, I let frustration get the best ofme.

Me and Beaumont? We’re not as different as everyone would like to think. I’m just a lot better at hiding my demons behind a charming smile and a playboylifestyle.

“I’m sorry about that, man,” I say, the only peace offering I’ve got. I could promise him my firstborn, but the way things are looking, I’ll be single for life. The models are great, but all those relationships arecasual.

I’ve been hanging onto the thread of hope that one day Gwen James will look at me, reach for the zipper of my jeans, and say, “It’s always beenyou.”

Hey, a guy can dream,right?

Beaumont casts a quick glance at our teammates. We’ve been conditioning for an hour now. Every day playing for the Blades is somewhat the same. Early morning skate, followed by cardio, followed by weights. Most of the guys have got music blasting into their skulls via their headphones; a few lazy-ass stragglers are preening in front of the mirrors as they arm-curl an equally lazy-ass ten-pound dumbbell. Keep that up and they’ll be back on the farm team before the season even gets fullyunderway.

“Hunt,” Beaumont says, turning back to me after he’s apparently satisfied no one’s eavesdropping, “you made hercry.”

My stomach sinks, even as I force myself to maintain a neutral expression. “You’re delusional,” I mutter darkly. “Trust me when I say that Gwen James doesn’tcry.”

Wrong. She has, albeit twotimes.

I don’t blame her for either of them. That first situation six years ago tore her to shreds. It’d hurt to see her feel so strongly about another guy; it’d hurt even more to know that I’d had a hand in her humiliation. Just because it’d been anindirecthand didn’t change theoutcome.

Tears were tears and hearts wereshattered.

---