Page 3 of Hat Trick

I laugh and lean against the wall. I’m warm. My insides are a fuzzy from the alcohol I’ve been sipping, but I’m not drunk. I’m pleasantly buzzed, teetering on the edge of tipsy, and having a good time. I’m enjoying standing here and talking with him. It’s a nice break from the loud noise and celebratory chants.

I’m not supposed to have a favorite player on the team—and I love all the guys I work with—but Riley takes the top spot.

He’s nice, courteous, and cute. Quiet in an easygoing way, and unbelievably sweet. He’s bashful, almost, whenever he talks to me. There’s always a hint of shyness in his tone, and no matter how many times I shrug off my friends when they say he has a crush on me, it’s pretty obvious he does.

He’s younger than me, and I’m betting he’s a relationship guy when all I want to do with a man is have fun for a few hours before I go on my way. I doubt we’d be compatible, and I’d never get involved with anyone I work with.

There’s nothing wrong with flirting with him for a minute though, and that’s what I intend to do.

“Make sure everyone is on their best behavior, will ya?” I joke.

“Please. You know the guys. That’s impossible. Pretty sure Ethan tried to roll a hot dog cart in here.”

“God. So predictable. World peace would be easier to accomplish than keeping you all under control.” I brush a piece of hair away from my face, and his eyes follow my hand. “What are you doing over the offseason? Any fun plans?”

“Nah. My parents are in Chicago. I’ll go visit them for a week or two. Some of the boys are planning a trip to the Bahamas. I might learn how to golf.” He shoves his hands in his pockets and shrugs. “The possibilities are endless.”

“And what are you going to do with the Cup on the day you get it? Please don’t tell me you’re going to eat something out of it.”

“That’s why we’re all so big and tough, Lex. Because we eat and drink out of a trophy that hasn’t been cleaned in years.”

“That’s revolting.”

“It is, isn’t it?” Riley laughs and mimics my pose against the wall across from me. “I think I’ll do cheese curds this time. Last year, I ate the world’s largest ice cream sundae.”

“Now we’re talking.” A group of women walk between us. One of them eyes Riley with an appreciative glance, but he doesn’t look at her. He keeps his focus on me, and the heat of his attention makes me shift my feet. “I should get back to the girls. I don’t want them to think I’m being harassed by another man wearing a polo.”

He peers down at the plain white T-shirt stretching across his chest. It’s more casual than the suit and tie he wore when he walked into the arena earlier tonight, and when he lifts an arm to survey his outfit, his biceps flex. The constellation tattoo he has on his left arm peeks out from under his sleeve, and I wonder what stars make up the cluster.

“I’m not that drunk, am I?” he asks. “This isn’t a polo.”

“Not you, knucklehead.” I laugh. He’s cute all the time, but he’s even cuter with a confused look on his face. With glasses falling down his nose again and jeans that sit low on his hips. “There was a guy at the bar earlier who tried to touch my ass. He was wearing a polo.”

Riley’s gaze flicks to my thighs. He hums. Scratches his jaw and nods. “Right,” he says to my knees before bringing his eyes up to meet mine. “If another polo-wearing prick tries to bother you, let me know. The trophy weighs thirty-five pounds. I’m happy to lob it at someone.”

“My hero.” I pat his chest when I scoot past him for the bathroom. “Have fun, Mitchy,” I add, biting my lip to fight a smile when I catch him staring at my ass. He’s not doing a very good job of hiding his crush tonight, and I like it. “Don’t party too hard.”

“I’m a good boy, Lex,” he tosses back. “You don’t have to worry about me.”

TWO

RILEY

Our Stanley Cupcelebrations moved from the arena, to an apartment, to a club downtown, and the night shows no signs of slowing down.

It feels like the whole city is alive and buzzing with excitement. We’re back-to-back champs after years of shitty seasons, and it’s fuckingfunto celebrate our hard work.

Months of practice, early mornings, eighty-two regular-season games and four hard-fought playoff rounds have finally paid off, and when Maverick Miller, our devoted leader and wickedly talented right wing, stands on the bar and holds the Cup over his head, I can’t help but laugh.

“He’s insane.” Hudson Hayes, my defensive pair, shakes his head. “Ten bucks says he tries to crowd surf.”

“I’ll bet you thirty he says to hell with his no-alcohol pact, pours a handle of vodka in the Cup, and drinks out of it,” I counter. Maverick always turns down invitations to go out with some of the younger guys on our nights off to hang out with his wife at home, but now I watch him gesture at a bartender. He waves his platinum credit card around and points to the row of bottles arranged in a neat line, and I grin when Hudson slaps three bills in my hand. “Pleasure doing business with you, Huddy Boy.”

“How long are you going to stay?”

“Don’t know. Depends when everyone else heads out. Probably not too much longer.”

“You can come back to my place if you want,” he offers. He looks absurd with a light-up necklace hanging from his throat. It’s some bedazzled thing Ethan Richardson, our center, threw at him in the locker room earlier. I’m shocked it survived the journey here. “Madeline said Lucy fell asleep on the ride back to the condo after the game. Her parents are in town, but we could have a few beers and play a video game or something. It would be quieter than here.”

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