Page 101 of Playing for the Hat Trick
“Excuse me for trying to keep you from ending up with a human dumpster fire,” Leif shoots back, crossing his arms like he’s issuing a final verdict.
Scottie glares at him. “He’s not a dumpster fire.”
I grin despite myself. “Thanks, babe.”
“Don’t call her babe,” Leif snaps.
“I’m just saying,” I say, hands up again, voice half-laughing because otherwise, I might actually die, “if the court would allow it, I’d like to enter evidence into the record that I have a stable job, a place to live, and zero criminal convictions.”
Leif glares. Scottie stares at me like she’s torn between laughing and smacking me.
“Also,” I add, because clearly I have no survival instincts left, “I make really good bacon. She’ll never go hungry in the morning. I can’t guarantee the rest of the day because I only know how to cook a few things, but . . . I’ll figure it out—or steal your chef.”
Scottie snorts out a laugh she tries to smother with her hand. Leif looks like he might actually pass out from rage.
“You’re not touching our chef,” he snaps.
I shrug. “That’s not the point, Crawford. I’m just saying that I’ll figure out a way to treat her like a queen.”
He narrows his gaze. “You’re serious about this?” he demands, still laser-locked on me.
“Dead serious,” I say without hesitation.
“And you’re not just . . . fucking around?”
“No,” I say, voice low, real, cutting through all the banter. “Not even close.”
Silence again. Heavy. Shifting.
Leif’s mouth tightens like he’s tasting the words he doesn’t want to say. Finally, he mutters, “You fuck this up, Tate, and I’ll break every bone you’ve got.”
Scottie huffs, but before she can jump in, I nod.
“Fair,” I say. “I’d help you.”
That seems to catch him off guard. His scowl wavers—barely—but it’s enough.
“You,” he growls, pinning me with another glare, “are on thin fucking ice.”
Before I can promise to stay the hell away from frozen ponds forever, he pivots the stroller so hard that the front wheels skid sideways and strides off like a man with a vendetta to plot. I catch snatches of him muttering under his breath—something about “goddamn geniuses,” “Central Park make-outs,” and “innocent babies witnessing this shit,” followed by a dark threat about “not bailing me out when his sister destroys me.”
Luna, bless her tiny, oblivious heart, blows a wet raspberry as they fade down the path.
I exhale shakily, dragging a hand through my hair, still trying to piece together how close I just came to getting buried in Central Park.
“So . . . on a scale of one to medieval torture devices, how screwed am I right now?” I ask.
Scottie snorts—an actual, tiny, glorious snort—and shoves her hands deeper into the sleeves of my hoodie.
“Somewhere between guillotine and tar-and-feathering,” she mutters. “And that was just one of them. Wait until he tells the twins. Kill’s gonna go full Spanish Inquisition on your ass. Kade will help him bury the body. Lucian might get here first and teach you a lesson—or two. I’m not sure about Greyson. He’s not really into medieval torture, but he’s . . . resourceful. You’ll never see it coming.”
“Excellent,” I say brightly, grinning like I would take anything as long as she’s cool that we’re together . . . or some resemblance of that. “Do you think bringing pretzels to my execution will help or hurt?”
She gives me a look—one of those exhausted, fond ones that makes my ribs ache if I think about it too hard. It’s not quite a glare this time. Closer to something warmer. Something dangerous.
We stand there for a moment, the air stretching thin between us, neither of us quite sure how to move forward withoutscrewing it all up again. I shift my weight, scratching the back of my neck because I’m too much of a coward to reach for her outright.
“Come on,” I say, softer now. “Let me walk you home.”
