Fair Play (Hat Trick, Book 1)

Destiny Calls

With Grace

Hat Trick Book Two: Two Man Advantage

Hat Trick Book Three: End Game

Copyright © 2013
Samantha Wayland

Published by Loch Awe Press

P.O. Box 5481

Wayland, MA 01778

ISBN 978-1-940839-00-4

Edited by Helen Hardt and Meghan
Conrad

Cover Art by Caitlin Fry

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and
incidents either are a product of the author imagination or are used
fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business
establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

With the exception of quotes used in reviews, this book may
not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written
permission from the publisher, Loch Awe Press, PO Box 5481, Wayland, MA 01778.

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of
this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be scanned, uploaded
or distributed via the Internet or any other means, electronic or print,
without the publisher’s permission. Criminal copyright infringement, including
infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is
punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.
(http://www.fbi.gov/ipr/). Please purchase only authorized electronic or print
editions and do not participate in or encourage the electronic piracy of
copyrighted material. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

To Stevie, my dear friend and extraordinarily patient tutor
on all things hockey. Never could I have imagined the impact you would have in
my life when I met you all those years ago. Then again, you
were
wild-eyed with sleep deprivation and dropping f-bombs in a room full of Mormons
like it was your job.

Here’s to overcoming first impressions.

I could not have written this story without the help and
patience of many. Above all, I must thank my family, particularly for putting up
with my “research trips” to Bruins games. I promise I
will
take you with
me someday.

Many thanks to Victoria Morgan, Penny Watson and Bobbi
Ruggiero, for hours of support, laughter, editing, and mango martinis
(sometimes simultaneously!). Thanks to Dalton Diaz for delivering the hard
feedback and doing it with such grace and kindness. You are a rock. And to
Serena Bell. You gave me and this story a much needed shaking up and managed to
improve both.

My thanks again to Stevie, for turning what started as a
research project into a passion for hockey. And finally, my thanks to Mike, who
answered millions of questions about his beautiful hometown of Moncton.

I’ve taken some creative license when it comes to both
hockey and Moncton, all in the name of making the story come to life and/or
protecting the innocent. Any inaccuracies or mistakes are mine and mine alone.

Miss Manners had never covered how to turn down a date when
the lady in question already had her hands in the man’s underpants. A shame,
really, since it seemed to happen to Savannah Morrison with alarming
regularity.

“Rhian Savage, you know better,” she chided, barely keeping
a lid on her irritation.

They were alone in her work room, the tight space made
smaller and more intimate by the equipment jammed into every corner and the hot
tub at her back. Rhian lay on her table, stripped down to skin-tight spandex
shorts that left little to the imagination.

And Savannah had a wonderful imagination.

Finished with her inspection of the fresh bruises on his hip
and flank, she slipped her fingers free of his waistband and let it snap back
into place from a good six inches away from his skin. He flinched, muffling his
snort of laughter, while she fought to keep her expression bland.

Rhian shrugged, his massive chest shifting. “You can’t blame
a guy for trying.”

 She rolled her eyes before she turned away to gather more
supplies and her composure.

Rhian was one of the good guys, and more importantly, he
listened to her advice. If he didn’t, he wouldn’t be on her table, allowing her
to climb all over him to stretch out his tight leg muscles. Now that she’d
checked the damage from the previous night and was satisfied it wasn’t going to
be an issue, she indicated he should stand up so she could wrap him for tonight’s
game.

She watched how he moved, searching for any sign of pain,
studying the beauty laid bare before her with professional detachment. When she
wasn’t feeling sensitive about it, she could admit her job was a little unusual.
But being the athletic trainer for a professional ice hockey team was her
dream. And she took it very seriously.

Thus, Rhian was here. He didn’t have a pulled hamstring, not
yet, and she was determined to prevent one. A lot of the guys would have
ignored her suggestions for stretches, PT, Kinesio tape, and good wrapping. Not
Rhian.

Most of the time she fought what appeared to be some kind of
code among the players. One that ignored thoughtful suggestions, “forgot”
mandatory check-ins and flatly refused to admit to any pain, no matter how
obvious it was to her well-trained eye. The question was if the code stemmed
from the fact that all hockey players were notoriously hard-headed about
showing any sign of weakness, or if the real issue was the Ice Cats’ new trainer
was a woman.

With a sigh, she worked a compression bandage around Rhian’s
hard thigh and up over his hip, grateful he stood still and behaved
professionally in spite of his gross breach of etiquette a few moments ago.

Not for the first time, Savannah lamented the previous
trainer’s disappearing act to Australia the minute he’d retired. She would have
liked his thoughts on some of the players—their habits, their weaknesses—and then
could have used that information to determine whether there had always existed
a culture of resistance to the trainer or if it was all just sexist bullshit.

Then again, if the previous trainer was an old-school kind
of guy, he might have been too apoplectic over her very existence to be much
help. Hell, at least four players still wouldn’t make eye contact, let alone
speak
to her unless forced. The only reason she had any interaction with them at all
was because their coach, Rick, would kick their asses if she didn’t sign off on
them to play.

In the face of all that, the last thing she needed was to
date
one of her players. The very idea made her shudder.

She ripped off the last piece of tape with a little more
force than necessary and finished Rhian’s wrap. Pleased with the results, she
stepped back and put her hands on her hips.

His grin was adorable, unrepentant, and absolutely not
helping. She looked to the heavens for patience before casting a baleful eye on
him. “Rhian, I’m flattered you asked.” She grimaced when his eyebrows lifted. “But
you should try to remember I’m the only thing that stands between your hairy
legs and a lot of very sticky tape.”

Rhian winced and quickly yanked up his gym shorts. She
refused to even so much as crack a smile at his antics.

Even though he’d lost his head and asked, she suspected he
understood her reasons for saying no. He was young, focused and building a
reputation on the ice. He didn’t need any drama to fuck that up. Nor did she. The
biggest difference between them was that he might get picked up by the NHL by
the end of this season. She, on the other hand, expected to put in a few years
with the Ice Cats before setting her sights higher.

Rhian said his thanks and slid by, careful not to brush
against her as he left the room. She made quick work of cleaning up the mess, shaking
off her irritation, and turning her mind to her schedule.
Who is next?
Hopefully not one of her problem children. She could use a minute to clear her
head.

Loud laughter echoed outside her door and Savannah resisted
the urge to bang her head against the edge of her tub. She hadn’t known that
just thinking “problem child” would bring the worst of the lot to her door.

In the hallway, Rhian chatted with Garrick LeBlanc. How
these two men could be friends was a mystery to her. Rhian was
 
a good
guy and a rookie. Garrick was…
not
.

That Garrick was friends with anybody had to be an
aberration. At the very least, she’d have guessed he’d hang out with the men
he’d played with the longest, or knew from college teams, or even grew up with in
the same town. Heck, how about with the other dogs who’d taken all the puck
bunnies for a test drive?

Instead, he gravitated toward the men with level heads and
strong work ethics. The players she liked. The heart of the team.

What she couldn’t figure out was what any of those guys saw
in Garrick.

She ignored another booming laugh.

If she
had
come to Moncton to find a boyfriend and a
party, she wouldn’t have had to look any further. Garrick LeBlanc’s reputation
was on the order of legend. He’d been a sensation when he started in the league
twelve years ago, his handsome face a favorite with both the female fans and
the press.

For more than a decade he’d been a star for the Moncton Ice
Cats. Other teams had tried to woo him away, but he had grown up in Moncton and
had made himself the beloved son by refusing to leave. The fans adored his
antics, on ice and off. It would have been totally unconscionable if he weren’t
an outstanding forward.

Oh yes, she’d learned all about Garrick when she thoroughly researched
the Ice Cats before coming north. She’d lectured herself to be open-minded, and
when he introduced himself the day she arrived, his firm handshake and direct gaze
had given her hope that what she’d learned about him would not be an issue.

Then a nanosecond after Rick—the coach, her
boss—
turned
away, Garrick had asked her out. Indeed, he had the dubious honor of being the very
first player to do so—though it would have been tough to beat him, since she’d
only been in the arena
ten minutes
.

She’d figured she might get asked out at some point, but
having to deal with it that soon had been disappointing.

No, screw disappointing. It had royally pissed her off.

Since then she’d been cool with Garrick. Actually, she was
cool with all the players. She was downright
frosty
with Garrick. And he
made it easy. Apparently, his ego hadn’t taken well to her less-than-tactfully
blurted “no,” and he’d hardly made eye contact with her since.

She snorted with amusement. Even as handsome as he was, she couldn’t
possibly be the only woman who had ever told him no—not that she wouldn’t happily
accept the honor.

Fighting the sneer begging to make its way onto her face, she
patiently sorted the last of her supplies into various containers as Garrick
walked into her office. By the time she turned around, his gym shorts were off
and another set of imagination-free spandex shorts and their contents were on
display.

In other circumstances, she might have enjoyed the view.
She’d always had a thing for really big guys, and at six and a half feet of
toned, hockey-playing muscle, Garrick was a fine specimen. Heck, she probably
could
look her fill, since his gaze was firmly fixed on the phone he held in front of
his face.

But ogling wouldn’t be professional. And she’d have her
hands all over him in about two minutes anyway.

She sighed. Why did he have to have a groin pull?

Why
, Garrick wondered again, as he had before every
game this season,
do I have to have a groin pull?

He’d known the moment he twisted the damn muscle playing
street hockey with his nephews over the summer that it would plague him. He’d
never imagined it would persist this far into the season.

Months of PT, stretching, hot soaks, strengthening, ice and
wraps. Months of pure unadulterated torture.

Not torture because it was hard work, or because it hurt
like hell. He was tougher than that. It was torture because the only person who
made a difference, who was able to help him and give him sound advice and
support, was Savannah.

She was damn good at her job, a fact he often celebrated and
lamented in the same breath.

Garrick wasn’t stupid. If the old trainer had still been
around, Garrick’s career, and possibly his ability to walk normally, would have
come to an end two months ago. But Savannah pushed. She fought his stubborn old
body and worked magic. And what she couldn’t fix between games, she shored up
and protected on the ice with pre-game hot compresses, icing, and wraps.

Hell, she’d once constructed a support wrap reinforced with
duct
tape
to get the job done. She was clever and tenacious, and he was
incredibly fucking lucky and grateful.

Not that he dared tell her that. At this point, he was
afraid to look at her. Instead, he pretended to play games on his phone like a
completely rude asshole while reminding himself to breathe normally. And if
that didn’t work, he thought about his grandma and fuzzy little kittens and Mrs.
Plum, his kindly and ancient elementary school art teacher. When times got
really tough, he closed his eyes and pictured the time his friend took a line
drive to his nuts in high school.

Anything to keep from getting an erection.

Not since middle school had he spent so much time and energy
attempting to wrestle his cock into submission. Back then a long t-shirt and
his hands shoved in his pockets had hidden a multitude of sins.

Clearly, spandex shorts under a damn spotlight weren’t going
to afford him the same protection, even if she wasn’t bent to her task, her
nose level with his navel.

She didn’t have to do a hot compress or ice for him
today—weeks ago he’d taken over those pre-game treatments in an attempt to show
himself some mercy. Though right now a freezing cold bag pressed to his junk
would be helpful. Desperate, he recalled Mrs. Plum’s wrinkled visage and fought
the flow of blood.

Perverse as it was, some part of him still looked forward to
coming here and giving himself over to her capable hands. He’d never pegged
himself for a masochist.

Firm fingers slid over his hip and he bit back the urge to
shout “down boy!” He fought to focus on his game.

Why were these birds so angry anyway?

Sighing he put down his phone. Looking directly at Savannah
was not the best strategy for controlling his little problem, but he was tired
of being rude, and ignoring her wasn’t working anyway.

“So, how are you settling in?” he asked.

She stilled, glancing up at his face before refocusing on
the bindings she was working around his thigh and between his legs. Her hand skimmed
along the underside of his butt cheek. He bit his tongue. Hard.

“Uh…fine.” Her brows drew together briefly while nimble
fingers smoothed tape along his leg. “The season has me busy enough that I
don’t think I’ll really feel like a resident of Moncton until the summer.”

A pang of guilt hit his gut. He should have offered to show
her around. Not on a date, of course, but as a local. Dorky as it sounded, he considered
himself something of an ambassador for new people on or associated with the
team to help them get comfortable with their new home.

But after the wonderful first impression he’d made, he
doubted she’d take him up on an offer for a tour of the town. He cringed,
remembering his stupidity.

His only defense—and he could admit it wasn’t a great one—was
that he’d come to the meet-and-greet nervous about the new trainer, having
hated the old guy but knowing the various aches and pains in his leg and hip weren’t
going to help a veteran player further his career. In fact, he’d been thinking
his career might be over, and damn it, he hoped to get a few more years in the
league. At least long enough to figure out what the fuck he was going to do
next.

He hadn’t expected to find a beautiful woman, try though she
might to hide it, standing in the lobby shaking hands with the rest of the
players. She’d been wearing a frumpy suit and ugly shoes. Her disguise, as he’d
come to think of it. Tonight it was loose yoga pants, a boxy men’s Ice Cats
pullover that fell to mid-thigh, and sneakers. As always, a tight knot pulled
her hair back from her face.

But Garrick saw the truth. Then and now.

The curves. The silky hair. Smoky green eyes. Long legs,
swelling hips, and a little dipped-in waist. Five feet ten inches of lovely athletic
grace.

Shit. Now he needed a distraction. ASAP.

Tentatively, he smiled. “I’m from around here. Is there
anything I can do to help?” At her suspicious look, he continued quickly. “I
just mean, I don’t know…Good dry cleaner? Best pizza? Chinese take-out to avoid
if you want to live? That sort of thing?”