Page 10 of Hat Trick

Gwen can play the indifferent card with everyone else, but for the length of Accounting 201, we’d become friends of a sort. Friends who met up for lunch and studied together. Unfortunately, “friends” is as far as we’ve ever progressed. Any attempts on my end to call her out on friend-zoning me, when it’s clear there’s an attraction on her end, have been shutdown.

I bat Beaumont back with a wave of my hand so I can snag my Gatorade bottle off the floor by his foot. Popping the lid, I guzzle the blue liquid and try not to think of Gwencrying.

Damn. Can’t do it. Dropping the bottle to my knee, I scrub the heel of my hand across my mouth. “Did she actuallycry?”

Beaumont shifts. Since he’s more mountain than man, the movement obscures my line of sight to our captain, Jackson Carter, who’s watching us both. Carter is a true vet: thirty-four years old. He came to us at the start of last season from the Dallas Stars. Appropriate, since the guy is “cowboy” all theway.

“Well,” Beaumont hedges, “she didlooklike she mightcry.”

I lift my gaze to his. “But shedidn’t?”

“Eh . . .” He points to his face. “There may have been a tear. Maybetwo.”

I almost laugh. It’s just like Beaumont to try and make me feel better, even if it’s by way of making me feel like a dick first. More than anyone else on the team, he knows how much I want that woman. “Like I said, Gwen doesn’t cry. But thanks for making me feel like an assholeanyway.”

We wrap up the rest of training, completing our circuits, listening to Jackson Carter as he tells us to be prepared for our game against the New York Islanders in two days. It’s at home, which I definitely don’t mind—although not for the same reasons as everyone else. While my teammates have their family in the Friends-and-Family section of TD Garden, I’ve got . . . well, to put it bluntly, I’ve got noone.

Except for my older brother, who’s more likely to hit me up after the game in the hope for some cash. Since I’ve earned myself a solid spot on the first line during the last year, Dave has come to only onegame.

He spent all three periods hitting on my teammates’ wives andgirlfriends.

It was his first and only time sitting with the families. If he comes to watch me anymore, it’s not on my dime and I’m not aware ofit.

After a quick shower, I pull on a pair of jeans, a worn Blades T-shirt, and my favorite leather jacket. Once everything is stowed away in my locker, I’m heading out the door. Usually I’ll catch up with some of the guys, maybe grab some lunch at this badass Italian place just around the corner from the training facility. I’m not feeling it today—between Dave hounding me for more money and the whole Gwen showdown from last night, the need to kick back with my teammates isnonexistent.

Nope.

Nottoday.

The air is frigid as I exit the arena, and my skin tightens like someone’s slid ice cubes down the ridges of my spine. Heading for my truck, I don’t notice the figure standing next to it until I’m feet away, jangling my keys against my leg and looking up from my cellphone.

I’d recognize that red hairanywhere.

What the hell is Gwen doinghere?

My stride slows, and she must hear the tread of my heavy boots because she glances up from her phone with a strained expression. The loose curls of her hair are frizzier than normal. Even her clothes, which are usually perfectly tailored, look disheveledtoday.

Her slim, knee-length skirt is off-center, the row of buttons not aligning with her belly-button. Her flouncy shirt is half-tucked into the skirt. And, hell, the woman is wearingflats.

Gwen James is a stiletto kind ofgirl.

I haven’t seen her in anything else since Accounting201.

Be casual,man.

Right. Be casual. How’s that even possible when all I want to do is muss Gwen up even more? With my fingers. My tongue. Mycock.

I purposely slide my gaze down her trim frame, taking in my fill, before slipping my phone into the back of my jeans and cocking my head to the side. “Fancy seeing you here, MissJames.”

Her blue eyes flick away from my face, but I suspect the aversion has less to do with checking me out and more to do with hiding her flushed cheeks—a flush that has nothing to do with the chillyweather.

“Marshall,” she says somewhat stiffly, sliding her hands down the length of her skirt. “I was hoping to run intoyou.”

Had she? I squelch down a burst of pleasure, stomping the bastard hard into the ground. I’m done with the hope. I meant what I said last night. Shoving my hands into my jeans’ pockets, I tilt my head toward my truck. “Looks like you foundme.”

The flush burns even brighter, and this time I know damn well the freezing temperature isn’tresponsible.

“Yeah, I . . .” She visibly swallows, and I realize that I’ve never, not once, seen her so at odds. Gwen is the epitome of ice and class, a concoction that keeps her nose in the air and her true feelings wrapped up in steelwalls.

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