Page 82 of Hat Trick Daddies

I sit at the bar, ordering a whiskey neat. The glass is cool in my hand, the sharp scent of alcohol rising as I take a sip. It burns on the way down, but it steadies my nerves, if only for a moment.

I hear a voice behind me, smooth and biting, slicing through the ambient chatter of the bar. “Looking for me, Brooks?”

I turn on instinct, and there she is: Tiffany.

Her dark hair falls in loose waves around her shoulders, her lips curved into a smirk that only fuels the fire already burning in my chest. My hands clench into fists at my sides, the glass of whiskey suddenly icy against my palm.

“If you were a man,” I growl, my voice low and sharp, “I’d knock you out right here.”

A flicker of fear flashes across her face, but she recovers quickly, her smirk returning as she slides onto the barstool beside me. Her perfume wafts over, something floral and cloying that I immediately hate.

The bartender steps over, glancing between us like he can sense the tension.

“What can I get you?” she asks.

“Diet Coke with lime,” Tiffany replies, her tone nonchalant as if this is just another night out.

I snort, the sound involuntary as I take another sip of my whiskey. The sharp burn steadies me. The bartender nods and moves to prepare her drink, the clink of ice against glass breaking the silence between us.

“Meeting at a bar but no drink?” I ask, my tone harsh, nearly scolding. “What’s the point of meeting here?”

“It’s public,” she replies coolly, lifting one shoulder in a shrug. “I wasn’t about to meet you somewhere private where you could actually knock me out.”

I narrow my eyes, studying her carefully. Her smugness only irritates me further. “What do you want, Tiffany?”

Her smirk falters slightly, but she quickly regains her composure. “I want what I’m owed,” she says, her voice laced with indignation. “After being used and discarded by those twins of yours, only to be forgotten for the team doctor. Yeah, I think I deserve compensation.”

My jaw tightens, the tension building in my shoulders. “So this is about Nick and Tyler?” I ask, my voice low and sharp. “Why the hell am I involved in this?”

She stiffens, her eyes flashing with irritation. “Because I know how they are,” she snaps. “If I’d just gone after them, they’d brush me off like they do with every other girl they’ve screwed over. But you?” She leans closer, her voice dropping toa conspiratorial whisper. “You’re the calm one, the reasonable one. I knew putting you in the middle would get results.”

Her words twist something deep inside me, but I refuse to let her see it. “So, this whole thing, dragging Ally into it, emailing the coach, was just to make sure you got my attention?”

“Exactly,” she says, leaning back with a satisfied look. “I won’t be ignored, Brooks. And if I can’t have what I want, then I’ll use what I have to get something out of it.”

The weight of her words presses down on me, heavy and infuriating. She’s not just reckless; she’s vindictive, willing to blow up lots of people’s lives just to make herself feel better.

I pull my wallet out, slapping a stack of bills on the counter. The sum is painful, but it’s worth it to put an end to this. “Take it,” I say, my voice clipped. “But if you come near us again, I’ll make sure you regret it. I’ll call the cops, the league, hell, I’ll ruin you if you try this again.”

Tiffany sniffs, clearly trying to maintain her air of superiority. She picks up the money, slipping it into her purse with an almost practiced ease. “Fine,” she says, standing. “I’ll find somewhere else to hang out. Hockey players suck, anyway.”

Her words hang in the air as she walks away, her heels clicking against the floor. I don’t watch her go. I’m too busy staring at the empty glass in front of me, the scent of her perfume lingering like a bad memory.

The bartender comes over, her brow furrowed. “Everything all right?” she asks.

I nod, though the tightness in my chest tells me otherwise. “Yeah,” I mutter, waving off her offer to get me another drink.

As she walks away, I let out a slow breath, the tension in my shoulders easing slightly. It’s done. But as much as I want to believe this is over, I can’t shake the feeling that the fallout has only just begun.

I drop a few bills on the bar, finishing my whiskey in a single, scalding gulp.

The bartender eyes me as she picks up the money, her gaze lingering with something unspoken. She knows.

Maybe she overheard enough to piece together what just happened, or maybe she’s just that perceptive. Either way, she doesn’t say anything, only murmuring a quiet, “Thanks for the tip,” as she turns away.

The scent of old wood and spilled beer clings to the air as I push the door open and step out into the crisp night. Sliding awkwardly into my driver’s seat, I shut the truck door with more force than necessary, the sound echoing through the empty lot.

I pull my phone from my pocket and stare at the blank screen.

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