Hat Trick (D.C. Stars, #4)

by Chelsea Curto

For the ones who fight even when they want to give up. I’m rooting for you. (And for the readers who love a hockey player that wears slutty glasses… Riley is for you)

The worst ones are always blond. I am surprised by the polo he’s wearing. It’s striped, the collar is popped, and I thought we left that horrendous style behind in the early 2000s. There’s a silver chain attached to his belt loop, for god’s sake, and I’m half expecting to hear the dialup tone from AOL replace the EDM song playing from the club’s speakers. What’s next? Is someone going to ask for my screen name rather than my phone number?

“I’m a good boy, Lex,” he tosses back. “You don’t have to worry about me.”

HELP? it reads. I’m awarded with a smile. She reaches for her own napkin and borrows a marker from Piper’s purse. I laugh when I see her answer under a smudge of lipstick. GOING 2 SAY IM MARRIED. WANT 2 BE HUSBAND? Turning the napkin over, I write out a response. HONORED.

“A what?” I shake my head and lift an eyebrow. “I don’t have a death wish, but you might because the one who’s not giving you any attention? That’s my wife, and I don’t like when people touch what isn’t theirs. Any other questions?” “Shit. Sorry.” He slides out of the booth and almost falls on the floor. “She didn’t say.” “It’s a game we like to play.” Lexi smirks in my direction with bright red lips. She grabs the toothpick from her drink and wraps her mouth around the speared lime. “I do something bad, then he punishes me.” Christ. She’s always flirty, but it never means anything. I wish that line did, even if admitting it would get me in a world of trouble.

“Don’t do it,” I whisper to whoever—whatever—might be listening. I’ve never been religious. I’ve never prayed to anyone or anything before tonight, but right now seems like a damn good time to start believing. “He’s not… let him be okay. Please let him be okay. I’ll help him get better. Just… let him be okay.”

Fuck that. I slip off my heels and head west, sprinting down the sidewalk as fast as I can.

“I’m going to get him skating again,” I whisper to Piper and Emmy. “Lex, I don’t⁠—” “Hockey is his whole life.” I stare at the doors leading to the patient rooms. “I’ll work with him. We’ll do it together.” I’ve always been a determined bitch. Once I put my mind to something, I don’t stop until it happens, and I’ll be damned if Riley goes down without a fight.

“Riley,” Dr. Ledlow says gently. “No one expects you to be okay. You almost died. You lost a part of yourself, and you’re never going to get it back.”

“I’ve never had any anger issues on or off the ice. My penalty minutes are some of the lowest in the league. I paint to decompress and read romance books, for fuck’s sake. But here I am, thinking about things I want to break and the things I want to yell at the people who piss me off. Spoiler alert: it’s every-fucking-body.”

Life will go on. I’m not asking you to give me a mile, Riley. I’m not even asking for a foot.” “I hope not. I only have one now, and it would be pretty fucking rude of you to take that from me.”

“Because they’re your family, and they love you.” I rub a hand over my chest, thinking about the flowers and balloons that were in my hospital room when I woke up. All the food that’s filled my fridge and the low voices I hear when I’m locked in my bedroom.

They don’t try to get me to come out, but I know they’re there. And it makes me cry into my pillow.

“Are you sure?” She reaches over and puts her hand on my thigh. “You might be twenty-six, Riley, but you’re still my baby. I⁠—” “I said I was fine, Mom. Stop fucking coddling me,” I snap. I push my glasses up my nose. Hot tears sting my eyes. “I’m sorry. I’m an asshole. That was… I didn’t mean⁠—”

“Kids.” I snort. “That implies someone is going to want to fall in love with this.” I gesture up and down my body. All of that—dating, friendships—seems like a far-off dream. “I’m a mangled and messed up piece of a human.” “That’s what love is, Riley. No one ever said it was easy.” “Easy.” I stare out the window at the people living their lives while I’m over here having an existential crisis. Teetering on the edge of a breakdown. “I don’t think anything is going to be easy for me again.”

“We’re going to honor your contract. Every penny of it.” “What?” Riley blinks. “You’re not serious.” “I’m serious. It comes with stipulations, though. You’re not playing, but you’re expected to do everything else that’s required of players on my team. Therapy and rehabilitation—both physical and mental—which I know you’ve been bullshitting up to this point, are mandatory. Showing up to practice and games and traveling with the team is non-negotiable. So is voicing your opinion when I ask for feedback on lines and what isn’t working with a shift. If you don’t want to put in the work, that’s fine. We’ll go our separate ways, and you won’t be on our payroll.”

“She wasn’t finished speaking,” Riley says, deathly low. The look in his eye is murderous. A shiver races up my spine when he curls his fingers into a fist. My cheeks turn bright red when he stares at my boss and tilts his head to the side. “And her name is Lexi. L-e-x-i. That’s not difficult, is it? Treat her with respect and get it right, or I’m leaving.” Holy shit.

“We’re going to need a promise from you that you’re going to show up. Your performance doesn’t have to be great. It just has to be something,” I say. Riley draws in a breath. His bottom lip quivers before he drops his eyes to the table. When he pushes his glasses up his nose again, I see faded cuts on the back of his hands and the marks near his wrist that are turning to scars. God. I want to hug him.

“Max,” Stuart clips, and our Manager of Player Rehabilitation sits up. “Take a look at this and see if it makes sense. If it does, I want you to be at the helm of Mitchell’s recovery. We’ll be the league leaders in rehab. Other teams will try to model their program off of ours. We could probably sell and market this⁠—” “Do you ever shut the fuck up?” Riley asks, and Stuart gapes at him. I do too, because I’ve never heard a player be so direct with someone in a position of power.

“Lovely.” Riley looks my way again. It’s less intense than before, a gentleness in his gaze. A reminder he’s still in there. “You’re the best of the best, Lexi. You kept our team injury-free for eighty-two games and then some. When Hudson hurt his shoulder, you had him back on the ice in four days, and he hasn’t had any pain since. When Grant took a puck to the neck last year, he played again that night because of your treatment. You’re qualified, and you know your stuff. I’m not interested in working with someone who isn’t familiar with my body.” Familiar with his body sounds entirely too intimate for what I do, but I am familiar with his body.

“What’s wrong?” “Nothing’s wrong.” “You’re fidgeting.” “I’m not fidgeting.” “So, you’re not wringing your hands together and bouncing your leg?” He lifts his chin at my clasped palms. A smirk curls on his mouth. “My mistake.” “Sorry.” I put my hands at my sides and offer him a sheepish smile. “You and I never talk one-on-one, and I’m nervous. Blame my daddy issues.” A surprising noise that sounds like a laugh comes out of him. “I’m, what? Six years older than you?”

“Well, obviously. His world has been upended.” “I mean mentally.” Coach pauses. “His mom mentioned he expressed numerous times about wanting to…” He trails off and clears his throat. “Not be here anymore.” “Here, like, in DC? He requested a trade?” “No. Alive.” I grip the arm of the chair and inhale sharply.

To hear he’s struggling so deeply breaks my heart. It makes me want to burst into tears, because I want to help. I want to make him laugh. I want to make him smile again, and I’ll do anything to help ease the pain he’s carrying.

“Pop music, huh? Never would’ve guessed.” I smile and fiddle with the volume dial, turning up some hit that’s been playing on the radio for weeks. “I had you figured as a metal fan.” “What?” He laughs loudly, and it makes me warmer than the late summer heat outside the windows. “The fuck gave you that idea?” “I’m messing with you. I really expected classical music or something stoic. Harps, maybe?” “It’s the glasses, isn’t it?” “You’re a big nerd, Mitchy. Don’t hide it.” “I like—liked—to play something upbeat before puck drop. Can’t really do that with Beethoven.”

“Is this how working with you is going to go? You’re going to keep calling me out?” “Yup. Tough love, Mitchy. Do you want me to kiss your ass?” I blush and dip my chin. There are a lot of things I’d like Lexi to do to me—with me and for me too—and none of them are appropriate for the workplace. I’ve had a crush on her for goddamn years, but I guess I need to start getting over my attraction to her.

I’m not used to being on the receiving end of praise that doesn’t stem from how I’m playing on the ice or how fast I am with the puck, but I like it. I like the way it dips low in my stomach then moves up and across my shoulders. How it lights me up and makes me feel invincible, if only for a second. It’s how I’m able to focus, how I’m able to blow out a breath as I count each rep, and I’m proud I don’t yell out while my body screams in pain. You can do it. For her, I’m going to try my damn best. When we finish the first exercise, we go

I whip around and find Maverick standing in the entrance to the locker room wearing his full gear. His helmet falls from his gloved hand when his eyes meet mine. He gapes at me, blinks twice, then pops his mouth open. “Holy shit,” he whispers. “Hey,” I say. “What’s up?” “What’s up? What’s up?” Maverick charges toward me. I’m afraid he’s going to yell at me for ignoring everyone and leaving the group chat. For disappearing for months and falling off the face of the earth. When he drops his gloves like he’s ready for a fight on the ice, I brace myself for a swing. No punch comes. Instead, he’s wrapping his arms around me. He’s hugging me so tight, my feet come off the ground. “Fuck,” I mumble. “Jesus Christ, man. I’ve been so fucking worried about you,” he says.

“I’m fine.” We both know I’m bullshitting him, but he doesn’t call me out on it. He only hugs me harder until a sob works its way from my throat. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t lie to me, Miller. I look like shit.” “I was going to say scrawny as hell. Fucking Ethan could kick your ass in arm wrestling, and that Canadian is the weakest one on the team.” He grins. “Fuck, dude. The boys are behind me. They’re going to⁠—” “Riley?” Grant yells. He drops his stick and nearly trips over his skates when he runs to me. “Is it really you?” “It’s me, G-Money.” “Thank fuck. I missed the shit out of you, Mitchy.”

Ethan kisses the top of my head and proudly shows off his new tattoo hiding under his shoulder pads: a motorcycle with a dozen hearts around it. Ryan Seymour digs through his duffle bag and pulls out the card his daughter made when I was still in the hospital, and I smile at the scribbled drawing that looks like it could be flowers.

“Don’t do that.” He levels me with a serious look and a frown. “Don’t go dark. You can do that shit with the media and people who don’t know you, but don’t do it around us, okay?” “I’m not⁠—” “You are. Which is fine, Riley, but we’re your brothers. We want to see the messy and fucked-up parts of your life, okay? After my mom passed, I was broken. The guys on the team were the only thing that saved me. And I’m not saying you need to be saved. Just… let us be waiting with a life jacket if it starts to feel like you’re drowning, okay?”

“I’ve been looking at some photos online but, ah, I was wondering if I could—” He gives me a sheepish glance. “I’ve never met someone with a prosthetic leg, and I want to learn how it works. In case… I don’t know. In case you need anything? In case I meet someone else who has one? Not that you aren’t capable,” he adds in a rush. “I’d just want to make sure I’m doing the right thing. Being an ally without being a dick, you know? Or like I’m some savior. Could I, um, see what it looks like?”

“You think I’m special?” “Of course I do,” he says, and it feels like there’s a fist wrapped around my lungs. It’s squeezing tight, making it difficult to breathe. “You’re very special, Lex.”

“I want to ride on the back of Ethan’s motorcycle,” he starts, and I hurry to jot it down. “I want to go on a roller coaster and scream until my throat is sore. Skinny dipping in the Potomac sounds like a death sentence with the river current, but skinny dipping in general sounds like a fucking blast. I want to… eat food that’s so spicy, it’ll make me cry. I want to get another tattoo and… fuck. I don’t know. What else? Don’t make fun of me, but I’d like to have a kiss with someone that’s so mind-blowing I can’t think straight.”

want to overpay for one of those carnival games at a fair. The stupid ones where you have to toss a ring on a bottle, you know? I always thought they were so gimmicky, but now, I want to give them a shot. Guess the second chance at life thing makes me want to drop money on rigged entertainment.” Riley adjusts his glasses. “And I… I want to skate again. Not just a lap around the rink. I want to skate until my legs—leg—gives out. I want to feel the burn I used to feel when I pushed my body to the brink of exhaustion in a game.”

“I want you to give me my right leg back so I don’t have to be humiliated day after day after fucking day.” I wish I fucking could, because seeing you so mad at the world hurts, I almost shout.

There’s a moment where I think he might not be home, but then I hear the click of a lock. The door slowly opens and Riley stands on the other side… Shirtless. The gray sweatpants he’s wearing sit low on his hips. His glasses slide down his nose, and he pushes them up with his index finger before crossing his arms over his chest. Jesus Christ. Riley Mitchell is hot.

“Stop staring at me, Armstrong.” “Just for that, I’m adding in a third exercise.” She flips me off and walks to the front of the room. “You all can blame Riley for these next moves,” she tells the guys and Piper. Everyone groans except me, and I don’t care. I’m having way too much fucking fun.

“Hang on.” Riley takes off his glasses and tugs his sweatshirt over his head. His shirt gets stuck in the unclothing process, the thin cotton material crawling up his stomach and showing off bare skin. “I’m not cold.” “Oh, that’s okay. I don’t want to⁠—” “I wasn’t asking, Lexi. Arms up, please,”

wasn’t sure Maverick had any. I stopped at the store on the way over.” “You—” I blink. It feels like I’m missing the punchline of a joke. “I’m confused.” “You mentioned you liked limes in your drink. Didn’t know if that only applied to cocktails or all forms of fluid.” “When did I mention that?” “June,” he says simply, and he leaves it at that. I stare at him. For a second, it feels like the world tilts on its axis, because what the fuck do you mean he brought me a lime because he remembered an offhanded comment I made months ago? And—god. Come to think of it, it was the night we were all out celebrating The Cup. The night he lost his leg. The night his entire life changed.

“Good.” He looks up at the moon. His dimple pops, and gosh is he pretty. “Patience is a virtue. I’ll get there one day.” “I can’t wait to see you try,” I say, and I sure as hell mean it.

“Where’s Mitchy?” “Did you miss me, Armstrong?” his deep voice says, and I jerk my chin to look up at him. “Eavesdropping, Mitchell?” I toss back, and he grins.

“Hard not to when you’re practically shouting my name to the whole airplane.” Oh, I like this version of him. It’s the cocky, sarcastic side he doesn’t show too often, but when he does, it’s a sight. Fun, and definitely flirty. Light and carefree. I’m seeing more and more glimpses of this Riley, the guy he was before that night in June, shining through his personality recently, and it makes me match his grin.

“Wow,” James says, and I jump. I forgot he was there. “Poor guy. I didn’t mean to cockblock him.” “What are you talking about?” I ask. “Nacho Man. He was clearly hoping you’d kick me to the curb so he could have some time with you. Offering to carry the nachos was a bold move.”

should go,” I say. “I have an important job.” “I’ll say. Nice to meet you, Lexi.” James pretends to tip a hat in my direction. “Be good to your friend. He seems like a good one.”

“You were jealous,” I whisper. “Of course I was fucking jealous. He had your attention. And I’m fucking desperate for it.” “I’m not down there with him. I’m up here with you. What are you going to do about it?” “What do you want me to do about it?” Riley challenges, and my mouth parts.

“You’re so fucking bossy. Is this how I get you to shut up? By giving your mouth something to do?” Holy fuck. None of this was on my bingo card for tonight.

Because Riley is looking at me like he’s a man starved, like he needs to kiss me again right this very second, and I’ve never been good at denying someone what they want.

“I know I was the one who initiated this, but I need to tell you something.” “Anything.” “I’ve never been with any of the guys on the team. Ever,” she adds. “I’ve never been attracted to any of them. I’ve never used sex to get ahead. I don’t want you to think I run around⁠—” “I’d never think that,” I say fiercely. “You work so hard, and you’re damn good at your job.

“Men rarely make me come. I fake a lot of my orgasms. Almost all of them. After, I go home, and I finish the job with my vibrator.” She wraps her fingers around my wrist. She guides my hand to her neck and rests my palm there. “It’s okay if you can’t get me off. I’ll let you watch me fuck myself with the toy I keep in my suitcase.” I’m going to hell. I don’t stand a chance at redemption, and that’s fine by me. I squeeze her neck, applying the faintest bit of pressure around her windpipe until her smile grows. “Get on the fucking bed, Lexi. And leave your leggings on. I bet I can find your clit without even getting you naked.”