The Hat Trick Box Set

by Samantha Wayland

  Fuck. He was fucking this up.

  He sucked in a deep breath and held it for a second before letting it out. Then he did it again. He kept it up until the feeling of ants crawling over his skin eased and he could roll his shoulders back down from around his ears.

  Fuck.

  Savannah was being patient with him, but it was only a matter of time before she got well and truly pissed at his behavior. Freaking out on the guys for bumping into her was not what she needed. He knew that. She didn’t need anything from him, not at work when she was focused on trying to do her job without vomiting. He knew she was strong and that she could take care of herself. That she was never going to do anything that would put herself in danger. But it felt like every minute she was out of his sight—and there were so fucking many of those minutes, goddamn it—something terrible might happen.

  He couldn’t stop worrying.

  He felt like his brain had been stuck in fifth gear for the better part of the last month, and the only saving grace was that he was still able to focus on hockey when he needed to. If his anxiety got to the level where it started fucking up his game, then he’d really be screwed.

  He took another deep breath, held it for one second, then let it out.

  Okay, he needed to chill. He needed to go home and relax. Just be with Garrick and Savannah and be reminded of how much he loved them and that they loved him just as much. It always felt a lot better once he was home. Once they were safe from the outside world and prying eyes.

  With a final deep breath, he let himself out of the closet—ha—and went back to find Savannah packing up for the night. He hovered in the door, wondering if she’d lay into him the moment they were out of earshot of anyone else, but she just gave him a lukewarm smile and finished up.

  Ugh. He’d rather be yelled at.

  The ride home was quiet. It often was after a game, win or lose. Savannah was also more tired these days, and she often fell asleep in the passenger seat. Tonight, she didn’t, but she didn’t say anything either. Mostly she looked out her window, occasionally turning her head to look at him for a few seconds before looking away again.

  Rhian thought he might be the one in danger of vomiting in the car tonight.

  Garrick was stretched out on the couch under one of Savannah’s Christmas blankets, half asleep in the gentle glow of the lights on the tree in the corner. He’d barely had the wherewithal to shut off the TV after the game before zoning out, but he snapped awake when he heard the car doors close. He sat up, rubbing his eyes, clearing his vision just in time to see Savannah step into the house and send him a worried look he was becoming all-too familiar with. She was followed by Rhian, who appeared more like a chastised schoolboy than any two-hundred-and-twenty-odd pound professional hockey player should be able to pull off.

  Oh boy. Another rough day.

  Garrick went to the door to the mudroom and watched as they shucked coats and bags. Rhian didn’t make eye contact with either of them as he sorted out his gear, shoving the smelliest of it into its designated closet and tossing the washable stuff through the laundry room door for later. Savannah slid past Garrick to get to the kitchen and he pulled her in to press a soft kiss to her lips.

  She felt strong, her grip tight. He wasn’t nearly foolish enough to say anything about how tired she looked in spite of that strength. She kissed him back, not quite chaste but nothing too serious, then pulled away and made a beeline for the kettle. Her stomach demanded herbal tea these days. A lot of it.

  Garrick turned back to the mudroom. Rhian glanced at him, then up at the ceiling and sighed.

  “You want to talk about it?” Garrick asked, not for the first time in the past week or two.

  Rhian hovered, looking uncertain for long enough that Garrick began to hope he was finally going to confess whatever had been eating at him, but then Rhian shook his head.

  “Not yet.”

  “Okay,” Garrick said, careful to keep any disappointment out of his voice. He took Rhian’s hand and towed him into the kitchen, then pulled him close, until their chests bumped and Rhian was staring at Garrick’s shoulder. Garrick held him loosely.

  “Good game,” Garrick said quietly.

  Savannah crossed behind Rhian on the way to the cabinet with the mugs. Her hand trailed across Rhian’s back and over Garrick’s arm on her way. “It was. That goal in the second should have been good. The refs were blind to call the play offsides.”

  Rhian huffed, but it sounded like he agreed. “I guess we can add it to my pretend numbers. Think they’ll let me submit those at contract negotiations?”

  “Those aren’t for six years, hot shot, but sure. You can keep pretend numbers if you want,” Garrick teased.

  A hint of a smile curled Rhian’s lips.

  “Come here,” Garrick murmured, and it wasn’t possible for Rhian to get any closer, but he understood what Garrick meant.

  Rhian turned his head enough to brush their lips together.

  Garrick wasn’t having that. He leaned in, capturing Rhian’s mouth in a proper kiss, one far less chaste than the one he’d exchanged with Savannah, his hand curled around Rhian’s neck to hold him still. Not that Rhian was trying to go anywhere. He just liked to be held close. Tight.

  Garrick smiled into the kiss when he felt Rhian leaning into him harder, the tension that had held him rigid finally easing away. He wasn’t hoping to start anything. He was sure neither of them were—not at this hour, and when Rhian probably needed to refuel properly before he could get some rest.

  “Welcome home,” Garrick said against his lips.

  Rhian kissed him again. “Thank you.”

  Garrick wasn’t sure what he was being thanked for, but he let the kiss linger before separating himself to go into the kitchen to pull out the mountain of chicken and pasta he’d made earlier so Rhian could reheat it.

  The proper care and feeding of a professional hockey player was something Garrick enjoyed doing far more now than he ever had when he himself had been one. Savannah liked to tease him about how he took care of them, but he knew she loved it. Just like she knew he loved it, too.

  Rhian still seemed, if not shocked, perhaps a little bewildered by the idea that anyone, let alone two someones, wanted to take care of him at all. A lifetime in the foster care system, bounced from home to home, had made it difficult for Rhian to accept that Garrick and Savannah really wanted to do these things for him. He did accept it, though, and tonight, he took his late dinner with a small smile and another “thank you”, without even a hint of “you shouldn’t have” or “you didn’t need to do this, I can do it myself” in the mix.

  Reminding himself about how much Rhian had adapted his life to make room for Garrick and Savannah in it soothed Garrick’s concerns. Whatever was going on in Rhian’s head lately, whatever had him on edge and hovering over Savannah unnecessarily, it would eventually come out, and Garrick and Savannah would be there to help him in any way they could.

  In the meantime, they fed him pasta and tea, all the while touching him here and there in the way that made him smile and touch them back. Then they pulled him up the stairs and curled around him in their big bed, pressing him between them until the last of the tension ebbed from his body and he slept.

  Chapter Two

  Something was definitely up with Rhian, and Jean-Michel was determined to figure out what it was.

  For some reason, the rest of the guys on the team liked to rib the French Canadians for being nosy, but that was bullshit. Jean-Michel was just concerned about his friend. That was a good thing! The rest of the guys could take a lesson from him on how to be a good and caring friend.

  Also, it drove him crazy not knowing what was going on.

  Jean-Michel had a plan, though, and it was elegant and simple.

  “Who’s up for drinks tonight?!” he shouted to the locker room at large.

  The few enthusiastic woos were almost drowned out by the long, low groan of the old guys.

  �
�Come on, fuckers. It’s been ages since we all went out, and it’s not like we’re going to have much time for the rest of the month, with the holidays coming up.”

  A few heads nodded and Jean-Michel was proud of himself for coming up with that argument. He decided it was time to go in for the kill. He looked to their captain.

  “I think we need some team bonding time.”

  Jean-Michel could see the effort it took for their veteran thirty-eight-year-old captain not to let his shoulders droop. He was cornered now, and he knew it.

  He smiled grimly. “Jean-Michel is right, for a change.” Jean-Michel squawked indignantly, but his captain continued. “Let’s get some drinks tonight, boys!”

  This time the enthusiastic whooping drowned out the mutters. Jean-Michel got it, sort of. The old guys wanted to be home with their families and all that shit this time of year. But Jean-Michel needed to help Rhian shake off whatever it was he was carrying around, and he needed the rest of the boys to help him, unwittingly or not.

  He turned when someone punched his shoulder lightly. “What’s up?” Henri asked quietly while everyone else debated where they should go.

  Jean-Michel saw Noel turn towards them, listening from further down the bench as he methodically worked himself free of his gear.

  “I don’t know,” Jean-Michel said. “It just seemed like maybe Rhian could use a night out. He’s been…”

  Noel nodded, though he didn’t look away from untying his pads.

  Henri sighed. “You’re a good friend to worry.”

  Jean-Michel preened.

  “But maybe you should mind your own business?” Henri suggested.

  Whatever. That was pretty rich coming from Henri. If anyone had earned the French-Canadians-are-nosy thing, it was him.

  “I don’t see how a fun night out with the boys can do any harm,” Jean-Michel said, trying and failing not to sound defensive. “You’ll see. Even someone as ancient as you will have fun.”

  Henri rolled his eyes, but his punch stung enough that Jean-Michel smirked, knowing his shot had landed. He grinned at Henri’s retreating back and shouted, “I’ll see you there at eight, asshole.”

  Jean-Michel resisted the urge to rub his hands together with glee. Between himself, Noel, and Henri, they could totally figure out what was up with Rhian and maybe cheer him up a little. Everything was going according to plan.

  By eight thirty that night, the team had taken over a handful of tables at the back of the pub they’d chosen and were squished into too few seats and booths, just the way Jean-Michel had envisioned. Everyone had a drink and were gleefully breaking their diets for the sake of the best buffalo wings this side of, well, Buffalo. And some of these guys would know, having played there.

  Loud laughter burst occasionally from each of the tables, the guys jostling each other over a chirp or to get another wing. You could practically smell the testosterone and male bonding going on all around them. Everyone was happy and having a good time.

  Everyone except Rhian.

  Jean-Michel sent a desperate look across the booth he’d claimed along with Noel, Henri and Rhian. They’d spent the past half hour joking around and making sure Rhian had a cold beer and good company.

  How was that not as close to heaven as a man could get?

  But clearly, Rhian wasn’t feeling it. He sat tucked into the corner, his hands clenched around his beer, taking slow, methodical sips like it was his job not to actually enjoy it. He nodded along with whatever they were saying, smiling when he was supposed to smile, but honestly, Jean-Michel was tempted to check for a pulse.

  He was about to just come out and ask what the fuck Rhian’s problem was, but the moment he opened his mouth, Henri kicked him under the table. Jean-Michel frowned. What was Dad’s problem? And why was he frowning back?

  Jean-Michel was saved from having to ask—because subtle wasn’t his jam, okay?—when Noel cleared his throat pointedly. Jean-Michel thought he might be trying to back Dad up, but when everyone looked at Noel, he gently tilted his head toward the bar.

  “Don’t look now, but Rhian has caught someone’s eye.”

  Jean-Michel immediately looked.

  Noel sighed. Henri kicked Jean-Michel under the table again.

  Rhian glanced at the frankly stunning woman watching him from the bar before dropping his eyes back to his beer.

  For a long moment, everyone at the table stared at him, waiting for him to say something. Anything. When it became clear he wasn’t going to, Henri cuffed him on the shoulder. “You should go talk to her.”

  “No, thanks,” came Rhian’s quick response.

  Why the fuck not!?

  Jean-Michel didn’t say it out loud. He knew that would get him another kick and he had to play a game tomorrow night, which he didn’t relish doing with a shin bruised from ankle to knee.

  “Not your type?” Noel asked.

  Rhian glanced back up, and the woman caught his eye. She was tall, her light-eyed gaze direct, her hair long and so shiny Jean-Michel’s hands twitched to touch it, just to see if it was really that soft. Actually, she kind of reminded Jean-Michel of Savannah, only less business-sporty and more bar-flirty.

  Rhian’s cheeks got a little pinker and he looked back down. “No, she’s…definitely my type. I mean, I guess. If I really had one.”

  Who doesn’t have a type?

  Jean-Michel also kept that one inside. His shins rejoiced.

  “So, you should go talk to her,” Henri suggested. He was watching Rhian closely, like this was a test. Jean-Michel had no idea for what, though. He had never been good at tests…

  “Nah,” Rhian said, and, for the first time that night, took a good, long pull from his beer.

  “Dude, you seeing someone?” Jean-Michel asked the moment the idea popped into his head.

  He braced for a kick, but it didn’t come. Instead, Noel and Henri looked as interested in the answer as he was.

  Rhian’s head snapped up. “What? No!”

  “Then…” Noel said, tilting his head toward the bar again.

  “Yeah, okay. Fine,” Rhian said, shoving at Jean-Michel and forcing him out of the booth. “I’m just going to go talk to that woman. I mean flirt. Yeah. I’m going to flirt with her,” Rhian declared.

  He stomped off the moment he was free of the booth, leaving the three of them staring at his back.

  Rhian watched the probably very nice and perfectly innocent woman’s eyes widen as he stormed toward the bar, then he checked himself, using the excuse of needing to squeeze between tables to slow down and take a deep breath.

  It wasn’t this poor woman’s fault that he was going to have to speak with her. It wasn’t her fault his private life was a hell of a lot more private than most people’s, and all that left him with was a shit ton of lies and the burning desire to be anywhere but in this bar, approaching some stranger. He felt sorry for her more than anything, and promised himself that he wouldn’t lead her on for a second, just for the sake of putting on a show for the guys.

  That was why, when he reached her side, he started with, “Hi. I’m not really here to flirt with you, but if you wanted to pretend for a while, I would love to buy you a couple drinks and some wings.”

  She blinked up at him, her mouth dropping open. He shifted to the left, blocking her face from the view of the back corner and his idiot friends. In hindsight, he recognized he maybe should have eased into that proposal instead of just dumping it on her like that.

  Fuck, he was an idiot.

  Her mouth was still hanging open, which, remarkably, didn’t make her any less attractive, objectively speaking. “Uh…” she stammered.

  “I’m sorry. I can also just leave you alone,” Rhian offered.

  “No, wait.” She put her hand on his arm, and he forced himself not to flinch away. Her eyes narrowed on his and he felt pinned in place. Caught. “Let me get this right. You don’t want to flirt with me, but your friends are giving you shit, so you came over to see if I
would be willing to fake it with you?”

  She was kind enough to keep her voice low, so that the people around them wouldn’t hear.

  “Yes,” he muttered, because this was a fucking stupid idea and he was doing it anyway.

  “And in exchange for this, I get food and drinks and your company, in a purely platonic fashion.”

  He could feel his cheeks heating up, but held her gaze. Her smile grew, bright and wide, and it was pretty clear she was laughing at him.

  “Yeah, that’s pretty much the deal,” he admitted. “I didn’t want to mislead you, since that would be shitty, and if I flirted for real, I might…”

  “Be tempted?” she asked, her smile turning sly.

  “No,” he said, baldly. Then he felt bad and tried to explain. “It’s not you. It’s just that I…” Shit, he didn’t really have an explanation for this. Not one he could share.

  Fortunately, she seemed to get that. She stuck out her hand. “I’m Helena, my friends call me Lena. Nice to meet you.”

  “Rhian,” he replied, taking her hand. “But you can call me The Asshole.”

  She laughed, loud and bright. Rhian risked a glance over to the table and saw the guys grinning at him. Rhian immediately returned his focus to Lena.

  “They seem easily convinced,” Lena observed.

  Now Rhian chuckled. “They believe what they want to see.”

  She grinned and put her hand on his arm, leaning in. “Well, we can convince them, provided you were serious about those wings.”

  “Dead serious. But are you sure?” he asked, his stomach squirming just from having her so close. And touching him. “I can’t…it’s not…”

  “I get it,” Lena said quickly, giving him a little more space, but still smiling at him. “You’ve got a reputation to protect and, perhaps, a secret to keep. You don’t need every sports fan in Boston up in your business. Or,” she said, glancing over at the table again, “your teammates, either, for that matter.”

  A fine sweat broke out over Rhian’s entire body. Shit. She knew who he was. “Hockey fan?” he hazarded.