Mr. Hat Trick Read online

  “Totally. I get that. When I said ‘yourself’, I didn’t mean Mabel the singer, I meant Mabel the game designer. You’ll make a name for Weirdaker Games on its own merits. But, my unsolicited advice is that you should leverage all the tools at your disposal.”

  She shifts uncomfortably. “The fame thing is a double-edged sword, you know?”

  Oh, I know, although my own brush with the spotlight was at the infamous end of the celebrity spectrum years ago.

  I think of Tate, more recently, shell-shocked at his trade news. Of how I’d invited him back to my apartment so he could process the news in private, and everything that had happened after that… “I know,” I say softly. “And it’s totally up to you how you use that or don’t. There are a lot of different ways to run a marketing campaign, and I’m not going to meddle in that for you. It’s up to you, completely, but I’m happy to be a trusted counsellor as needed. And a part of that is sharing the advice and then letting my opinion go.” I wave my hand in the air. “Gone.”

  The conversation pauses there as the real estate agent arrives in a crunch of tires on gravel. Noisy—something to remember about the verandah. Maybe the parking lot could be paved.

  I add that to my mental notes list, too.

  The agent introduces himself to Mabel first, then me, then punches in the code to open the door.

  My phone vibrates, and I check the screen as I step inside. A message from Tate.

  Mabel looks at me. “Do you need a minute?”

  I shove my phone back in my bag and shake my head. “No. I’m good. Let’s see what we’ve got here.”

  4

  Tate

  Vancouver

  My gut twists as the clock runs down the final seconds of the game.

  It’s been amateur hour out here tonight.

  Even after weeks of pre-season training and play, there is zero fucking synergy between me and my linemates. Every shift is a clusterfuck of one sort or another. So many missed and intercepted passes.

  The horn signals the end of the period and the end of the game.

  Fucking hell.

  It was bad enough losing to Calgary on Saturday in the season opener, but to lose tonight against my old fucking team on home ice is mortifying.

  The silent disappointment echoes through the inside of The Pulpmill louder than any cheers ever could. I’m gutted, too, right along with the fans. I’d made a commitment to myself and them that if I didn’t get to play with the Senators, I would crush them at every opportunity. And because that’s what I’d decided, I had no doubt that’s what would happen. I’m cocky like that.

  Fucking hubris finally caught up to me. Really, that happened in August, when I was blindsided by the trade, and I’m still reeling from it. Instead of starting the season leading the team of my heart to another chance at the Stanley Cup, I’m stuck on the other side of the country on a team that hasn’t made the play-offs in the eight years it’s been around.

  I can already hear the commentators, and they’re not wrong. Nilsson needs to do something soon to show he’s worth that hefty contract he brought with him.

  If I force myself to think about it analytically, the trade was a good one for Ottawa. The Lumberjacks got me and a player to be named later in exchange for their number one overall draft pick. But it was still a slapshot to the balls for my ego. Especially given Ottawa had the chance to pick me in the draft. But in their infinite wisdom, they went with Sam Kettering, a hotshot forward who crashed and burned in his first season.

  I push those memories away. They’re toxic. I make my way to the dressing room and focus on getting home and away from people. I tell the Lumberjack press office guy I’ll take questions as soon as I shower, and I make good on that promise. When I saunter back into the locker room, one towel slung low around my hips and another in my hands—to dry my hair, but also a prop to buy me a second once the vultures descend—I give him the nod and stand in front of my stall.

  The first question is, of course, about how it felt to play against the Senators. I turn and stuff the towel in my hands into a nook, ensuring that the question itself doesn’t make the video of this. I only want the news to run my answer. “I’m finding my footing here in Vancouver. We’ve got a lot of strength in our defence—some crazy big guys behind me, which I love. That’s where my focus was tonight. We’re only two games in. It’s a long season. We’re figuring out what works. The goal at the top of the second period is an example of that, and obviously, that’s where our focus is. On the long season, on getting into the play-offs.”

  “You didn’t answer the question.”

  I wink and adjust my towel. Buying another beat of time. “How about that, eh? Obviously, I know Ottawa is a well-oiled machine and full props to them for bringing their A game tonight. They clearly tried some new things in pre-season and that worked.” Translation: They’ve moved on from me, and I see that. Not my team anymore.

  From behind the flashing lights and shove of microphones, I hear another question, about deflecting what’s really a personal problem of adjusting. I know how to play the game here. Acknowledge and reframe. I take a deep breath and aim my eyes just above the cameras. “At the end of the day, I can compete at a higher level, and I know that, but that’s not the story you guys are making it out to be. Right now, I’m thinking, okay, that was game two. Eighty to go, and I’m excited. All right? Thanks, guys.”

  I turn around, and there are a few more pictures taken of my bare back as I reach up and grab the smaller towel I’d shoved in the nook above my head. By the time I’m done wiping off my face, they’ve moved on.

  When I get home, I throw my bag down in the entryway and stalk through my apartment, closing the blinds, shutting out the twinkling lights of downtown. Twinkling is too happy for my mood tonight.

  I grab a beer from the fridge on my way to the living room and loosen my tie as I flop onto the sofa. After jabbing at buttons on the remote, the TV comes on and tonight’s game is queued up on the PVR.

  What better way to rest after the work-day is over than to watch it all over again? I’ll torture myself by watching every gaff and misstep in slow-motion instant-replay on sixty inches of in-my-face high-def.

  Before I push play, I need to catch up on the rest of my life. I fish my phone from my pocket and take it off airplane mode.

  Early on in my career I made it a policy to stay completely disconnected from the outside world until my work-day is over and I am safely out of the public eye.

  I hate having to say “no comment” when blindsided by reporters looking for a quote about a trade, a bad hit, or even off-ice scandals. I refuse to lie, but that phrase always feels like one. It’s better to be able to honestly say I know nothing and walk away.

  A few swipes of my thumb later, the notifications start flooding in.

  Most of them I can dismiss without checking because they are for my public social media accounts which my long-time friend and assistant, Rob, handles. I click on the voicemail.

  “Tate, it’s Max. Give me a call as soon as you get a chance.”

  Out of habit, I check the time and add three hours. The time difference bullshit got old real fast.

  Midnight for me means it’s three in the morning for Max, so I fire him a text.

  Tate: I’m around until noon my time. Call me when it’s convenient - unlike you, don’t have a tiny baby disrupting my sleep cycle.

  Moments later, my phone lights up, and I answer it. “Hey Max, what’s up?”

  “Me, with the baby.” He doesn’t sound like he minds, though. “How’s my hometown treating you? Been to any clubs?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Why not?”

  Sasha. But I can’t tell him that. “Still getting my bearings.”

  “Bearings? Jesus, Tate, it’s not like you’re some new high school graduate leaving home for the first time. You’ve got connections in every hockey town in North America. In fact—”

  I cut him off. “Connections�
��not friends.” I don’t really mean to admit that. “It’s not just bearings. Things aren’t going so smoothly with the new team, so I’m not really up for socializing.”

  “What you need is some playtime. I can hook you up with my buddy, Reid Porter. He’s got a club in town that should be right up your alley.”

  “I’m fine, Max. Really. Now, I’m pretty sure you didn’t call me in the middle of the night to make sure I’m getting my kink on. So, what’s up?”

  “Actually, that is why I called, in a manner of speaking. You know how Noah’s arrival required all new basement furniture?”

  I chuckle. Their basement went from fully-equipped BDSM dungeon to ultra-vanilla family room in a single weekend. “Yeah…”

  “Let’s just say the old furniture is no longer homeless.”

  “That’s great news, because I have to tell you, I was so worried about its fate it was keeping me up nights. Thank you for not making me lose another night’s sleep over it.”

  “I’m going to ignore that, smart-ass. Because we just took possession of a property today. All of that play furniture, and a hell of a lot more, is going to have a new home in that club I talked about opening back in the summer. Plans are quickly coming together for something spectacular. Porter—the guy from Vancouver I mentioned—made me an offer I couldn’t refuse. His company will handle the day-to-day management of it, and we should be up and running soon. Like…next week, for founding members. You’re in town next week, right? I wanted to see if you can squeeze a night of debauchery into your schedule before your game in Ottawa.”

  Well that’s completely different. I might not want to go out and get laid here in Vancouver, but hanging out with my tribe back home? Fuck yeah. “Absolutely, I can. Just email me the details.”

  “Will do,” Max says, then I hear Noah crying. “Gotta go. Parenthood calls.”

  Our third game is another bad loss at home, against Winnipeg, on Thursday night.

  We spend Friday having our asses kicked by the coaching staff. It starts with a team meeting first thing, where the coach lambastes us over our shitty performance, singling out players to point out the fuck-ups and what they should have done differently, and then we’re put through a bruising practice.

  I spend Friday night watching game tape on my iPad, while I sit in a bathtub full of ice.

  My poor fucking legs.

  My poor fucking nuts.

  Saturday’s morning skate before our game against Edmonton is better. I even stick around for a bit after, drinking a protein shake with Andrushko before I head back to my apartment to chill.

  Bzzzz. From my sprawled-out position on my couch, I glare at the intercom.

  Something I wasn’t prepared for with condo living was the incessant buzzing. My priorities for finding a place to live out here were proximity to the arena, a private parking space, and zero home maintenance.

  All of that apparently comes at the expense of people pressing all of the buttons on the board in the lobby.

  I may need to move.

  For now, I ignore the latest round of noise because I know it’s not for me. It’s never for me.

  It’s always either the wrong condo or someone looking to get into the building who doesn’t have a legitimate reason for access. Neither scenario requires me to get my ass off the couch, so I just wait it out until whoever it is gives up and moves on. I’m supposed to be napping, anyway.

  I can’t rest, though. I went to bed too early last night and got plenty of sleep.

  My entire routine is so fucking different than it was back home.

  Bzzz.

  Different and irritating.

  A minute or so later, my condo is blissfully quiet and I feel another hard stab of the loneliness that’s plagued me since August.

  The trade didn’t just uproot me from my team, it yanked me away from my entire social life. My family.

  Sasha.

  I can’t afford to let my thoughts head off in that direction. It’s a game night and at oh-and-three, we’re sitting in last place in the entire league—an unfamiliar and uncomfortable ranking for me. I need to keep my mental shit together if I have any hope of turning things around.

  The silence is broken by a rhythmic knocking on wood, and it takes a moment for me to register that the sound is coming from my door.

  Reluctantly, I get up from the couch and trudge through the condo. A huge grin stretches across my face when I look through the peephole and see Rob and Trevor, two of my closest friends who should be in Ottawa instead of on the other side of my door.

  Up until I was traded to Vancouver, we saw each other at least a couple times a week whenever I wasn’t on the road. Now, it’s been nearly two months since we last hung out.

  I swing the door wide. “What are you two doing here?”

  Rob smiles back at me. “It’s hockey night in Canada. Where else would we be?”

  My stomach sinks a little, but I manage to keep the frown off my face. “You did not fly across the country just to take in a hockey game.”

  “Told you he wouldn’t buy that,” Trevor says.

  “A little birdie told us you might appreciate a little company.”

  Fucking Max. “Since when have I ever been short of company?”

  “Since you left Ottawa, apparently.”

  “I’m fine.”

  Rob shrugs. “In that case, I guess you’d rather travel to Ottawa with the team on Monday instead of coming back with us tonight.”

  “There aren’t any flights to Ottawa tonight.” I know this because I’m already travelling ahead of the team, and I booked the very first flight out after the game. It doesn’t take off until mid-morning tomorrow and worse, won’t arrive until mid-afternoon. Fucking time-zones.

  “There are when you’ve got Jack Benton’s private jet at your disposal,” Trev says as he pushes past me into my condo.

  Rob follows, making no secret of the fact he’s checking out the place.

  I close the door. “How the fuck did you get Jack’s plane?” I’ve been on it twice before. It’s kitted out to the nines, including a sweet master bedroom with a king-size bed.

  “Who cares? He offered, we accepted, and now we’re here. Are you coming back with us tonight, or not?”

  A whole extra day to soak up the comforts of home, and track down Sasha? Hell yes. “Damn straight I am. And I get the bedroom.”

  By the time I arrive back at the arena, I’m flying high. An afternoon of shooting the shit with my buddies was just what the doctor ordered. I’m looser, more relaxed as I dress for the game.

  Up until now, I’ve tended to just keep to myself and ignore everything going on around me if it didn’t pertain directly the performance of my job.

  But tonight, I listen to my teammates as they yammer on about everything from advice to Leclerc, our starting goalie, on his impending fatherhood to the drama with Wade Gibson, who was traded to Edmonton in a deal that precipitated the Lumberjacks grabbing me from Ottawa.

  This last bit grabs my attention.

  It sure as fuck explains why Gibson, a rising star with twenty-two goals and thirty-seven assists in his rookie season with the Lumberjacks, got his ass booted.

  Turns out there’s more riding on this game than just the need for us to rack up our first win of the season. My pulse slows as I focus in on what they’re saying. As the banter continues around me, I realize the best way for me to truly be a member of this team is to pull my head out of my ass and connect with them where they are at.

  It’s been eight years since I’ve been the new guy. But even then, I was still really young. And as part of a three-player trade, I didn’t feel like an outsider because we were already like our own mini-team.

  I’m not actually the only new guy starting this season with the Lumberjacks. But I may as well be considering the other guy is the head coach.

  And speak of the devil.

  Dan Cooke strides into the locker room and the chatter dies down.

&n
bsp; Standing six-foot-six, he’s big even for a hockey player, and with his arms folded over his chest, he’s a formidable presence in a dressing room full of posturing alpha males. “I’m going to keep this short and sweet so it’s easy for even the thickest skulls in the room to remember.” He scans the room, stopping to catch the eye of a couple players. “I want good, clean hockey out there.” Another pause. More scanning. More eye catching. “So, don’t antagonize the other team over Gibson’s appetite for other players’ wives and girlfriends. Also, don’t be asking Gibson whose wife or girlfriend he’s fucking because he’s probably just cocky enough to say something stupid.”

  This time when he stops, he’s looking straight at me.

  Holy shit. His eyes are twinkling and his tongue is so deeply planted in his cheek, there’s no question this is his game plan. Tacit instructions to goad the other team into fights while he maintains an air of plausible deniability.

  “Now go kick some Edmonton ass.”

  As soon as the coach is gone, Zack Moore comes over and sits next to me. “Just in case it wasn’t obvious, Cooke wants us to—”

  “Yeah, I get it.” I grin. “Do everything he told us not to.”

  “FYI, Gibson gets no mercy over this—he’s an asshole. Unattached puck-bunnies galore, but he went after a teammate’s wife. Laski’s marriage was on rocky ground, and Gibson took it beyond redemption.”

  As we line up during the national anthem, I’m optimistic about the outcome of tonight’s game.

  My first face-off of the night is against Gibson and it’s obvious he hasn’t learned a thing from the trade. He’s more than cocky. It’s like he thinks he’s untouchable and can get away with whatever he wants. He hasn’t absorbed that this trade was a step down for him. I know that he was put in Edmonton’s first line in an attempt to psych me out. Fuck ‘em. He’s still a baby player—and I fully intend to make him feel it.

  I win the face-off and haul ass to where the puck will be. For the first time since coming to Vancouver, I’m confident that it’s will, not should.