Page 1 of Hat Trick

ONE

LEXI

If the mannext to me doesn’t get his goddamn hands away from my ass, I’m going to break his fingers.

He’s trying to be sly. Every few seconds he’ll move closer to me. He’ll lean to his left and shift his feet. The last time he did, his pinky grazed against my leather skirt.

The fuckingnerve.

I turn and face him, not surprised to find a blond-haired guy looking at me.

The worst ones arealwaysblond.

I am surprised by the polo he’s wearing. It’s striped, the collar is popped, and I thought we left that horrendous style behind in the early 2000s.

There’s a silver chain attached to his belt loop, for god’s sake, and I’m half expecting to hear the dialup tone from AOL replace the EDM song playing from the club’s speakers.

What’s next? Is someone going to ask for my screen name rather than my phone number?

“Hey!” he yells over the loud music, grinning when our eyes meet.

He steps toward me, and I wrinkle my nose. He smells like stale beer and rotten cheese, and it’s impossible not to gag. I need to get laid, but I’m notthatdesperate.

“Do you always touch random women without their permission?” I ask. “Or am I just lucky?”

“You’re hot.”

“I know I am.”

“Thought I might introduce myself.”

“I can’t wait to hear what your name is.” I roll my eyes. “Let me guess. Is it Brayden? Braxton? Some other combination with letters tacked on the end that don’t belong?”

“Close.” His grin stretches wider. There’s a piece of food stuck between his teeth, and I’m noticing he has a very punchable face. “It’s Bryce.”

“Of course it is.” I sigh and curse myself for having done something in another life to piss off the meet-cute gods. There are dozens of attractive men here, andthisis the one I end up talking to? It’s not fair. “Did you need something?”

“Want to go somewhere quiet? We can get to know each other. Or we can go back to my place. I have stuff to eat. Food, ya know? Do you cook?”

I wish I had the balls of a mediocre white man who thinks he’s hot shit. I’d be unstoppable.

“I know all I need to know about you. Next time, use your words to get my attention, not your hairy fingers, douchebag.” I smile at the bartender bringing me a drink. I drop a ten in the tip jar and spin on my heel. “And blonds aren’t my type.”

“I bet I could be your type,” he says in some last-ditch effort to keep me hanging around.

“And I bet you couldn’t find my clit even if I pointed it out to you,” I say sweetly, and the bartender snorts. “It’s never going to happen, buddy.”

I disappear into the crowd to escape the creep and make my way to the VIP section of the club the DC Stars, the newly crowned Stanley Cup champions, reserved to celebrate their big win earlier tonight. I smile when I spot my girlfriends sitting in the booth we claimed when we got here and beeline it for them. Grant Everett, a second line forward on the Stars, waves at me when I pass. He’s still wearing the victory goggles he donned in the locker room three hours ago when someone popped a bottle of victory champagne.

“Lexi!” he screams, holding up a handle of whiskey. “We’re the best of the best!”

“I know you are G-Money.” He drinks straight from the bottle and I laugh, jealous of how easily his early-twenties body is going to recover from the alcohol consumption. My ass is going to be in bed until noon tomorrow. “No driving tonight, okay?”

“More like no sleeping. We’re raging till the break of dawn, baby!”

He takes off for some of the other players, stumbling as he goes.

They deserve to let loose after repeating as champions and being the ninth team in NHL history to accomplish the back-to-back feat. They fought like hell in the postseason, overcoming a shitty Eastern Conference Finals series and going on to beat the Los Angeles Bulls in an electric game seven.

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