Page 95 of Playing for the Hat Trick
Then, the third. His hand wraps gently around mine.
“And I win your heart.”
And, damn it—he says it like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like it’s already his.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Jason
How to Stop a Wind-Sprinting Woman with One Look
Ella Crawford—better known as Scottie, better known to me as the human embodiment of a Category Five hurricane—is freaking the fuck out in my apartment, and for once, I don’t have a single goddamn clue how to fix it.
Any other day, I’d be halfway through MacGyvering a solution with duct tape, bad jokes, and a fresh cup of coffee sinceI don’t have a paperclip. But today? Today fixing it would mean backing down, and that’s a big fuck no. A big, flashing-neon, hell-fucking-no. I can’t back down, not when this matters too much.
She’s wearing a trench across my hardwood floors, pacing so fast that my place suddenly feels too damn small to contain her storm. Her coffee sits half-abandoned on the counter, growing cold, the forgotten casualty of her meltdown. Her blouse is buttoned wrong like she got dressed while drunk-wrestling a tornado, and her hair’s a wreck that somehow still makes me want to drag my hands through it and kiss her until she forgets her own name.
But it’s her posture that guts me—the locked jaw, the rigid spine, the crackling energy holding her upright. She’s unraveling, not all at once, but slow and obstinate in a way only Scottie can, refusing to break even when she’s clearly moments from shattering. That’s my girl. She doesn’t explode. She leaks emotion like a pressure valve, refusing to pop.
I lean against the counter, mug in hand, pretending I’m not mentally recording every sharp breath, every muttered curse, every glance she throws toward the door like it’s offering her a parachute out of this conversation she doesn’t want to have. She mutters something, low and angry under her breath.
“I’m late,” she says, not looking at me.
“For what?” I ask, even though I know damn well no grand meeting or appointment is waiting for her. Just the emotional panic room she’s itching to lock herself inside.
“I don’t know. Everything.” She waves a hand in the air like everything is valid on her to-do list. “My day. My life. My ability to make good decisions.”
“You think leaving now’s a good decision?”
That earns me a glance, more like a glare. It’s a quick, narrow-eyed, don’t-push-me look over the rim of her mug, and Idon’t even remember her picking it up mid-pacing session. She’s like a caffeinated hurricane in heels.
“Don’t start, Tate.”
“I’m not starting,” I say, voice calm, even though I’m ready to bolt across the room and body-block the door if she reaches for the handle. “Just trying to figure out what you’re trying to outrun in that wrinkled blouse.”
Her eyes snap to mine, hot and lethal. Bingo. Direct hit.
“You think I’m running?”
“Sweetheart, you’re doing Olympic-level wind sprints in your head.” I smile, slow and lazy. The way I know pisses her off.
She blinks, and for a second, something flickers across her face. Not rage. Not even anger. Just that dawning pressure of knowing someone sees all the messy, ugly truths you’re trying so hard to bury. It punches me right in the gut because I know exactly what it feels like.
“I’m not running,” she says again, using a softer tone this time. “I’m just . . . keeping things clear.”
I set my mug down and push off the counter, walking slowly and carefully toward her like she’s a skittish animal that might bolt at the first wrong move. “Clear as in ‘thanks for the orgasms, now let’s pretend it didn’t mean anything’?”
Her arms cross over her chest, defensive and closed-off, and fuck if it doesn’t make me want to tear through every wall she’s putting up between us. “Jason?—”
“You’re deflecting.”
She lets out a scoff that’s more wounded than she wants it to be. “I’m not?—”
“You are.” I stop just short of touching her. “Since you looked at me like I was a problem you couldn’t solve with coffee and distance. Instead of the guy who spent the entire night proving he’d never be a regret.”
She stills, her whole body going rigid, but she doesn’t move away. Doesn’t bolt. That alone feels like a small, impossible victory.
I take a breath. Softer now. “You think if you put on your pants and call this casual, it’ll hurt less when you leave.”
