Hat Trick

by Eden Finley

  “No,” I say at the same time Ollie says, “Yes.”

  Asswipe.

  Everyone laughs.

  “I might have been in the middle of a hot memory, but my hands were nowhere near my dick.”

  “Memory of who? A puck bunny?” Ollie jokes.

  “Nah. Cute twink.”

  Jet chokes on God knows what, coughing until Matt reaches over to pat his back.

  “Wrong pipe,” he rasps.

  He’s in tight red skinny jeans, a black shirt, and rainbow Converse. His silky hair is all curly and wild and falling in his face. The bags under his eyes are gone, and it’s the first time since he got here that he looks like the Jet I remember. Lively and charismatic.

  When we take off, the boat speeds across the water in the pitch-black night, the only light bouncing off the navigation system next to the steering wheel. The whole boat ride, I can’t take my eyes off Jet’s silhouette. Ever since he stepped off that helicopter, I haven’t been able to do anything but think about him.

  Bright, rainbow lights appear on the horizon, and as we get closer, the entire island is lit up in pride colors.

  Joni slows the boat down on approach and turns to us. “Word of warning. This might be a safe space, but if the owners see anything that might constitute payment for sex, the authorities will be called.” He gives me a pointed look.

  I blame the guys and all their rent boy jokes when we first got to the island. Joni probably thinks I have a prostitute habit or something.

  “A few years ago, this island wasn’t even allowed to exist because anything that resembled gay behavior in public could have you arrested. Remember that while you’re here, but go and have fun.”

  “Well, with that depressing pep talk, how could we not?” Jet says, and the guys snicker.

  Joni pulls the boat up to the dock where we’re welcomed by island staff in blue button-down shirts and khaki pants.

  It goes to show the difference in cultural expectations. I hear gay island and think of half-naked men and everything you might see at a pride parade back home. A gay island in Fiji means a safe place where you can hold another man’s hand without being persecuted.

  It takes some time for us to file out of the boat and climb the ladder from the pontoon to the wharf.

  “This is gonna be fun getting back down later,” Talon says.

  I guess we can’t get too drunk tonight then.

  Even though I was first off the boat, somehow I end up at the back of the pack, walking next to Jet. It wasn’t done on purpose at all. Not even a little bit.

  Jet has his hands in his pockets, his head down, his shaggy dark hair in his face. I have to fight the urge to reach over and brush it away with my hand.

  We’re led up a pathway through some trees and come to a large terracotta building with open wooden doors and live music, bright lights, and rowdy noise spilling out.

  We turn heads as we enter. It always happens when we’re out. It’s the jock effect. Tall, athletic guys in a group.

  The bar is packed and seems to have a mix of locals and tourists—if the loud group of drunk white guys in the back is anything to go by.

  I try to be sly about sitting near Jet, but as we take up a corner spot reserved for us, Jet goes to sit on the very end, which means I have to take the other side of the L-shape we’re in … next to his brother.

  Taking a deep breath, I act casual and slide in next to Matt.

  I haven’t been this awkward around him since I first found out who he was to Jet. For the first six months of our friendship, I walked on eggshells around Matt, not knowing whether or not he was aware of what I’d done with his little brother.

  A waiter comes and gets our drink order so we don’t have to go to the bar, and the guys order pitchers of beer to go around.

  A few guys walk by, eyeing each and every one of us. I suddenly know how lobsters in tanks at restaurants feel.

  Maddox leans forward a few seats over to get my attention. “Hey, Canada, looks like you and Jet have ample chance of getting some tonight.”

  My eyes widen. “W-what?”

  He waves in the general vicinity of a table of guys across the room. “Lots of potential.”

  Oh, right. A chance of getting some from other people. Not each other.

  My gaze catches on Jet whose eyes are locked on me, but he quickly looks back at Lennon beside him and nods as if he’s listening to whatever Lennon’s saying.

  Matt and Noah start talking about Wade and the baby with Maddox and Damon, but I tune them out.

  The busy dance floor catches my attention. The live band on stage sings some song I don’t recognize, but it’s happy and bouncy.

  Drinks arrive, and as I pour myself a glass, a tall, buff-looking guy inches closer to our table. When I turn to look at him, he spins on his heel and goes the other way. He looks over his shoulder and pauses but then keeps walking.

  I’ve seen this happen before. This isn’t build up the courage to go hit on someone hesitance. It’s someone wanting to ask for an autograph. But with three of us in the NFL and two in the NHL, there’s no way to tell who he wants.

  Matt leans in close to me. “What or who are we laughing at?”

  I tilt my head in the direction of the guy. “I think one of us has been recognized. Guy at my four o’clock. Muscle shirt, tight pants.”

  Matt checks him out and grins before turning to the others. “All right. Let’s place our bets, boys. There’s a guy trying to build up the courage to come over here. Which one of us is he gonna ask for an autograph? I’m going with Soren seeing as they’ve already locked eyes.”

  “I’ll take Matt,” Maddox says.

  “Talon and or Miller,” Damon says, “because they come as a package.”

  “You want to do what with my package?” Talon yells.

  Miller rolls his eyes. “We’ll take Ollie then, I guess.”

  Lennon laughs. “Egotistical athletes. The logical choice here is Jet.”

  Like a pack of dogs being told we’re going for a walk, we all cock our heads.

  The guy doesn’t give me a chance to put my bet in because, apparently, he has built the confidence to go for it.

  And, shit. Lennon is right.

  He bypasses all of us and goes straight to Jet. “You’re from Radioactive, yeah?” He’s Australian.

  Jet smiles and nods.

  “I thought it was you but couldn’t be sure, and ...”

  It’s not as endearing to see a two-hundred-pound muscle-type fanboying as I thought it would be.

  “Can I buy you a drink?” the guy asks.

  Jet holds up his beer. “Got one, thanks.”

  “A dance?”

  He’s persistent, isn’t he?

  Jet seems uncomfortable as he glances around the table, looking at everyone but me. Then he downs the rest of his glass and stands, and all I can do is watch as he takes to the dance floor with the Aussie guy. He’s handsy, and I try to read anything in Jet’s expression that tells me he doesn’t like it, but his smile doesn’t appear fake, and his hands are all over the guy’s chest.

  I keep drinking my beer and try not to act like a jealous asshole while they dance for two entire songs. At three and a half minutes a song, that’s seven minutes. Six minutes too long for my liking.

  Word of Jet’s presence must’ve spread, because when the third song kicks in, the opening riff is one I’d recognize instantly.

  It’s our song.

  Not “He’s Mine,” the one that started my whole obsession with Jet, but “Hat Trick Heartbreak.” It’s the song he wrote about me, about us, and the last time we saw each other.

  The lead singer of the band speaks into the mic. “We have the one and only Jay from Radioactive in the house!”

  The small crowd on the dance floor cheers, but Jet’s gaze meets mine. Just like nearly every time we’ve locked eyes, he quickly averts his as if he was never looking in the first place.

  He waves politely to the ador
ing fans now swarming him on the dance floor.

  “This one’s for you, boy,” the lead singer says and starts belting out Jet’s words.

  “Hey, it’s our song.” Ollie wraps his arm around Lennon.

  Sure. His and Lennon’s song.

  It’s the logical connection. Jet wrote a song about Matt and Noah. Ollie plays hockey. “Hat Trick Heartbreak.” It makes sense. I’m not supposed to know Jet the way I do.

  I watch Jet dancing to our song with that other guy.

  I want to close the distance between us. I want that Aussie guy to stop trying to find every excuse to touch him. But most of all, I want to take back the night that made this song.

  I can’t help wondering where we’d be tonight had I not gone to his show two years ago. This would be my first time seeing him since we slept together.

  We could’ve started fresh.

  The end of the verse catches my attention, highlighting why that might be impossible now:

  You fit perfection

  The ultimate hat trick

  But you slipped and then you flaked

  Now you’re nothing but my hat trick heartbreak.

  “Yeah, there might not be any coming back from that,” I mumble.

  “What?” Matt says beside me.

  “Uh, nothing. Isn’t it weird hearing your brother’s songs?”

  “It’s fucking awesome.” He leans in closer to me. “Jet deserves the world.”

  Is that a lump the size of a puck in my throat? He can’t mean anything by that other than what he said. He thinks Jet deserves everything. That doesn’t mean he suspects …

  I side-eye him, too scared to make proper eye contact, but he’s not looking at me. He’s focused on the band.

  The song ends, and Jet tries to pry himself away to come back to us, but the lead singer and the ever-growing group of fans encourage him onto the stage instead.

  He does the coy thing where he tries to refuse, but this is him in his element. There’s no way he’ll be able to resist, and I’m dying to hear him live again. Twice isn’t enough. I’d listen to him sing the alphabet on repeat.

  After speaking with the band for a minute, as predicted, he takes the mic.

  “Hey, Fiji!”

  Everyone in the bar goes crazy but no one more than the group of guys I’m with.

  Jet eyes us from the stage and lifts his chin with a giant smile. “I, uh, feel weird singing one of my songs without the rest of my band here, but I don’t mind hanging out for a bit.”

  The guy he was dancing with sticks his fingers in his mouth and lets out a loud whistle.

  Jet opens with Queen’s “I Want to Break Free” and like every gay bar that breaks into an LGBT anthem, everyone joins in. But Jet is louder.

  Turns out, he doesn’t even have to be singing his own songs for me to get lost in his voice.

  The rasp. The need in his tone. The soulful way in which he makes me experience every single word.

  I feel it in my chest. In my heart.

  When the song comes to a close, Jet thanks the crowd and hedges to get off the stage, but everyone loves him. Of course, they do. They scream for more, chanting his name … well, Jay anyway.

  His eyes lock on mine, and his lips form into a thin line. I’m frozen in his gaze until he spins on his heel and says something to the band.

  They look at him with arched brows and weird expressions, but Jet says something that looks like “Trust me” though I can’t tell for sure from back here.

  Jet’s handed an acoustic guitar, and after he strums it a couple of times, he approaches the mic again. “This is one y’all should recognize.”

  The opening riffs make me question that statement because I can’t place the song.

  Jet stares down at his hands as he plays the guitar effortlessly. When he starts singing, it’s soft and he still doesn’t raise his head.

  It takes a couple of lines to realize it’s a slower version of that pop song “Someone Else’s Perfect” by Eleven.

  The song completely transforms coming out of Jet’s mouth. It’s no longer a teenybopper love song, but one of heartbreak and angst. I guess I’ve never listened to the lyrics before.

  Under your spell,

  Living in hell,

  You say I’m perfect,

  Too good to be someone’s reject,

  But that’s what you did when you walked away,

  You left me to find myself

  Something niggles at me. Whether it’s the way he’s singing it or that we both relate to it, I don’t know. It’s like he’s singing it to me. About me.

  Then he finally raises his head and holds my gaze just as he sings a telling line.

  You said I was perfect …

  Perfect for someone else.

  Holy. Shit.

  That phrase is in the song repeatedly, and every time he sings it, more pain comes through in his voice. It gets to the point where I’m sure this isn’t an Eleven song. It can’t be. While Jet has the ability to turn any song into his own, just like he did with Queen, this is different. It not only comes across as genuine, but the heartache and rejection make me feel guilty—as if I did something wrong.

  He finishes the song and leaves the stage before people can beg him for another encore.

  Only, he doesn’t come back to our table. He beelines it for outside, leaving the rest of us staring at each other wondering what happened. His friend on the dance floor is confused too.

  I’m the only one who knows for sure.

  Matt stands to go after him, but I push him back down.

  “I’ll go.”

  “What would you know about anything?”

  How am I supposed to answer that? “He … uh … I …” I fluster under Matt’s gaze, and now Noah’s watching too.

  Lennon appears in front of us. “Jet doesn’t want to tell you guys, but he was dating someone on tour, and it all went to shit.” He turns to me. “Go. You’re the only one who won’t big brother him.”

  Either Lennon’s the most intuitive guy ever or he knows more than I thought he did, but right now I don’t care. I want to get to Jet.

  I follow where he went but reach outside and have no idea which way he’s gone. Following the path down to the wharf, I check to see if he’s sitting on the dock, but it’s empty. It’s on my way back that I see movement against the side of the main building.

  Jet paces back and forth, running a hand through his hair and muttering words I can’t make out, but as I get closer, I hear “Get it together, Jay. Hold it to-fucking-gether.”

  I step through the row of palm trees lining the path. “Jet.”

  He freezes. “Of course, it’s you.” He goes back to pacing.

  “That song …”

  Jet stares but doesn’t stop moving.

  “You wrote it.”

  This makes him pause again. “I … I—”

  “About me.”

  He composes himself. “Conceited much? You think you get more than one song?”

  “I knew ‘Hat Trick Heartbreak’ was about me and not Ollie and Lennon.” I take a step forward. “But tell me I’m wrong about this one.”

  Jet’s mouth opens and then closes.

  I step closer again. “Jet.”

  “Why do you keep saying my name like that?”

  “To remind you that I know the real you. Not Jay. I still know you as the aspiring musician reveling over his first fan.”

  “The naïve kid, you mean.” Bitterness doesn’t suit the bubbly guy I know. Or … knew, I guess.

  I keep moving closer. He steps back. We keep going until his back is against the wall and my hand is above his head, boxing him in.

  “I’ve never seen you as a kid. Never.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “I’ve tried to get myself to think of you that way, and when you’re not in my presence, it’s easy to write you off as Matt Jackson’s little brother. But I can’t when we’re in the same room sharing the same air. I can’t w
hen you’re two feet in front of me, and all I want to do is reach for you. Touch you. Kiss you.”

  “Then what was all the overprotective shit you pulled that night in Tampa with all the drugs and groupie bullshit?”

  “That wasn’t me trying to protect you. That was me wanting to claim you.”

  Jet breathes hard. “Oh, holy mother of gay Jesus.”

  “I had no right to act or feel that way about you back then.”

  Our eyes lock on each other, and for a moment in time, we’re both frozen.

  “I’m sorry I wrote two emo songs about you,” Jet says quietly.

  I laugh. “So, I am right.”

  “You’re the only one who’s ever picked up on that. Everyone thinks Harley wrote that song.”

  “Maybe because I experienced it with you …”

  Jet shakes his head. “No, it’s you. You understand me more than anyone ever has. More than any groupie who’s tried to explain my songs to me. You came out because you knew ‘He’s Mine’ wasn’t just a stupid love song.” He reaches for me, his fingertips trailing down my cheek. “It’s you.”

  “Was singing that song in there some sort of test?” I ask.

  He doesn’t answer.

  Jet’s thumb moves slowly across my bottom lip, and that’s invitation enough for me.

  I close the small gap between us, our mouths coming together, hungry and hot. His other hand joins the first, holding me to him as his tongue seeks out mine.

  Urgency and need have me pulling him closer.

  Jet moans, and I can’t help replying with my own desperate sound.

  I want more.

  Jet evidently doesn’t feel the same way. He pushes me off him, and I stumble back.

  “Damn it. I shouldn’t have come here.”

  “Outside?” I stupidly ask.

  “Fiji. I thought anything would be better than touring with Har—” He clears his throat. “This is worse than dealing with him. I was hoping you and Bryce hadn’t come on this stupid trip.”

  “Well you got half your wish. Bryce isn’t here.”

  “Caleb—”

  “You always call me Caleb when you’re mad. Is it because of what I said and did in Tampa?”

  “No. It’s because I …”