Fair Play (Hat Trick, Book 1) (3 page)

Telling him here, like this, wasn’t fair, but it worked to
her advantage. She deserved one after the night she’d had.

The next line change came and went. She continued to spell
it all out for Mark.

She told him about Garrick, and Mark turned to stare down
the bench, nodding once. She sent Garrick a weak smile over Mark’s shoulder,
sorry he would be dragged into this further.

By the time she finished, Mark had repeatedly promised to
address it and assured her it would never happen again. She hoped that meant
Bobby’s ass would get fired, but she didn’t think she was that lucky.

Another line change brought her attention back to the game.
Garrick rose to his feet, ready to go on the ice. He was almost seven feet tall
in his skates, a veritable wall of jersey, pads, and man as he moved in front
of her. He tossed one leg over the boards before lifting his hand to her.

Without a thought, she bumped her bare knuckles against his
huge gloved fist, grateful for his support.

Garrick threw himself into the game while she studiously
ignored the looks from Mark and a couple of the players on the bench. The truth
hit her hard. In all her time with the Ice Cats, she’d never done anything as
familiar as a fist bump.

They all must think I’m an uptight bitch.
And why
wouldn’t they?

She’d been hell-bent on making the right impression as a professional,
as a qualified trainer. Somehow, she’d lost sight of the fact that she was also
supposed to be a
team
member
.

She searched for signs Garrick’s groin hurt, that any of the
players on the ice were having an issue, all the while wondering when she’d
sucked the joy out of the game she’d loved all her life. But she loved the job,
too. And when had she decided these two things were mutually exclusive?

Probably about the same time Garrick had hit on her that
first day. Or when she’d turned down two more dates within the following hour.
By day four she’d turned down two more players, an assistant coach, and Sheila,
the lovely woman who ran the box office. She’d also determined that she was the
only straight, single woman under the age of sixty who worked for the team. And
that the people of Moncton really needed to get laid.

Which was most definitely
not
in her job description.

In the end, she’d erred on the side of isolation. The
operative word being
erred
. Three months later, she was lonely, didn’t
feel like she’d ever settle into her new home, and her teammates were surprised
when she engaged one of them in something as benign as a fist bump.

If not for the cameras and the crowd, she might have fist
bumped her own forehead.

The next line change was in motion and she helped Mike Erdo shove
his hand back in his glove as he stood. How many times had she done this for
teammates, her brothers, students she’d coached? Why had she never said to a
member of the Ice Cats all the things she’d shouted from the benches of
countless other ice rinks?

Mike was already sailing over the wall when he called out
his thanks. She responded by suggesting, loudly, that he apply his foot to
their opponent’s posterior. Only not in those exact words.

It felt good. Really good. Like she’d reclaimed something
she hadn’t known she’d lost—her spirit.

Mike shot her a quick smile as he sailed past, already in
the game.

The joy returned.

Garrick strode into the arena, his teeth locked together
with grim determination. He was not going to limp. He was not going to limp. He
refused
to fucking limp.

A mid-week staff meeting at the beginning of a series of
home games was unusual. Likely someone had been fired, hired, drafted in, dealed
out or was in deep-shit trouble.  He dreamed fleetingly that Bobby Kramer was
getting his ass fired, as he so richly deserved, but Garrick doubted he or
Savannah would be so fortunate. He’d known the moment Mark had caught up with
Bobby a week ago. If looks could kill, Garrick and the team’s esteemed trainer
would have died one hundred times over. Bobby was in a rage, but it was a quiet
rage he was keeping to himself, so Garrick couldn’t do much about it.

He strode without a hint of a goddamn limp into the meeting
room and scanned the crowd. He immediately caught Bobby’s gaze and was treated
to another death-ray stare.
Whatever.

Rhian sidled down a row of seats at the front of the room.
Garrick found Savannah when Rhian sat down next to her.

Of course
the most handsome man in the room was
sitting next to Savannah. His friend’s ridiculous good looks didn’t usually bother
Garrick, but this morning they absolutely irritated the shit out of him.

He slid down the same row and sat on Savannah’s other side. She
acknowledged him with a glance and something that might even qualify as a smile
before turning back to Rhian. “I think the increased reps will make a
difference, build strength…”

Garrick shook his head. They were talking about work, of
course. What
else
did Savannah talk about with anyone on the team?

Garrick glanced over his shoulder. Bobby was still at it, trying
to burn holes in the backs of his and Savannah’s heads.

Bobby had issues. Big buckets full of issues. Garrick worried
those issues would spill onto Savannah again before this thing was done.

Mark, Rick, and the rest of the team’s senior staff came
into the room, and people moved to their seats. When Rupert Smythe entered the
room, instant silence descended.

Rupert was a tall and slender man—and as far as Garrick
could tell, perennially nervous. His hand worried the handle of his briefcase,
his gaze darting around the room. Garrick would bet his last nickel Rupert’s
palms were sweaty and that he’d scream like a little girl if someone sneaked up
behind him and yelled “boo!”

As entertaining as that thought was, Rupert’s attendance at
this meeting likely meant bad news. He had only met Rupert three times in
twelve years. During that time, as now, the team was owned by Edwin Lamont, a
notorious recluse who reportedly never left his estate on Cape Breton Island.
Instead, Lamont sent Rupert as his proxy to play the role of business manager
and mouthpiece.

The “someone is in deep-shit trouble” category was now at
the top of the list of possible reasons for this meeting.

From the stifling silence that held the tongues of the
usually bawdy and outspoken crowd, Savannah knew the stranger at the front of
the room was either very important or very dangerous. The way Garrick watched the
man through narrowed eyes made her think their mystery guest might be both.

He looked to be in his thirties. His bespoke charcoal suit flattered
his broad shoulders and long legs, and if she wasn’t mistaken, was likely more
valuable than her entire wardrobe. Even the fluorescent lighting couldn’t dull
the gleam of his oxblood leather briefcase.  Gold flashed on his wrist. His
fingers shook. Her unease multiplied.

“Hello, everyone!” He addressed their group in a crisp English
accent.

No one responded.

The man blinked a few times, swallowed hard, and smiled
weakly. Her dread, along with the tension she was picking up from everyone in
the room, grew. She looked around her. All eyes stared straight ahead. A
movement in the back of the room caught her attention and she hid her wince
when her gaze locked with Bobby’s.

His brows went up and his smug sneer morphed into an evil
smile.

She turned to face forward.

“As many of you know, my name is Rupert Smythe and I am Mr.
Edwin Lamont’s business manager.”

That solved the mystery of his identity and the crowd’s
reaction to him.

He continued on, launching into a tale about how much Mr.
Lamont had enjoyed hockey over the years, how he played as a boy and other drivel
Savannah assumed was meant to be reassuring.

She tuned back into the details of Rupert Smythe’s message
when he said, “I’m sorry to say, though, that Mr. Lamont has decided to put the
Moncton Ice Cats up for sale.”

Murmurs rippled across the room. Savannah sat perfectly
still, her heart pounding, her hopes for Moncton being the first leg of a long,
successful career in hockey taking a serious hit.

“Why?” someone called from the back of the room.

Mr. Smythe grimaced. “Well—” He paused, staring out at the
crowd as if searching for the answer. The silence drew out until Savannah wanted
to smack the man in the back of the head to get him to spit it out. “In truth,
the team has been losing money. The arena, too.”

Both were owned by Lamont.

“Other teams make money. What are you doing wrong?”

Savannah almost smiled at that question. Bless Sheila’s
heart. She had brass ones.

Rupert Smythe’s cheeks turned red. The man was handsome,
even when flustered and blushing. Almost pretty. Probably not a great attribute
when speaking to a room full of alpha-male hockey players.

“Yes, well, it’s long and complicated, actually. But trust
me, it’s not something that is easily changed.”

Pretty
and
dim-witted, apparently. Insulting the
intelligence of a woman like Sheila in a room full of her colleagues was going
to end badly.

The players shifted in their chairs, no doubt fighting the
urge to stand up and act. Hockey players weren’t known for being passive. Most
of the people in this room lived to come off the boards fighting.

She clenched her fingers in her lap and resisted the urge to
put a soothing hand on Garrick’s bouncing leg. New ownership, and possibly new
management, didn’t bode any better for a twelve-year veteran with a stubbornly
sore groin and hip than it did for the only woman athletic trainer in the
league.

“It is our hope,” continued Rupert over the rumblings of the
crowd, “indeed our goal, to find a buyer soon who will be interested in keeping
the team intact.”

The words helped silence some of the agitation.

“You’ll be kept aware of the progress through Mark, your manager.”
As if everyone in the room didn’t know who Mark was.

Mark’s thin smile spoke volumes.

“And of course, all questions should be directed to him.”

Of course
. Mr. Rupert Smythe appeared to be fully
prepared to run from the room screaming before the barbarians got hold of him. Maybe
he wasn’t that dense after all. Right then, she sure wanted to body check him
and that shiny briefcase of his into the cement wall.

Garrick rose from his seat as soon as the meeting was over,
careful to keep the wince off his face.
Stupid fucking hip.
He and
Savannah had been slowly making progress on his groin pull, but the hard work
was provoking the arthritis in his hip.

Arthritis
.

The word made him feel…geriatric. It didn’t help that he was
damn close to hobbling as he stepped into the aisle.

He caught Savannah watching him and stopped, forcing his
teammates to detour around him as they moved toward the door. Her narrow gaze
was fixed on his legs until it shifted to his throbbing hip.

“What?” he asked.
Defensive much?

She shrugged. “Nothing.”

Her pursed lips told him it was something, but he wasn’t about
to argue.

She cocked her head and moved toward the door. “Come to my
office. I have something you can take and we’ll do some stretching. Maybe stick
you in the tub.”

He opened his mouth to decline, to steer clear of the lovely
Savannah and her lair. But a soak in the tub would be bliss for his sore hip and
ease the tight muscles in his groin. He could only hope the deep water would
disguise any other groin issues, should they arise.

“Okay, sure.”

Bobby leaned against the wall just inside the door to the
hallway, his eyes fixed on Savannah. Garrick stepped forward—without anything
resembling a hitch in his gait, damn it—and crowded Bobby back against the wall,
blocking his view. He held a hand out to indicate Savannah should precede him
through the door.

He was enjoying being able to fuck with Bobby and appear
chivalrous all at once—a win-win for him—until Savannah shot him a dirty look.

Right. Not supposed to treat her differently than the
guys.

He smiled at Rhian instead. “Come on, Rhi, let’s get going.”

He fought not to laugh at Rhian’s deadpan stare. Garrick didn’t
often hold the door for the perfectly capable defenseman as if he were the
Queen of England. Indeed, this was a first. Luckily, Rhian caught on.

With a smirk, Rhian leaned down to murmur in Savannah’s ear.
“Excuse me.”

She hesitated, then rolled her eyes and passed through the
door. Rhian shot him a quizzical look and Garrick tilted his head toward the
locker room, indicating he’d explain later.

Now, though, he had a date with a beautiful woman and her
hot tub.

Savannah almost felt guilty when Garrick let out a long,
painful groan as he slowly lowered himself into her tub. The cistern was filled
with one hundred and three degree water that reached the middle of Garrick’s bare
chest, which she studiously pretended not to notice at all.

Though, she’d have to be dead not to admire the heavy swell
of muscle. The skin stretched over each curving pectoral appeared velvet soft,
his cinnamon nipples puckered tight in spite of the warm water and steam. His
shoulders were possibly the broadest she’d ever laid her hands on—professionally
or otherwise. Certainly the thickest, her hand barely able to span their width while
stretching him.

He’d come to her office after the team meeting earlier,
pretending his hip wasn’t killing him. As if she couldn’t see
that
from
a mile out in poor visibility. He’d eagerly asked her for “at least four”
ibuprofen before promising he’d go change into something he could wear in the
tub and come right back.

The crestfallen look on his face when she’d informed him he
wasn’t that lucky and she wasn’t that careless had been priceless. She’d forced
him up on the table to investigate with her own eyes and hands.

Finally, after the second wince he couldn’t hide, he sighed.
“It’s arthritis, okay? Just send me off to the nursing home already.”

She’d laughed. “No shit it’s arthritis. But it’s been there
are all season and not bothered you this much before.”

He’d been surprised she’d known. Men were always convinced
of two things. One, that they should never admit to any physical ailment or
weakness. And two, that this actually worked as a means of hiding these
weaknesses from the women who cared about them.

Not that she cared about Garrick. Well, she did. The way she
cared about all her players and their physical condition. It was her job.

They’d worked through a vigorous set of stretches together,
then she’d sent him to the weight room to do more, and to get on the equipment
and run through the standard program she’d developed for him at the beginning
of the season, with a few modifications. In the meantime, she worked with a couple
of other players, stopping by the weight room under the guise of showing Alexei
Belov, the Ice Cat’s primary goalie and resident crazy Russian, a leg stretch
that worked best while straddling the bench press. Not that she’d really
believed she’d find Garrick goofing off, but she was concerned he might cut
reps or weights to ease the burden on his hip. Or worse, keep going when his
body was telling him to stop.

She was good at her job, but her dictates were still best
guesses on how hard the body could be pushed, and no creature was more stubborn
about ignoring biological messages like pain than the hockey-playing male.

Garrick had appeared only appropriately miserable, so she’d
left him to it.

Now, though, the guilt nipped at her. His arms trembled as
he lowered himself into the hot water, obviously taking all his weight in an
effort not to rely on his legs. Usually when one of the guys was in her tub,
she would work at her desk and catch up on emails, but today she was too wound
up after that damn team meeting to sit still.

She approached the tub quietly, careful not to brush the
thickly muscled arm running along the edge. His eyes were closed, his head
resting on the rim. Dark hair, damp with the sweat of his workout and the steam
of the tub, curled over his ears and along his neck. His long lashes rested on
flushed cheeks, a fringe of inky silk against his warm skin. He would have looked
peaceful if there hadn’t been a crease marring the skin between his eyebrows.

“What did you think of the meeting today?” she asked.

His eyes flashed open and he held her gaze. His dark amber irises
deepened to chocolate as she watched, fascinated, her feet rooted to the floor.

“What do you think?” he asked.

“I don’t know. I keep telling myself it will be fine and
we’ll just have a new owner, which won’t matter much since no one ever saw the
old owner.”

Garrick nodded, looking down at the swirling water. “I guess
that’s true.” He turned those chocolate eyes back to her. “But then why do I
feel so damn nervous?”

Savannah sighed. “Because we’re screwed.”

Garrick laughed, though he didn’t sound like he found it funny
at all.