Page 55 of Hat Trick Holidate

“I’m not dating anyone, but I’m straight.” He glances at Roman. “My sister is engaged to a stockbroker. He’s not a bad guy but always wants to drink fine wine and meat that isn’t cooked. Orders his fucking steak rare.”

“Fuck. That’s bad.”

“Yeah, Rustavelli, you want your sister to marry a professional athlete. I can’t even invite them over to watch a freaking game. He has to comment on my lack of décor and my poor taste in snacks.”

Shearer is the rare Kentucky-born professional hockey player. Basketball is king on that campus with football not far behind. Brooke’s dad was our coach and although there’s a dozen of us in the pros over the last eight years, Shearer is the only one from Kentucky.

“I’m not letting my sister anywhere near us narcissistic assholes,” Roman grumbles.

“Speak for yourself,” I say. She’ll be in my house every single day. Near me.

“Emmaline works for you, but you know better than to make a move on her.”

“I do.” I do know better, but we’ve already crossed the line. The question is whether we decide to be a couple and tell everyone. I’m not hiding. Or whether we put our attraction aside for all our sakes. It’s scary as hell to dive into a relationship but the feelings are real.

Shearer buysanother round and asks if we want to go downtown. I’m not feeling well. The headache is back with a vengeance. Of course, I don’t tell them. “Sorry, I needto get back to the hotel and check on my daughter and give Emmaline a break.”

“Yeah, I’ll text her and see if she wants to meet us,” Rustavelli says.

I don’t respond. Instead, I focus on the pickup app and order a car. “Shearer, Stallions forever. See ya tomorrow on the ice.”

“Yeah, man. Let’s catch up at the Stallions reunion next summer.”

A few months ago, Brooke mentioned her dad was putting a reunion together for all the guys he coached to celebrate the success of the program. Now that he brought I up, I do remember receiving an email to add to my calendar. My life has changed so much in the last month, but I hope to attend.

I take a swallow of the IPA and slap Roman on the back, then hug Shearer. “I’ll be there.”

“No hug for your favorite winger?” Rustavelli asks.

“You’re not even my favorite right winger,” I quip.

He hides behind a fake smile. I recognize it a mile away. I’ve put that smile on for years. Should I have said it? No. But it’s the truth. Flynn from my college days or Jusic from my third and fourth years are the highest on my list of right wingers.

“There may be a way for you to move into that position though. I’ll let you know when it’s time. My ride is here.”

“Already?”

“Yep.”

Lie.

The cold air gives me whiplash when I leave the bar. I start walking and adjust my pickup location to the dineracross the street, figuring I need food. The ground seems unsteady under my feet, and I’m aware that I’m staggering but can’t seem to straighten. After ordering a greasy burger to go, the service I use when I’m out of town is a high-end pickup company for athletes and celebrities pulls up to the curb.

It’s only a ten-minute ride to my hotel. Nashville traffic from the bar scene to downtown is like rush hour in Atlanta. When he drops me off, the hotel employee opens the door for me.

“Do you need help, sir?”

Why would I need help? “No.”

Three people stop me on the way to the private elevator. I sign my name but hell, they won’t be able to read it. The fans look odd. Their faces are blurry.

I wave the key card over the lock repeatedly when I get to the penthouse floor, and it doesn’t click, so I knock. Emmaline opens the door and catches me as I fall into her capable arms and smell her beachy shampoo. Why does she have to smell so good?

chapter 22

EMMALINE

He stumbles into my arms,babbling about how good I smell, reunions, Jolie, my brother isn’t his favorite, and a million other things like his mind is dumping every thought he’s had.

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