Hat Trick (Blades Hockey Book 3)

by Maria Luis

  Adaline hasn’t contacted me since the lasagna night incident, and I spoke to Manuel briefly to clue him in that while I would never fire him, it might be in his best interest to apologize before showing back up to work. Turns out, the wine-tipping incident was Manny’s last hurrah. The minute he walked out of my mother’s house that night, he’d decided he was never returning. While I applauded him, I wished I could find that similar backbone.

  I won’t be heading over to my mother’s house for the holidays—I never do—but I’m sure I’ll find myself keying open the front door at some point or another to try, once again, with my mother.

  Or maybe you’ll spend the day with Marshall?

  The thought sends butterflies fluttering into motion in my belly. I don’t want to get my hopes up but maybe, just maybe, he’ll want to get together and spend Christmas Day watching more movies and snuggling.

  “I appreciate the offer, Gwen, I do, but—”

  My phone ringing cuts Holly off. Shit. I wipe my hands across my skirt and yank my phone out of my drawer. “I’m sorry,” I mutter, “let me just make sure this isn’t a client. We had an . . . issue this morning involving a panda bear and the zoo’s curator.”

  Holly waves me off with a smile. “Do what you have to do. I’ll drink my fake-vodka cocktail.”

  I could hug her.

  Whirling away, I give the unknown number flashing across the screen a cursory glance before answering the call and stepping into the hallway. I gently shut the door. “Hello? This is Gwen.”

  “Hey, you.”

  That voice.

  We’ve spoken via text since our “fantasy night,” a few days ago, but we haven’t had time to catch up with our mismatched schedules. I press my back to my door and feel the smile inching across my face. “What’s with the unknown number?”

  Marshall’s husky laugh is like music to my ears. “Would you believe me if I said Harrison’s fat ass broke it?”

  The idea of The Mountain sitting on Marshall’s phone and snapping it in half is hilarious, and I find myself giggling along. “Is that really what happened?”

  He pauses, for effect, I think, and then goes on. “Nah. Unfortunately, I was at the gym this morning and accidentally dropped my dumbbell right on the damn thing. It sounds a lot better when I blame Duke for it though.”

  “Don’t tell me you were thinking of me naked and then dropped the weight,” I tease. It’s not so out of the realm of possibility. I may have sent him a photo of me last night before I climbed into bed.

  Maybe.

  In my defense, the photo didn’t even constitute as a nipple shot seeing as it was collarbone and up. But my hair had been wet and my face makeup free, and clothes or not, I’d let him come to his own conclusion. Like any guy, he’d chosen to believe I was snapping photos of myself in my birthday suit.

  “You caught me,” he tells me now. “In the future, give a guy a little warning before you do something like that.”

  “I should give any guy a warning before naked-time or only you?”

  I don’t know what makes me say that, and Marshall doesn’t let the comment sit for longer than a moment.

  “Me.” I can almost imagine his narrowed pewter eyes, his broad shoulders . . . “There’s no one else in this equation but the two of us.”

  “I know.”

  “Good. Listen, I’m just leaving an appointment with my publicist and I want to see you.”

  Sneaking a quick glance back at the door behind me, I state the obvious, “I’m at work.”

  “I’ll come and wait for you.” There’s the sound of an engine kicking on, and then the radio blares loudly before being silenced. “Give Walter the chance to see what he missed out on all those years ago.”

  I laugh even as I silently admit how true it is. My boss skipped over Marshall when he was on the farm team, choosing to believe that the Blades’ top draft pick would ultimately be traded elsewhere before being pulled onto the first line. Marshall shocked everyone by proving them wrong—and my boss is fully aware that he missed out on a client who could have earned him a good chunk of change.

  “Why don’t you give me an hour and I’ll meet you.”

  “My house? I’ll cook us some dinner.” Marshall pauses. Then, “Don’t wear panties.”

  There must be something in the rule book about not blushing and thinking about your guy naked while at work. I do a quick look around to make sure the hall is blessedly empty. “It’s December and cold out.”

  “All the reason to let me warm you up when you get here, honey.”

  Damn man, I think, when I hear the dial tone on the other end of the phone. He totally backed me into a corner on that one, and he knows I don’t like to back down from a challenge. Feeling altogether way too flustered to return to a meeting, I smooth my skirt and reenter my office.

  Holly’s on her phone, legs crossed, with our lemonades empty at her elbow. She glances up at me with a half-smile. “Who was that? The panda bear guy?”

  I shiver at the reminder of my morning. No one, and I repeat no one, should ever wonder what happens when a panda tries to hump one of the head staff at a zoo . . . while having it all caught on camera and then uploaded to every social media site in existence.

  There are a lot of things I’ve covered up over the years and squashed into nothingness—but the humping panda is going to prove tricky, even for me.

  Taking my seat, I plop my phone back into the drawer after setting it on silent. “It was nobody.”

  Holly gives me a droll glance. “I heard you mention the word naked, twice.”

  I freeze. Did I say it twice? No more than once, right? Squirming at having been caught, I tap-tap-tap on my keyboard, bringing the computer back to life. “I, uh, may have been trying to tell a client they shouldn’t strip naked and run around the mall like that.”

  “Mhmm.” Holly taps her glass with her nails. “You know, Gwen, although my husband and I are on the outs, I do still hear the gossip.”

  “Oh?” This doesn’t sound good.

  “Yes, ma’am.” Holly waits until I’ve turned to look at her before wrapping up my present of humiliation and sticking the bow on top. “It turns out that just about everyone knows you and Marshall Hunt are a thing.”

  Are we a thing?

  I’ve never really been in a thing with anyone before. My past relationships have all been short-term stints, emotionless, and boring.

  This thing—so, yes, I guess it is a thing—with Marshall fits under none of those categories. “I, um”—I fidget some more—“we may be doing . . . something.”

  In his movie theater, in his shower, in his bed.

  We’ve done a lot of somethings and I definitely want to do more.

  Holly smiles, and it’s so sweet and sincere that I can’t help but return it. “I hope it works out for y’all.” She offers a little shrug, then twirls the glass round and round. “Jackson and I . . . well, anyway, I like you and I like Hunt. Keep that one on lockdown, girl.”

  I think of Marshall walking away from me at Zoe’s engagement party. I never want to feel that level of despair again. This thing with Marshall is special, and I’m ready to hold on with two hands and never let go.

  “That’s the goal,” I finally tell my client. “Trust me, that’s the goal.”

  24

  Gwen

  Panties or no panties.

  It’s a tough decision. We’ve got three days until Christmas, and let’s just say that Boston has decided to spread its holiday cheer with snow, icy temperatures, and no hope in sight for anything above eighteen degrees.

  I give Marshall’s house a quick look from where I’ve parked my car in his driveway. He’s not standing by the windows or anything like that, but I know, without a doubt, which option he’d want me to go with.

  No panties it is.

  Pulling up my skirt, I thank God that Marshall lives in a quiet neighborhood without a lot of drive-by noise. Or neighbors, for that matter. All the houses
are separated by a good acre, and so I go about my panty-dropping business without the fear that someone might stroll up to the window and see me flashing my naked goods to the world.

  I slip my underwear over my heels and then stuff the fabric in my purse.

  Okay, showtime.

  All right, almost showtime.

  Marshall’s driveway is a sheet of black ice—not appropriate for stilettos.

  Like a baby deer learning to walk, I pick my way up the sloping path, cursing my shoes for being pretty but so utterly worthless.

  “Having trouble down there?”

  I glance up to see Marshall approaching. Dressed in faded jeans, a Blades hoodie, and a backward ball cap, he’s so damn good-looking it almost hurts. I point to my shoes, feeling a little pathetic when I call back, “Kate Spade clearly doesn’t know what it’s like to hike up a driveway in these babies. They aren’t ice-proof.”

  His mouth quirks in a crooked grin. “Aren’t you glad you’ve got your own hockey player, then?”

  Big hands land on my butt the moment he steps near, and the next thing I know, I’m being boosted into the air and then clutched tight to his chest.

  “Oh!”

  Cold air hits my bare girl parts, and this time my shout is a little more of a shrill shriek.

  Oh My God.

  So, so cold. Why did I agree to no panties? Because it is cold, really, really cold, and I can’t help but wonder if things can, you know, freeze down there? Like how guys always talk about their nuts hibernating in their stomachs and their dicks shriveling? Does the equivalent happen to women?

  Frozen vagina.

  I can’t say that I recommend it.

  “You okay?” Marshall peers down at me like he’s uncertain if I’m going to leap from his arms and throw myself back down his driveway. “You seem a little . . .” He presses his lips to my forehead like he’s checking my temperature.

  If I weren’t so worried about my vagina freezing, I’d stop to think about how sweet the gesture is.

  He shifts my weight as we near the door, and my skirt rides up a little higher.

  Naturally, he gets a handful of my butt and that’s when it hits him.

  “Gwen?”

  “Yes, Marshall?” I bite down on my teeth to keep them from chattering.

  I watch his Adam’s apple slide down the length of his throat. “Are you wearing underwear right now?”

  “Nope.”

  “Gotcha.”

  Bouncing me higher against his chest, he bolts for his front door, his feet thudding against the frozen concrete.

  “Oh my God, we’re going to fall!” I cry out, clutching his sweatshirt in a vicelike grip. “Slow down!”

  “Not a chance in hell,” he growls. “You’re not wearing—”

  His weight teeters, which means that my weight teeters, and I have a vision of his knees buckling and us rolling back down the driveway in some R-rated version of Jack and Jill climbing the hill.

  “Marshall,” I warn.

  “Gwen,” he returns, stepping onto his front stoop and pushing open the door. He doesn’t set me down until he’s locked everything up.

  Then he carefully takes my purse and sets it to the side. With two big palms to my shoulders, he backs me up against the door. “Time to warm you up, honey.”

  His fingers push up my skirt as he drops to his knees. With a gentle tug, he encourages me to lift my leg over his shoulder. I do, although I can’t help but announce, “My deal.”

  “What deal?” He looks up at me through long, dark lashes. He leans forward, and then he covers my clit with his mouth.

  Wowza.

  It’s as good this time as it was in his movie theater. I thread my fingers through his hair, unable to stop from releasing a moan when he swirls his tongue in tight little circles that has me seeing stars.

  I shed my coat, throwing it to the floor beside him. “My deal,” I repeat, trying for the life of me to remember what it is. With his mouth working me to the point of no return, I don’t even remember my own name. “It was . . . oh, yes, yes right there.” His thumb dips into my wet heat, then takes the place of his mouth when he sits back to watch me.

  “Your deal?” he prompts again.

  Dammit, I’d remember it if he wasn’t doing all that warming-up business.

  Not that I’m really complaining because Marshall has magical hands and a mouth that’s equally as magical.

  “Fantasy kisses,” I finally stutter out when he thrusts two fingers inside me, just the way I’d once shown him I like it. “You had your fantasy first kiss . . . I want . . . oh my God, Marshall, yes.”

  He pushes me over the edge, chuckling against me when I tug on his hair and shout his name at the top of my lungs.

  I just . . . did we really . . .

  I shake my head, trying to clear it. “I think I have a fever.”

  With a sexy laugh, Marshall gives me one last swipe of his tongue before straightening to his full height. “You don’t have a fever, Gwen.”

  “I’m seeing stars.”

  He winks at me playfully. “I’ll take responsibility for that one.”

  “My legs are like Jell-O.”

  “Be glad we don’t have any blueberry pie around.”

  We burst into laughter, and I can’t stop myself from stroking his face. He’s got a lingering bruise and a cut lip along the right side of his face. Although it’s faded somewhat, I can’t imagine it felt good when he was on the receiving end. “Rough practice?” I ask.

  “What?”

  “Your bruise. You guys haven’t had a game since Toronto so I was thinking . . .”

  “Oh.” He grabs my hand and presses a kiss to the center of my palm. “Yeah. Bordeaux got me. High stick.”

  I frown. “Must have been a very high stick.”

  Rubbing the back of his neck, Marshall’s expression goes blank. “That’s Bordeaux for you. Can’t trust those Canadians.”

  “Beaumont is Canadian and he’s your best friend.”

  Marshall touches his forehead to mine. “Like I said, can’t trust those Canadians. Now, come with me. I have something for you.”

  As I follow Marshall, my hand clasped in his, I can’t shake off the worry that he’s not telling me something. I might be riding on the aftereffects of an orgasm, but still . . .

  He twists around and gives me a bright smile. “I missed you.”

  Or maybe I’m just crazy. That smile doesn’t kick off any alarm bells. I smile back. “I missed you, too.”

  25

  Hunt

  I should tell Gwen everything right now.

  I slam the oven door a little harder than necessary considering it wasn’t the one to punch me and fuck up my life.

  “Are you hangry?” Gwen asks from the kitchen island, completely oblivious to my inner turmoil.

  How the hell do you tell someone you care about that their entire perception of you is a lie?

  I visited my publicist today and brought both my agent and lawyer along with me. I’m not an idiot. If shit hits the roof with Dave, my career would be over if the Blades had no idea what was going on.

  That’s what Dave wants. He wants to watch me crumble until I’m dragging my sorry ass back to Southie and knocking on his door, begging for scraps.

  Fuck that.

  Fessing up to people you admire and respect that you’ve been inadvertently enabling your coke-addicted brother for the last few years? There’s no other words to say except that it sucked, and it sucked a lot.

  There were no moves to suspend me, for which I was incredibly grateful, but there’s still the small, minor detail that . . . Dave has disappeared. His phone hits a dead-end each time I call, and I’ve visited his apartment twice now with my lawyer—nada.

  Even the landlord mentioned that Dave just up and left a few weeks ago.

  Which means he’s been planning his takedown for longer than I was even aware, sometime between my last visit at the start of the month and the nig
ht down in Brockton.

  With no paper trail to follow, all we can do is wait. My publicist is ready to contain backlash, but there’s no point in airing my dirty laundry to the public if Dave only plans to hold his blackmail over my head for the rest of my life.

  I pull down plates from the cabinets, along with glasses for some wine.

  On the ice, hockey is a controlled environment. Sure, random shit happens. People break rules whether intentionally or not. People get elbows to the face and we’ve all tripped our opponents with our sticks.

  It happens.

  But even with its randomness, hockey is a game of rules and regulations.

  Real life doesn’t always reflect the same moral codes or ethics—at least, douchebags like my brother don’t. It takes everything in me not to sink into the memories of that night. Some people claim that tragedy acts like a highlighter, illuminating every moment until each second is bold and vivid and so damn slow that you worry you’ll never escape its brutal wrath.

  The night that I stabbed my father, I was only eight years old. I remember little, aside from the blood staining my hands, purple bruises blooming on my mother’s face, and a kitchen knife protruding from my father’s leg.

  Everything else is a black abyss of tears, my mother sobbing to the police, and my brother standing off to the side, watching with a look of glee on his face and covered in blood.

  I feel Gwen’s hand to my shoulder like a balm to my nerves, just before she slides her arms around my waist and snuggles against my back. “Something’s wrong,” she whispers, “you’re way too quiet.”

  “Maybe I just wanted to cook you a nice meal?”

  With a small upturn of her nose, Gwen lets me get away with the lie. We sit at the table and drink our wine and chow down on the baked chicken I prepared for us, along with the roasted vegetables.

  Gwen expertly smooths over my awkwardness by telling me about her day. “The poor curator,” she says, shaking her head as she stabs a slice of chicken off her plate, “there he was just bringing the panda’s food and then bam.”