Page 4 of Hat Trick Holidate

Reed says, “All right, men. I need to get home and give Brooke some relief.” He winks. “Caleb and Cannon have hockey tomorrow; Carly has a ballet recital, and Colby and Cannon have basketball.”

“Is it difficult letting someone coach your sons in hockey? Obviously, you know more than a middle school coach,” Rustavelli asks.

Reed answers, “I try to be a parent, but I coach them plenty on the fundamentals. Usually, their coaches ask me for pointers. Dane’s father also played in the NBA. He said, ‘It’s hard growing up in your father’s shadow.’ So early on, Brooke and I decided to let our children choose what they want to do and if that changes a million times like it has for Caleb, it’s fine as long as they’re happy.”

“Caleb plays football too, right? Didn’t they win the city championship last month?” I ask, impressed by his twelve-year-old son.

He smiles like any proud dad. “Yep. I want him to play as many sports as he can until he can’t anymore. Look at Mac Callaghan. Do you remember him?”

“Yeah. Cocky son of a gun.”

“He is, but that’s why he’s the MLB All-Star and a Heisman Trophy winner.” Reed Bauer-Cross swallows hislast inch of beer. “See you at practice on Monday. Don’t be too hard on yourself.”

After fist bumps and back slaps, Reed goes home. Snow, Rustavelli, and Lykens head down to the dance floor. I don’t feel like dancing—not tonight. Since that night with the redhead, I haven’t enjoyed it. What or who could top her? The hostess pops her head in. “There are some women who want to come up. Security passed them.”

“Sure.” I wave my hand for her to bring them in. They can help me forget my brother’s birthday. As three puck bunnies push through the curtains, smiling like a predator in a kid movie, wearing dresses that should be called a tube top, I wonder why my dick doesn’t stir. All I have to do is say the word. Worse, I could pull out my dick right here, and they would take turns sitting on it.

The women are carbon copies of each other—winged eyeliner, stick-straight hair, unnaturally plumped red lips. Two sit beside me, but one sits on my lap. I lean back with one arm on the couch.

“Are you ladies from Atlanta?”

Her long, pointed fingernails climb the placket of my fitted shirt. “We are. You can have us as many times as you want. One at a time or all at once.”

I have nothing against long fingernails. In fact, I enjoy the pain as they scrape down my back. But for some reason, I mentally calculate the number of women I’ve been with. And now I want to know if these ladies are in the same league. “How many professional athletes have you fucked? Just so we’re open, I’d say I’m in the two or three hundred range.”

They don’t blink. They. Are. Undeterred.

“Baby, we’re a package deal. We’ll do anything. We love girl-girl as much as guys. We promise you haven’t had a threesome that will be more memorable. You’ll beg for more.”

“I don’t beg.” A grin tips the edges of my lips, not because I want what they’re offering but because an image of the vixen with the ruby strands that stuck against my skin until the wee hours into the morning, eight years ago, dances in my head. And I did beg her that night. Pleaded for her to come one more time. To soak my shaft, mouth, and fingers with her arousal.

When will I get her out of my mind? Now I have two people haunting me.

At that moment, another woman pushes through like she owns the damn place. “Well, well. I see some things never change,” she hisses. It’s a puck bunny who has managed to corral Lukas Gustafson, a Swede from a team in our division. I remember having sex with her before she landed Lukas Gustafson, but I can’t remember her name or where we were.

“Sorry, sir. She pushed past me. Please, ma’am, you can’t be in here,” the hostess insists before looking at me for help.

I laugh. “One more puck bunny won’t make a difference. It’s fine. Want to join us, Mrs. Gustafson?” Honestly, I can’t remember her first name—our romp was years ago.

“We need to talk.”

Not feeling the puck bunnies, I stand. “Sorry, ladies, not tonight.” I look at Mrs. Gustafson. “Let’s go outside.” They’re disappointed but immediately scout the area for other professional athletes. I have no doubt they’ll hook up tonight, and my teammates are a possibility.

As I guide Lukas Gustafson’s wife out, I look him up on my phone to find out his wife’s name and to see if there’s a reason she has hunted me down at a club. I haven’t heard his name in a year.

Francesca.

When we slide out the VIP exit, she turns and says, “Don’t act like I’m a stranger.”

I shiver, feeling as if I have spiders crawling all over me. Athletes have no dignity, screwing whoever’s willing. Francesca had been with at least four of my teammates, and none of us gave a shit, even comparing experiences.Did she do reverse cowboy with you?

What was I thinking, being with her? Don’t get me wrong, she’s beautiful in a cookie-cutter kind of way.

She’s parked in the VIP lot, same as me.

“Francesca, is Gustafson okay?”

She pulls a photo from her oversized Louis Vuitton and holds it between her pointer and middle fingers. I look at her hand as my brows draw together.

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