Hat Trick

by Eden Finley

  “What is it about the hockey player that made you forget about the eighteen months we had?”

  “Do you really want to do this?”

  “I have to do this because I’ve never felt this way about anyone else. Ever.”

  “You’re confused. We were both confused for a long time. We thought comfort was love. We thought that full feeling we had when we were together meant something. You know what it meant? That we weren’t so alone anymore. Being with Soren? Even though he’s on the other side of the country right now, I’m not lonely.”

  “You don’t miss him?”

  “It’s hard, and I miss him like crazy, but that void that was in my chest that you temporarily filled on tour isn’t there. Which is why I want to get this album done so I can go see him. Hint, hint, I’m telling you to hurry the fuck up.”

  Harley reaches for the pen and paper on a side table next to the couch. We’ve got papers strewn all over the room as we write draft after draft of songs. When Harley’s been working on his own stuff, I’ve been writing for Radioactive, so it hasn’t been a complete waste, but I want to get this one song with him over and done with already so I can truly focus on my band.

  He scribbles something down and shushes me when I ask him what he’s writing. Eventually, he shoves the paper at me.

  Confusing love with isolation

  Holding on in desperation

  I thought I’d found my one

  The one I’m meant to keep

  But that’s not how it works

  And now I’m in too deep

  I don’t want to let go

  Even though I have to

  You help me escape

  A life I can’t lead

  A life I need to hide

  I want you there with me

  For the entire ride.

  I thought I had it all

  But what we had was nothing

  Take it with you

  I don’t need your exclusion

  Leave me with our ever-lasting confusion.

  “There’s our number one hit. ‘Confusion’ by Harley Valentine featuring Radioactive.”

  My mouth hangs open. “Harley, the label will never go for this. It’s one thing if you sing it on your own. It could be about a girl. You’ll practically out yourself in this if we record it together.”

  Harley stands. “Don’t care. Do your thing, work your Jay magic and tweak whatever you need to tweak, and then we’ll record it.”

  It’s not the first time I’ve helped him with his lyrics, and some of our best times were doing just this—passing songs back and forth to make them better.

  “You might think our love was confusing, but I know that wasn’t the case for me,” Harley says. “The label can go fuck themselves for taking you away from me.”

  I want to argue that we would have ended eventually anyway because I definitely would have run into Soren at some point, and from the moment I met him three years ago, I’ve never been able to fight the pull he has on me.

  We’re meant to be, and there’s no doubt in my mind.

  I don’t want to belittle what Harley and I had because he got me through some rough times on the road and through doubts about my career.

  I stand and put my hand on Harley’s shoulder. “Things have worked out the way they were supposed to. One day you’ll see that.”

  “I see it now,” Harley says quietly. “I don’t like it. But I see it.” He walks toward the door where Marty and Luce are practically pushed up against it, but he turns back at the last second. “Oh, by the way, after our song’s recorded, I’m kicking you out of this studio.”

  “W-what?”

  “I own it. I bought it when Ryder started hinting about leaving Eleven. I’m also blackballing you from every other recording studio in town. Eleven and Radioactive’s feud is all over the news, you know.”

  I’m confused as fuck. “What in the ever-loving hell—”

  “I’ll use my clout to get you the studio time in New York you’ve been asking for. Really think about what I’m saying here before you yell at me.”

  It finally registers. “Y-you’d do that for me?”

  “Record this song with me and go home to your man, Jay.”

  “Harley,” I croak.

  He holds up his hand. “Don’t. I’m doing a good job of being the bigger person right now, and I don’t want to blow it by taking it all back and begging you to pick me. We both know you won’t. I’ll get over you eventually. Just … make sure the hockey player is worth it, okay?”

  I don’t say anything because I don’t want to rub it in that I already know Soren is worth it. He’s everything to me.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Soren

  As we stand for the national anthem at a home game, I’m trying to get in my zone. My streak has continued, and I’m having the best season of my entire career, but I can’t get comfortable. Not now. It’s still too early.

  I’m so distracted by my thoughts of the game and trying to suck the atmosphere into my lungs that I barely register who they introduce to sing.

  “Please welcome Jay from Radioactive to sing the national anthem.”

  The crowd does its usual screaming thing, just like they always do when he’s onstage.

  Morgan nudges me, but my eyes are locked on Jet walking out onto the carpet they’ve laid across the ice.

  “Did you know he was coming?” Morgan asks in my ear.

  “Had no idea,” I murmur.

  I glance up to find my face on the giant screen. Not an odd occurrence during a game, but this is different.

  Jet’s eyes find mine, and his smile softens to something that’s just for me. “Love you,” he mouths.

  The crowd goes wild again because they must’ve caught that on camera.

  Jet’s here.

  Here, here.

  And in perfect timing, this is our last home game before we hit the road for eight days.

  I laugh because it makes me want to cry. We leave for Carolina tomorrow, and I don’t know how long Jet’s in town for.

  Only the first line is out on the ice. I’m stuck in the team box when all I want to do is jump over the railing and skate for him.

  Jet’s decked out with a headset and microphone, and he’s holding his black guitar. My guitar. After his middle of the night visit, I told him to take it with him. It’s his baby. But now instead of using his pride and joy—his acoustic Firebird he bought with his first royalty check—he’s using ours. And I know it’s for me.

  The entire arena goes quiet to listen.

  Whether it’s the acoustic version of the national anthem, or perhaps it’s the way he sings it, Jet’s voice has his Southern lilt, making it sound country.

  I want to blow off the game and take my man home and worship him in the best way I know how, but my team would hang me by my skate’s laces if I did that. I’m the highest scorer of the season so far.

  Jet finishes the song, hitting every note flawlessly with that rasp I love so much, and then he gives me a wink, leaves the ice, and I’m left wishing the game was already over.

  Morgan hits me in the back of the head. “Don’t let this distract you. Your man’s here. Show him in person how you’ve been kicking ass.”

  He’s right. I can’t let Jet’s surprise appearance distract me, and when I hit the ice, I’m surprised at how easy it is to block it out.

  Superstition is a big part of hockey, and any change in routine can be a disaster. Not that I actually believe good luck or bad luck is real; it’s all mind over matter. Anything that can get into your head has the ability to affect the game.

  But knowing Jet’s here watching me, it inspires me instead of hinders.

  By the end of the first period, I have a goal and an assist.

  When the new kid started, I thought he was going to outshine me, but it turns out we make a great team.

  We leave the ice and head down the chute when my eye catches on someone hanging over the railing f
rom the stands. Jet’s an inch or two away from falling over the thing.

  Lennon gives me a wave behind him as Ollie holds on to Jet’s tight jeans so he doesn’t fall. Lucky Ollie doesn’t have a game tonight, or my boyfriend would be broken in many places.

  With my skates and how far Jet’s leaning over the barrier, it almost brings us face to face when I reach him. “You couldn’t have given me a warning?”

  “And spoil the surprise? Hell no. I just wanted to give you this.” He leans in to kiss me, but I pull back.

  “I’m all sweaty.”

  “What do you say every time I leave the stage and warn you about my perspiration?”

  “That I don’t care.”

  “Exactly. Now kiss me, then go kick some ass. I’ll be waiting for you after the game.”

  “What … I mean what are you even doing here? How are you here? Not that I’m complaining, but—”

  “Soren,” Coach Wexler says. “Stop socializing and get your ass in the locker room.”

  “After the game.” Jet kisses me quickly. “We’ll talk.”

  I hurry into the locker room where I’m welcomed with a round of ribbing and a stern warning from the coaches.

  For the rest of the game, all I’m focused on is getting shit done so I can be with Jet, even if it’s only for a few hours. We have to hold on to everything we can get.

  I get one more goal in the second but come up short of a hat trick in the third.

  Still, three points and taking home a win for the team is still a good night.

  I’m down the chute and in the shower before any of my other teammates, and I curse not being able to get dressed in jeans and a T-shirt and leave when I’m done.

  Instead, I stand at my cubby, tackling my tie and trying to look presentable.

  “Soren, they want you for the press conference.”

  My face falls, and I turn to my coach. “Why? I mean … why? Pratt scored more points than me.” I want to get to Jet.

  Coach’s face breaks into a grin. “I’m messing with you. Go, get out of here.”

  A relieved whoosh leaves my lungs, and I’m out of the locker room before most of my teammates are out of the showers.

  I push my way through the reporters waiting outside the locker room to get their post-game interviews before the press conference. They throw questions at me about my boyfriend’s performance and I answer something about it being a great surprise. If I give them a soundbite, they should leave me alone.

  I move like lightning down the hall, but I don’t know where Jet will be. As I pull out my phone to text him, three figures step into the corridor, and we almost collide as we cross paths.

  My gear bag drops to the ground, and a smile spreads across Jet’s face.

  He goes to say something, but I cut him off by pulling him to me, our bodies slamming against each other, and then I ravish his mouth before he gets the chance to even get a word out.

  His tongue keeps up with my demanding one, and if I wasn’t positive we were being filmed or watched by the reporters down at the other end of the hall, I’d push Jet against the nearest surface and just keep doing this.

  When Ollie and Lennon clear their throats and one of them, not sure which one and don’t really care, singsongs, “Awkward,” I finally pull away.

  “Hi,” I say.

  Jet lets out a little laugh. “Hey.”

  “You’re here. Like, here, here.”

  “Great power of observation you got there.”

  “Thanks. Hockey players are known for their smarts.”

  Jet’s hand runs down my cheek.

  “How long are you here for?” I ask.

  The grin that takes over his face is blinding. “Until the album and or your season’s done.”

  My heart skips a beat, but I tell myself not to get my hopes up. “What? How?”

  “Harley blackballed the band from all the recording studios in L.A.”

  “He what? I’ll kill him. Those ten ways are about to come in handy.”

  Jet’s still grinning.

  “Wait … we’re happy about this?”

  “He did it for us.”

  “I’m confused.”

  “He gave me the opportunity to come to New York to record the album. I’m staying.”

  Jet’s staying.

  “Staying. In New York.”

  Jet’s staying in New York.

  “Please tell me you’re not fucking with me?”

  Jet shakes his head. “Not fucking with you. The band is here until we record the album and release our next single. And then we’ll talk touring, but then during the off-season you can be with us on the road, and next year we can try to record in New York again, or—”

  “Next year won’t matter.”

  “Why not? You’ve been killing it. They’ll offer you an extension for sure.”

  “I already decided I’m not taking it even if they do.”

  “Whoa, you’re retiring?” Ollie butts in.

  I turn to him and Lennon. “Can you guys give us a minute?”

  They take their exit but glance back at us with matching concerned expressions.

  “You’re quitting hockey?” Jet’s voice is small but so full of hope.

  “No, I’m retiring. Not quitting. There’s a difference. Not only that, I’ll be retiring on a high. If things keep going the way they’re going, I could have the highest-scoring season of my entire career.”

  “Exactly. Which means you should keep doing it. You can’t retire for me. What if it’s too soon? You’ll hate me in the end.”

  I lower my forehead to his. “Jet. My sweet Jet. I could never hate you, and I’m not retiring for you. I’m retiring for us. For me. I’m done after this season no matter what. Remember how I said I wanted to retire on my own terms and not on the NHL’s time? This is my choice. My time.”

  “What happens if you don’t win the Cup?”

  “Doesn’t matter.”

  “Soren—”

  “I love you. I want a life with you. A future. I want forever with you. I’ve had my career, and it’s been an amazing and fulfilling one. Now it’s your turn to have yours, and I want to be there for it.”

  Jet’s warm eyes blink up at me. “I guess I must be your hat trick, huh?”

  “No.”

  Jet pouts.

  “You’re so much more than that. You’re a goal in the last minute. A five-on-three powerplay. You’re the crowd screaming for the win.”

  “I don’t know what that means, but good to know.”

  I laugh. “Jet, you’re everything. You’re my Stanley Cup.”

  Jet smiles. “I guess that makes you my Grammy? I don’t really know what metaphor we’re going for here.”

  I hold him close. “I’ll put it the easiest way I know how to say it. You’re the most important thing in my life and being with you forever is my only goal.”

  Jet’s eyes get shiny. “I want to help you achieve that goal.”

  “Then we’ll do it.”

  I seal our promise with another public display of affection that I’m sure is being photographed by the media.

  Welcome to the rest of our lives.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  JET

  THE KIDLET TURNS ONE

  The door to Matt and Noah’s apartment swings open, and Matt stands there holding the baby, who’s got a flowery headband on while wearing a New York hockey jersey.

  Soren gasps. “Ollie beat us.”

  I snicker. “He’s been good at that lately.”

  Soren’s hand flies to his chest. “Wounded! Help! Do you have to rub my professional failures in my face?” He huffs, but I know he doesn’t care. I mean, not really.

  He’s disappointed his team didn’t make it to the Cup game, but he left with his highest-scoring season under his belt and his head held high. New Jersey offered him three more years with a no-trade clause because of it, and he still turned it down to follow me on tour.

  Hashtag r
eal Disney love.

  He still has a few connections to the sporting world. He’s agreed to feature on Lennon’s ever-growing podcast he started about six months ago, and Damon’s also been talking to him about scheduling talks and appearances all over the US to coincide with the band’s touring schedule.

  Soren might’ve said goodbye to his career in the NHL, but he’ll always be involved in sports in some way.

  “You guys are late, so everyone’s beaten you to presents,” Matt says.

  Soren and I glance at each other out the corner of our eyes. Yeah, there’s a reason we’re late. Might have something to do with a life-altering decision followed by a quick pitstop at the county-clerk’s office.

  “Give me my niece.” I reach my arms out for her, and she comes to me easily.

  We’ve only managed to come to see her a handful of times with Soren’s team making it to the playoffs and Radioactive’s tour kicking off, but she still loves me, and I remind her every time I’m her favorite uncle.

  “Happy birthday, kiddo,” I coo.

  We enter the apartment to find the rest of the gay brigade and Wade in the living room.

  “Hey, guys,” I say casually but I don’t take my eyes off Jackie. She’s so cute with her big brown eyes.

  She looks up at me with a furrowed brow as if she’s trying to work me out, and I’m only mildly offended that she doesn’t remember how awesome I am.

  Soren takes the seat next to Ollie, who’s sitting there with a big frown on his face and his arms folded. Probably has something to do with the giant moonboot he’s wearing.

  “How’s the ankle?” Soren asks.

  “Broken,” Ollie grumbles.

  Lennon rolls his eyes. “It’s a hairline fracture. In your foot.”

  “I’m out for at least the next six weeks.”

  “Aww, poor Stanley Cup winner.” Soren pats Ollie’s head.

  Soren couldn’t be happier for Ollie, and because New Jersey was knocked out by the team who then went on to win, it makes Soren feel less bad about it not being him who got to hold the Cup up at the end.