The Hat Trick Box Set

by Samantha Wayland

  Now he knew who was assigned the Olympic Anthem ringtone on her phone. Callum, a goalie with Colorado, had a silver medal. He and Duncan, who was a winger for Washington, had a good chance of going to the next games, too.

  And if he wasn’t mistaken, one of her other brothers played in the WHL in Vancouver. And there was an infamous legend about another Morrison leading his team at Harvard to a championship before leaving the sport to pursue his Ph.D.

  Garrick staggered back to the bed and sat down hard.

  Did Savannah’s brothers want to buy the Moncton Ice Cats?

  Hope surged. Tossing the note on the bed, he bolted into the bathroom to take a quick shower, then threw on his workout clothes. He had to get his fitness routine done or his trainer, not to mention his groin and hip, might never forgive him. But in the meantime, he could leave a voicemail or two.

  He nearly swallowed his tongue when Callum picked up after two rings. “Hello, Garrick. You being good to my sister?”

  “Uhhh…” Garrick floundered, totally unprepared for one of his heroes to answer his call, let alone address him by name. He stumbled for a response, unsure what Savannah had told her brother but one hundred percent certain that revealing anything would land him in the doghouse. Possibly for life.

  Callum Morrison chuckled. “I can tell she’s got you well trained already. Join the club. Six brothers, and not one of us would dare cross her. She’s damn bossy. But I bet you know that already.”

  Garrick was glad Callum couldn’t see his face heating and hopefully couldn’t hear his desperate gulp. “She likes to think of it as persuasive.”

  Callum’s laughter boomed down the line. “Oh man, she’s got your number. Though, look at me talking to you about buying some damn hockey team. I guess she is pretty persuasive.”

  Garrick’s gut clenched. “If you have some time, I’d like to talk to you about that very thing.”

  “I bet you would,” Callum said. “Give me a second to figure out how to conference Duncan in on this and we’ll talk about what’s possible and what’s not. You got numbers for us?”

  “I’ve got some.”

  “Savannah says you’re good with numbers. That you’ve got the chops for the business side of this thing.”

  She did? A flush of pleasure warmed Garrick and eased the roiling nerves in his gut. “I have a business plan.”

  “We’ve seen it. That’s why we’re talking. Hold on while I get Duncan.”

  The following night, Savannah sat high above the ice on the promenade level of the Boston Garden, watching the game along with a sold-out crowd. Even in the enclosed space of the owner’s box, the noise was awesome, the fans roaring as the team fought for a win in a closely matched contest.

  Re-crossing her legs, she smiled and thought of Garrick. As she’d thought of him every time the gentle pang zipped through her body from her still-sensitive ass. He’d effectively ruined her plan to focus solely on her interview while she was in town. Her smile widened and she intentionally sat back in her seat, enjoying another zing.

  All eyes were pinned to the ice, following the action as it moved from one end to the other. She, on the other hand, had spent most of the night with her gaze riveted to the interim trainer. The job was fast-paced, hectic even, and exactly the same as working with the Ice Cats.

  She could totally rock this job.

  Her interviews had gone well and she’d left each meeting confident and energized. She knew her stuff. They knew she knew her stuff. She’d played down her name, never mentioning her connections, though prepared to be honest if someone asked. No one had. They either had no idea, or knew for certain and didn’t need her to confirm it.

  Regardless, she didn’t see that as an obstacle. And if it was, it was small compared to the bigger hurdles she had to clear to get this gig.

  Like the fact that she was young. And a woman.

  She couldn’t change either of those things, so it boiled down to whether or not the management gave a damn.

  The previous trainer had been a year older than she was now when he’d started, and he’d been with the team for the almost two decades since. A genetic degeneration of the spine combined with a recent car accident had made the job too painful and dangerous for him. His interim replacement—the assistant trainer, who had a good, if relatively short, history in sports medicine and training—seemed competent.

  The sound of a whistle yanked her attention back to the ice. One of the Bruins was down and it looked back. Within seconds the trainer was on his way.

  Savannah immediately knew two things about the assistant trainer—he was nervous and he’d never been a hockey player. He looked damned uncomfortable out on the ice and still didn’t bother to hold onto the player who escorted him, which he would probably regret.

  As if to prove her right, the trainer stopped short by the injured player’s side and promptly fell on his ass. Savannah winced. She’d bet his right wrist wasn’t feeling so great right now. When he gingerly cradled it to his chest, she sighed. Probably sprained. At least the adrenaline and embarrassment were enough to get him up on his knee and over his player to do triage.

  Fortunately, the player got up on his own, and one of his teammates quickly offered to help him skate back to the bench. The trainer rose more slowly, still cradling his hand in the crook of his other elbow as he walked back to the bench. He and the injured players immediately went down the tunnel.

  Savannah wasn’t surprised when the phone on the bar rang less than a minute later. A vigorous round of swearing behind her confirmed her suspicions. The assistant trainer was out for the game.

  She jumped a foot when a hand landed on her shoulder. She smiled tentatively at the strength-and-conditioning coach, with whom she’d been sitting.

  “I need your help.”

  She suppressed the urge to fist pump and squared her shoulders. “What can I do?”

  “I’m in for the rest of the game and between me and the team doc, we’ve got a handle on most of it, but neither of us is a pro at taping and that shit. You’ll probably just be keeping me company, but I want you to come along, just in case. The lawyers will meet us downstairs with the paperwork to keep things legit.”

  Savannah rose from her seat, her dignified carriage somewhat diminished by the huge grin on her face.

  “Let’s go.”

  Garrick stared at the huge LCD screen above the Sugar Shack’s bar, tempted to rub his eyes to be certain he wasn’t hallucinating.

  He’d asked the bartender to switch to the Boston game in some vague attempt at solidarity, knowing Savannah was there and hoping by some miracle he’d catch a glimpse of her during the inevitable team management shots.

  Instead he was staring at her, agog, while she was hanging out in the fucking tunnel, not ten feet from the bench, watching the game from ice level.

  He’d seen their trainer go down, but what the hell had happened after that, he couldn't imagine. Still in her suit, she clearly hadn’t gone to the game prepared to work. She wouldn’t show up at the Ice Cats arena, let alone work a game, without her hair up, her shapeless pullover, and those yoga pants. Garrick was almost certain this would be the first time anyone had worked an NHL game in high-heeled, knee-length leather boots and a plum-colored skirt suit.

  Laughing, he dug his phone from his pocket and texted Savannah.

  Having fun?

  He didn’t expect an immediate answer, but kept his phone in hand. At the start of the second intermission, Garrick caught the bartender’s eye and ordered another beer. He’d been here for two hours and this was only his third. At his size, with his metabolism, he was sober as a judge.

  His phone buzzed and he looked down to see a text from Savannah.

  WOOO!

  God, she was so going to get that fucking job.

  It was just as well, since even with her brothers throwing in a good portion, it wasn’t enough to outbid Robert Kramer. Garrick thought he could pull together another chunk of the bid f
rom his own savings, matching the Morrison brothers’ stakes, but they still needed a fourth to make a go at it. It was a damn good thing he’d been smart, and sometimes lucky, with his investments over the past decade. As much as it freaked him out to think of life after hockey, some part of him had known all along the day would come.

  Sighing, Garrick paid his tab and picked up his beer, sorry he’d miss the last period of the game. He’d have to watch it on DVR later.

  He’d been trying his hand at detective work all night, hoping to see something—a transaction, a shady character doing shady things, anything—if he hung out at the bar. After two hours, he accepted his plan sucked.

  He wandered through the restaurant, ducked into the back room to watch some pool, and flirted with a couple women who he might once have found interesting, but now left him totally cold. When one put her hand on his chest, he actually felt skeeved out.

  He was going to have to figure some way to get the hell over this when Savannah left. For now, he was quite happily monogamous.

  And there was the masochistic truth.

  By the time another hour had passed, he’d stood in every corner of the Sugar Shack, checked every booth and alcove, even looked behind the damn jukebox. The only things anyone might take exception to at this fine Kramer-owned establishment were the warm beer, cheesy music, and sticky floors.

  Garrick laughed at himself, wondering when he’d become such an old fudd.

  The only area of the building he hadn’t inspected was the back hallway. He’d made it to the men’s room once, but there was no way he was going to get inside the ladies’ room. Even if there hadn’t been a line, which there inevitably was, getting arrested for being a pervert didn’t rank high on his bucket list.

  The back hallway continued beyond the bathrooms, with three more doors lining the way to the emergency exit, which the sign claimed was alarmed. He circled around three times to see where those doors might go, but every time he made his way into the hall, the same guy was leaning against the wall, appearing to all the world as if he were waiting for his girlfriend in the ladies’ room. He was young and had hair so light blond, it was almost white. If he hadn’t been built like a professional wrestler, Garrick might have believed he was just some dumb kid.

  When Garrick stepped into the corridor for the fourth time in an hour, Blondie stood away from the wall and watched him carefully.

  Chucking his beer bottle in the trash can outside the bathroom door, Garrick ducked into the stench of the men’s room one last time, resigned to waiting a few minutes before leaving the Sugar Shack for the night.

  As clandestine missions went, he’d managed an epic fail.

  He washed his hands, giving an inordinate amount of concentration to the task. The other guys probably thought he had OCD but after four trips into this bacteria farm, all he wanted to do was go home and shower.

  The door from the hallway squeaked and he glanced up into the mirror. His guts clenched when Blondie came in, followed closely by another thug in matching black t-shirt and cargo pants, and none other than Robert Kramer.

  Oh shit.

  Garrick rinsed his hands and shook the excess water off as if he hadn’t a care in the world. At least two other men were in the room with them, so he calmly reached for some paper towels and turned toward the door.

  He didn’t bother to act surprised to find the Goon Squad behind him. He wasn’t that good an actor. Instead, he moved toward the exit, trying to follow the guy who’d just zipped up and run from the urinal and out the door without washing his hands.

  Blondie clamped a hand on Garrick’s left arm. He stopped, lifted an eyebrow, and gave him his best face-off stare. Goon Two grabbed Garrick’s other arm and yanked him back toward the sink.

  The stall door opened to reveal the last of the innocent bystanders and Garrick’s only hope of a witness. Garrick tugged at his arms, trying to free himself. No luck. The man in the stall stared wide-eyed at his struggle, then bolted from the bathroom as if it were on fire.

  Fucking chicken.

  “Let the fuck go of me,” Garrick barked, fighting harder. He almost knocked his captors off their feet, but the bastards held on. Goon Two wrapped a second hand around Garrick’s arm.

  “No, Mr. LeBlanc. That’s not how this is going to work.” Robert Kramer’s smooth voice cut through the room, his vowels oddly rounded. Garrick almost rolled his eyes at the bogus British accent. Was this guy for real? Garrick had researched Robert Kramer thoroughly. He had been born not forty miles from where they stood, had barely finished high school here in Moncton, and had lived here every day since.

  Robert Kramer was about as British as Garrick’s left nut.

  The grips on his arms tightened, the goons apparently enjoying their roles as enforcers. Garrick wished them luck. He wasn’t going to make it easy.

  He threw himself at Blondie, checking him hard and sending him staggering into the stalls, his arms wheeling. He caught himself on a partition, narrowly avoiding crashing onto the floor beside the toilet. Garrick shuddered just thinking about touching the floor in this place. Blondie wasn’t nearly so bothered. He was already up, thrusting up his sleeves to reveal a Canadiens tattoo on the inside of his forearm.

  Oh good, Garrick thought gleefully, a hockey fan.

  With another hard check, he forced Goon Two into the sinks, his ass almost landing in a basin.

  Blondie grabbed the back of Garrick’s shirt and hauled him away before he could hit his friend again. Garrick threw himself back and slammed his head into Blondie’s face.

  A satisfying crunch echoed off the tiled walls, followed by a howl of pain. Goon Two grabbed Garrick’s right arm and Garrick narrowed his eyes, prepared to prove that any hockey player worth his salt can punch equally hard with either arm.

  “Stop!” Robert Kramer’s sharp command brought both goons to a halt. “Outside.”

  Did these knuckleheads have to be addressed in single word commands to ensure comprehension? He spun to fight Blondie off again, but Robert Kramer’s words stopped him cold.

  “Mr. LeBlanc, I suggest you cooperate, or I’ll see to it that these two visit Ms. Morrison upon her return from Boston.”

  Garrick’s blood turned to ice.

  He wanted to rip Robert Kramer’s fucking lungs out. Instead, he took a steadying breath and walked out of the men’s room, not bothering to check to see if he was followed.

  He turned to go back into the bar, but a hand shoved him toward the back door.

  Well, at least I can finally check out the rest of the back hallway.

  One door was labeled Supplies, and another had a brass clasp and sturdy padlock securing it. The third door had no sign. No padlock. And if he wasn’t mistaken, would allow for a pretty good-sized room between the bathrooms and the alley out back.

  Another hard shove sent him stumbling and his shoulder crashed into the mystery door. It shook from the impact, but held. Damn it. He should have thrown some extra weight into it. He seriously considered trying the knob.

  He jumped back when the door popped open and a middle-aged man poked his head out.

  He immediately spotted Robert Kramer. “Everything okay, boss?”

  Robert Kramer shoved Garrick farther down the hallway. “Go!” he hissed at his goons, but not before Garrick got a glimpse of the room beyond. It was set up like an office, the furniture handed down from the 1970s. The light from the filthy windows high on the wall was weak, the glass covered in what looked like sheets of standard white copier paper. There were at least four desks, all with sleek computers, some with multiple monitors.

  When Robert Kramer turned, Garrick pinned his gaze to the exit and let the goons move him along. They slammed him into the release bar, shoving the door open with enough force that it crashed into the brick wall and bounced back. No alarm after all. Garrick jumped down the single step and into the alley behind The Sugar Shack.

  The sour smells coming from the dumpster were eye-watering. The snowban
ks were high in places, partially obscuring their position from the busy streets on either end of the block. He shook himself free from the goons and stood his ground.

  “Mr. LeBlanc,” Robert Kramer drawled. He stood in the door, no doubt intending the step up as a means to look down on Garrick. Guess he should have considered Garrick was a good eight inches taller than he was. Now they were eye-to-eye.

  “I’m not sure what brought you here tonight,” Robert Kramer continued, “or what you thought to accomplish.”

  “Just getting a drink,” Garrick said blandly.

  Robert Kramer arched a dubious eyebrow. “Stay away from my business, Mr. LeBlanc. I’m not going to warn you again. If I find you snooping around, I’ll see to it that Ms. Morrison pays the price. Do I make myself clear?”

  Garrick shook with the desire to launch himself at Robert Kramer. God’s honest truth, the only reason he didn’t was because he wouldn’t stop once he started.

  “Why the fuck don’t you man up and come after me? What kind of asshole threatens an innocent woman?”

  “The kind of asshole who knows what threats work. Take me seriously, Garrick. Ms. Morrison’s safety depends on your good behavior. Everyone is vulnerable sometime. Somehow.”

  Garrick had never been more keenly aware of that fact than at this moment.

  Chapter Twenty One

  Savannah was tired. Way down, deep-in-her-bones tired. She staggered off the airplane, relieved the Moncton airport was small enough that she would be able to grab her bag and drag her ass to her car within a matter of minutes.

  When she’d arrived in Boston, a quarter-mile concourse hike to an escalator had delivered her down into traveler hysteria to retrieve her bags. But then, in Boston, she’d been walking on air, on her way to interview with an NHL team.