Page 118 of Playing for the Hat Trick
“The fuck,” he growls.
“It’s fucking serious, Leif. I love your sister.”
He glares at me. Big killer on the loose glare. “You better not be playing with her. Because here’s the thing, Jason: you’re my teammate, you’re my best friend, but she’s my sister. And I swear I’ll kill you.”
Another poke of his stick, harder this time. “She comes first. Always. You fuck this up? You don’t just lose her. You lose everything.”
Any other time, I’d be concerned, but right now, I know where I stand when it comes to Scottie. So, I take a breath and release the air. I say, “I’m all in. I love Ella.”
I draw back my shoulders and repeat the three most important words. “I love her. I’m not here to play games.”
Leif stares at me long enough that I feel sweat bead at the back of my neck despite the chill in the air.
Finally, finally, he gives a short nod—like he’s decided not to murder me. Yet.
“Good.” He slaps the puck back toward me with a little extra force. “Because if she cries because of you, I’m breaking your face. And no one’s gonna call it a penalty.”
I huff a laugh, catching the puck. “Noted. Thanks for the warm welcome back to the ice.”
Leif smirks, but there’s still a thread of warning there. “Just remember, lover boy—you hurt her, you’re dead to me.”
“I wouldn’t expect anything less from you,” I state. “Though let’s be clear—I’m not hurting her. She’s precious to me. I know it’s hard for you to understand it, but . . . I couldn’t help but fall in love with her. She’s an incredible person.”
The way his eyes shift, as if I finally said something worth listening to. I’m not sure, but suddenly he adds, “Fine, let’s warm up and just don’t fuck up. We need a win.”
“Yeah, I’ll try not to die today and even score a goal.” I wink before I begin to skate.
Chapter Forty-Three
Jason
The Comeback Hat Trick Manifesto
The smell hits me first—sweat, leather, ice, adrenaline—and, fuck, I’ve missed it more than I’ll ever admit out loud.
The locker room buzzes around me—teammates laughing too loud, gear scraping against metal benches, sticks clattering to the floor—but it’s all just a hum in my ears. It’s only background noise because right now, there’s only one thing that matters.
The skates in my hands.
I hunch over, elbows digging into my knees, threading the laces slow. Deliberate. I loop the first lace through the eyelet, tugging just enough that the boot hugs the arch of my foot. Breathe out. Cross over, loop again. Breathe in. It’s almost meditative, the way I weave the laces through one hole after the other, pulling snug, feeling the tension build, feeling the quiet fight back the nerves clawing at the edges of my brain.
It feels like the first time all over again.
Fifteen years old, sitting in some crusty-ass rink that smelled like mildew and stale popcorn, my heart hammering so fast it practically tried to beat out of my chest. Back then, I thought one good shift could change my life. Maybe it did.
Except now, I know better.
Now, it’s not just about the game. It’s about everything after—the career I’ve scraped together, the future I’m starting to realize I get to choose. Whether that future comes crashing down by the end of this season or rides out for a few more years . . . that’s on me. Not on fear. Not on a knee that decided to throw a temper tantrum mid-play and ruin my fucking year.
Coach Graham’s voice slices through the buzz.
“Stay focused. Keep your heads straight. Remember the game plan: work smart, not scared.”
The words barely register, but something in me latches onto them anyway.
Work smart.
Not scared.
