Hat Trick (Blades Hockey Book 3) Page 2

  She snorts, and then takes the stairs. “I prefer feisty.”

  Unable to help myself, my hand goes to her back. Just to make sure she doesn’t fall. Safety and all that. “Feisty? Is that so? In some circles, they might even go so far as to throw out the word ‘bitchy.’ Not that I’m calling you that, of course.”

  Her shoulders twitch under her trench coat. “Of course.”

  I grip the door handle and pull it open for her to step through first. Heat blasts my face, reminding me that even as a professional hockey player, five-degrees Fahrenheit feels like my own slice of hell. As warmth returns to my bare fingers, I tell her, “I’d be willing to lend an ear, if you wanted—for a price.”

  Blue eyes flick up to my face, and for a moment, I’m convinced that the impenetrable Gwen James is going to break into a smile. But then she just shakes her head, purses her lips against happiness, and quips, “I know your price, Marshall, and I’m not interested in being shackled and chained to your basement walls.”

  Fuck, but she’s witty when she wants to be. I chuckle softly, enjoying her subtle teasing, and step to the side as an attendant offers to take Gwen’s jacket. “You’ve heard the stories, huh?”

  “Every single one.”

  “And?” I prompt as she slips the coat off her shoulders. “Feelin’ a little turned on?”

  The coat is whisked away and, Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, I die. Right then and there, I’m fucking dead. Because Gwen James has always been unbelievably gorgeous to me, even in the jeans and university sweatshirts she once wore to class because she couldn’t be bothered to doll herself up for two hours of hell on earth.

  But right now . . . I take her in, all of her, not bothering at all to hide my once-over. It’s a game we’ve played for years, and even if it hadn’t been, I doubt I could hide my appreciation. In theory, her red dress should clash with her red hair. It doesn’t.

  The material is silk, like rippling water over her bare skin, and though it’s wintertime in Boston, Gwen’s dress can’t be described as anything other than “slinky.” Thin, hardly-there straps arch over her shoulders, and the front V-neck is deep and enticing. A slit creases the skirt, and I spot a toned thigh slipping through.

  Like Gwen, the dress is classy with a sexual edge—and a very clear reminder that I’ve never stopped looking and have never been given the opportunity to touch.

  Unfortunately, my cock has never gotten the memo, and even now, in the middle of fucking Cheers, I’m hard as a rock.

  Gwen’s fingers to my chin snaps me out of it, and I meet her gaze unapologetically. Her plum-painted lips move, and I register the words just as she steps away toward the stairwell leading up to the second floor.

  Feeling turned on, Marshall?

  She knows I am. And for the first time since I’ve met Gwen, I decide I’m not willing to play our games anymore.

  The woman owes me a date, and I plan to finally collect.

  3

  Gwen

  Ba-dum-ba-dum-ba-dum.

  The sound of my heart thudding in my ears blocks out the low murmurs and clinking glasses as I enter the wood-paneled room above Cheers Restaurant. Hockey players swarm the Victorian-era space, most of them balancing white porcelain plates on one palm as they shovel finger sandwiches into their mouths.

  A few years ago, when I first started working for Golden Lights Media, Boston’s top PR firm, I’d been in awe of the environment.

  In other words, big biceps, crooked grins, and the ever-present threat of hot men dropping towels and showing off the goods.

  The Blades are a newer franchise within the NHL, less than a decade old, but you’d never know it based on the talent of the team.

  Including Marshall Hunt.

  Just the thought of him sends my pulse into overdrive, and I throw a quick glance over my shoulder at the empty doorway.

  His big body fills it a moment later, shoulders so broad I’m surprised he doesn’t have to turn to the side to fit through. His brown hair is trimmed short on the sides, a little longer on top. Perfect to grab when—no, no grabbing ever. Against my will, my gaze continues to track him in a way I didn’t allow myself when we collided outside.

  Navy-blue fitted suit and shiny dress shoes. I watch as he strips off his jacket, revealing a crisp, white button-down. Blunt fingers that have never once touched me sexually un-do the buttons at his wrists before slowly rolling up the sleeves to expose corded forearms.

  Just then, his pewter eyes lift and hone in on me.

  I feel that look like I’ve been doused in boiling water, and I suck in a deep, uneven breath.

  There’s no missing the way the corner of his mouth hitches in a half-smile.

  Marshall Hunt knows he’s undeniably sexy, and he doesn’t bother pretending otherwise.

  For years he’s pursued me, on-and-off, depending on whether we’re in contact. Besides the fact that I’m three years older than him, he also witnessed the most humiliating experience of my life.

  He witnessed me at my lowest, when my heart was scraped raw, and I learned very quickly that everything my mother had ever whispered in my ear was true.

  Sexy or not, I’m not the type of person who enjoys ruminating in my mistakes—unfortunately for Marshall, my brain has lumped him in with that experience, right or wrong. And even if there are times when I can’t help but think what if? I’m quick to push those crazy daydreams away.

  Based on his track record for being the NHL’s version of Leonardo DiCaprio, dating Marshall would no doubt be the equivalent of dating Ty Corwin.

  It would only be a matter of time before someone else caught his fancy and he moved on to a new model, both literally and figuratively.

  I dip my chin in acknowledgment and turn away. I need to find Zoe. Or my other close friend Charlie.

  Anyone, really, who isn’t Marshall.

  I don’t search long. Charlie Denton can always be found near food, and after scoping out the buffet table, I see her curly blond head bent over a display of red velvet cupcakes.

  My feet diminish the distance between us, the sound of my six-inch heels clipping across the nineteenth-century hardwood floors drowned out by deep masculine laughter.

  I step up beside her. “How many have you had?”

  “Truth?” Charlie asks, not even turning her head.

  “Always.”

  “Two. I’m trying to decide if I want a third or if I want to switch gears and go for the chocolate-covered strawberries instead.”

  I laugh and bump her hip with mine. “The strawberries, obviously.”

  “Cupcake it is, then,” she murmurs with a wink at me, and then plucks one out of the display.

  There was a time, not even that long ago, when Charlie and I were more likely to tear at each other’s hair than crack jokes. I’m at fault for that one, like always. Adaline screwed me up in ways that I can’t even begin to fathom some—

  No. No passing the blame to someone else. First thing I’d learned at therapy when I began going last year. Some days, days like today when I’ve listened to my mother spew her bullshit, it’s hard to remember to take an active role in my decisions.

  Think of me as a reformed Regina George, except that the reformation period is never quite done. Something always pops up to remind me that my progress hasn’t been as steep as I’d like to think it is.

  “I saw you walk in with Hunt.”

  Cupcakes. I need sugar. After the day I’ve had, I’m in desperate need of a pick-me-up, not to mention a distraction. Stop thinking about how good Marshall looks. A nearly impossible task, really.

  I shrug off Charlie’s comment and dive for the closest dessert. “We didn’t walk in together.”

  “You were, like, four steps ahead of him.” Charlie’s gaze doesn’t waver from my face. “Did you two come together?”

  We’ve never come together, at all. Oh, God. Now is not the time to start thinking about sexual innuendos with Marshall Hunt at the forefront. “You and Zoe need to
stop trying to throw us together, Charls. I’m not interested.”

  That wasn’t quite true. If Marshall and I were on Facebook, our relationship would definitely be marked as “it’s complicated.” From the first moment that he sat behind me in an accounting class at Northeastern, my focus has always been elsewhere. Back then, it was on . . . Well, it doesn’t really matter. Not anymore. Point is, objectively I can see that Marshall Hunt is a damn good catch. The dimples don’t hurt his sex appeal, either.

  But finding a guy attractive doesn’t mean you want to date him. I don’t want to date Marshall. Sometimes, yes, I think about the possibilities—usually when my walls are down and I’ve thrown back a few glasses of wine—but, rationally, I know it’s not a good idea. I’ve spent the better part of a year avoiding the dating scene altogether. I wanted to focus on the new me, the me I want to be, the me who isn’t anything at all like Adaline Corwin.

  I can’t do those things if I’m falling into bed with a six-foot-two hockey player with a slow, easy grin, and a heat in his eyes that would tempt me into never leaving his bedroom—especially not if the Blades’ very own Casanova then dumped me to go back to one of his leggy women.

  I’m not in the market for a broken heart, now or ever.

  Not to mention that the love thing? I’m still not convinced it’s real.

  Charlie chuckles at my denial. “How long have you been telling yourself that you aren’t interested?”

  My shoulders stiffen at her wry tone. “I’m not.”

  “Wait, hold on, is that your . . . yup, that’s your nose growing, Pinocchio.”

  “I’m not—it’s not—” Flustered, I stare down at my untouched cupcake. Life would be so much easier if my two best friends didn’t want to see me shackled and hooked up just like the two of them. I know they mean well. They want me to be happy. And I am happy—mostly. I’d probably be happier if I didn’t have them throwing Marshall at me whenever we’re in a group setting.

  Not that Marshall is any better. The man is utterly relentless—charming, yes, but relentless nevertheless. If I were a weaker woman, I’d give in. Sleep with him once and then send him on his way. If I were still up to my old ways, I’d probably do just that.

  The worry comes in when I think about becoming needy just like Adaline—that one taste of Marshall will never be enough. And that, when he leaves, I’ll crash and burn just like my mother. Or worse, that I’ll be back to my old tricks again and crush him without even realizing it.

  “Gwen.”

  I meet Charlie’s gaze, someone I’ve known even longer than I’ve known Marshall. While Marshall has seen me at rock bottom, Charlie has personally borne the brunt of Old Gwen. When we first started hanging out, along with Zoe, I was convinced Charls was just yanking me along, biding her time to strike perfect revenge for all the shit I pulled on her. But, no, Charlie Denton is just . . . good, all the way to her core. The sort of good that I desperately want to be.

  I put up a hand, cutting her off. “Don’t say it.”

  Her lips turn up in a grin. “You don’t even know what I’m going to say.”

  Shaking my head, I mutter, “You’re an open book, Denton. Trust me, your thoughts are all over your face.”

  She laughs loudly, a boisterous, full-belly sound that is so typically her. “No wonder Duke always knows when I want to jump his bones. My lust is all over my face.”

  Feeling the mood lighten, I add, “I’m pretty sure he looks your way and you immediately start panting. Thankfully, your boyfriend is a little more circumspect as a client. If I signed you, the world would know when you’re begging for sex.”

  “Who’s begging for sex?”

  The Mountain, otherwise known as Duke Harrison, appears behind his petite girlfriend. Once upon a time, Duke and I dated—if you can even call it that. A few dinners here and there and one awkward make-out session does not a relationship make. Not my best moment. Are they ever? Swallowing, I force a bright smile. “Your girlfriend is—tell me, Harrison, what do you see when you look at Charlie’s face?”

  Catching onto my game, Charlie winks at me and then presses her chin to the top of her hands. She flutters her eyelashes ridiculously, then goes all out by biting her bottom lip and . . . is she squinting?

  Duke, typical guy that he is, frowns. “Did you get something in your eye, babe?”

  Charlie huffs. “I’m smizing.”

  “Smizing? Is that a new mascara or something?”

  Stifling a laugh, I open my mouth and then am soundly cut off by the one man who never fails to make me question everything about myself.

  Marshall slings a muscular arm around Duke’s shoulders, leaning in as if to impart a big secret. “Nah,” he says, his gray eyes bright with mirth, “it’s model lingo. She’s smiling with her eyes. Get it? Smile. Eyes. Smize.”

  Duke’s brows lower. “That’s the stupidest shit I’ve ever heard. Who made that up?”

  “Tyra Banks,” I put in, growing warm under the weight of Marshall’s stare. “America’s Next Top Model,” I add. “Ringing any bells?”

  The Mountain looks at me blankly.

  I turn to my friend. “Your boyfriend’s knowledge of reality TV is sorely lacking.”

  “I think we should be asking, instead, why Hunt knows what smizing is.” Charlie taps her nose and then points at the Blades’ star forward. “Wanna tell us your secrets?”

  For a moment, so quick I’m almost convinced it didn’t happen, Marshall’s gray eyes grow somber, the laughter banking. My heart stutters. Marshall is an open book—he’s not one to hide what he’s thinking, and the man is full of so much good humor that it’s hard to imagine him hiding anything at all.

  Then he grins, his dimples creasing his clean-shaven cheeks. “Charlie, a man never tells.”

  “You do,” Duke snorts. “You can’t keep a secret to save your life.”

  Except that he has for years now. He’s kept my secret, and I’ve never even asked him to. As if knowing the direction of my thoughts, his gaze fixes on me. “Some things are sacred.” He blinks, and the darkened cast in his expression lifts like an unraveled veil. “And some things, like my dating reputation, keep me informed on the smizing habits of models everywhere in the world.”

  Everyone laughs at that—just as Marshall intended, I’m sure—and then he’s turning to me, dropping his arm from Duke’s broad shoulder, and stepping close. My breath hitches as I reflect his approach by inching back.

  His dimples wink with a quick, easy grin. “Running, Gwen?”

  I shake my head. “Never.”

  “Prove it.”

  Duke and Charlie’s laughter fades, and my best friend clears her throat. “Hmm, is that Zoe I hear calling my name? Gotta go!” She wraps a hand around Duke’s arm, despite the fact that the man would follow her to the ends of the earth, and sashays her way into the crowd.

  Traitor.

  I fix my gaze on the artfully displayed desserts. In a tone that acutely reminds me of the Old Gwen—in other words, painfully hoity-toity—I say, “Didn’t we go through this once already today? This game thing is not happening.”

  But Marshall surprises me.

  “Dance with me.” His voice is rough around the edges, its undercurrent a true Bostonian slant that speaks to his childhood in Southie. I haven’t heard all the stories, mostly in an attempt to keep our lives untangled, but I’ve heard enough to know that his life hasn’t always been one of supermodels, million-dollar contracts, and international hockey stardom.

  Once upon a time, he’d been dealt a hand of foster care, petty juvenile crimes, and a surprising talent for staying upright on skates when he and his buddies stopped up the gutters in their old neighborhood and waited for the shallow water to freeze over.

  A free ice rink.

  “Commandeered” skates.

  My gaze catches on the gold Rolex encircling one thick wrist, a Rolex that the Blades’ GM gave him when he came up from the farm team.

  Marshall Hu
nt has come a long way from his roots.

  So have you.

  I withhold a wince. I don’t suspect that my transformation is nearly as noticeable to the outside eye as his.

  “Gwen?”

  Glancing up past his wide chest, to the buttons he’s undone at the column of his throat, I meet his pewter eyes with a little shiver. Remember, you are not interested. Staring at masculine perfection makes it hard to remember that fact. “There’s no music playing,” I finally say.

  There is, but the soft jazz isn’t exactly inspiring any of the partygoers to break it down on the dance floor. Instead, everyone is still shoveling food into their mouths as they toss back the endless supply of booze.

  “Once upon a time, you didn’t care if you were the only woman belting out ‘It’s Raining Men’ with just the jukebox as your partner-in-crime.” He holds out a hand, palm up. Even with a foot separating us, I can make out the hard callouses that scar his flesh. “Dance with me, Gwen.”

  I can’t.

  It has nothing to do with my interest in Marshall and everything to do with me. His words are a stark reminder that I’m no longer that carefree girl who was willing to climb on top of tables in dirty barrooms, singing outrageously at the top of her lungs.

  That girl has been gone for a long time now, replaced by bitterness and tension and a fake superiority complex. And even if I’m no longer quite the latter anymore, either, I’m still not the girl he remembers from college.

  She’s disappeared, and I’m not quite willing to jump into the fire to pull her back out.

  My heart lurches at the sight of Marshall’s hand slowly falling back to his side, and I feel that increased distance between us acutely. Take his hand, take his hand, take his hand. The words flip on repeat in my head as the handsome smile on his face fades. With a cool expression, his mouth flattens into a firm line.

  “Right. Have a good night, Gwen.”

  It sounds so final, but this . . . this is what I wanted, right? To cut the cord?

  “Marshall,” I start awkwardly, “listen, I’m sorry. It’s not—”