Fair Play (Hat Trick, Book 1) (18 page)

“Are you okay?” he asked. His hips rocked against her ass,
evoking yet more bliss.

“God, yes. This is…it’s so much more…I can’t…”

He laughed against her neck. “Yeah, that’s how I remember it
too.”

The image of Garrick’s face smashed to the bed, a huge cock
jammed in his ass, feeling what she was feeling, made her shudder. Her sphincter
clamped down on his shaft and held him deep within her.

He whispered a heartfelt expletive. “You ready to go on?”

Holy shit, was she
ever.
She nodded. “Please.”

She expected him to lift his big body up off hers again, but
she wasn’t prepared for him to wrap his arms around her ribs and lift her with
him.

He brought them both up onto their knees, his sliding
between hers as she came down on his lap. Her weight drove his cock deeper,
higher than it had been before.

“Garrick!”

His answer was to punch his hips upwards, shoving into her.
His arms around her waist and across her chest to held her upright as he drew
out as far as he could, then thrust up again once more.

How did he do it? How did he know all the ways to drive her
wild?

She moaned. Shouted. Cried out his name. Words of praise
spilled from her with every thrust, her body singing with zings of electricity with
every retreat.

She was so enthralled, she didn’t feel his hand move until
he thrust two thick fingers deep into her pussy.

“Oh god. Yes, please, do that too!”

Garrick thrust mercilessly into her ass, into her pussy, and
she clenched his cock, his fingers, and rode him harder. Faster. Running
headlong into the ecstasy she knew waited. So close. So, so close.

Garrick’s arms tightened, a low growl vibrating in his chest
as he shoved her down onto his cock, hard, and ground himself up into her. His
shaft swelled, her sensitive entrance stretching as he gasped for breath and
she lost the ability to breathe altogether.

The first pulse of his come was warm in her ass. His shout of
pleasure rang in her ears. Her body convulsed as her orgasm welled up and out
of her, thrumming across her nerves, rippling over his fingers, and clenching
his shaft.

The pulses in her backside went on forever, his groan sounding
almost painful, eventually choking off his breath.

They fell together, his arms still around her, his cock
still lodged in her ass as they collapsed, euphoric, spent.

It was a long time before coherent thought returned, and
with it the fervent wish she didn’t have to get on that plane to Boston. She
would rather spend the day right here, slowly floating back to earth just so
they could take the trip back into the stratosphere once more.

That thought alone prodded her out of bed and into the
shower. On to the airport. She stood, waiting for her flight, and with a
sinking heart, accepted that she missed him already.

Garrick sprawled face down across the sheets, the comforter
tangled around his waist. The sun streaming in through the open curtains warmed
his bare back. Savannah had crawled out of bed after their lovemaking and
accused him of trying to make her late for her flight. Her smile had said she
didn’t mind in the slightest.

He’d briefly considered following her into the shower, but had
known where it would lead. As much as he hated that he would sleep alone in
this bed for the next three nights, he was glad she’d made her flight and would
have an opportunity to show the Bruins what she could do.

He had a good feeling about this interview, even if it made
him nauseous to contemplate what it would mean when she got the job.

He rolled onto his back and stretched, his back cracking,
his hip twinging as he arched his body up off the bed. He smiled. No way in
hell he was going to tell Savannah their lovemaking was exacerbating his hip
pain.

He didn’t see the note on his bedside table until he stood
to go into the bathroom. His name was written in Savannah’s tidy penmanship
across the front, the folded paper propped against the vibrator he’d left out
to dry after cleaning it the night before. He smirked, tickled by her shameless
humor. She’d come a long way from the woman who was afraid to make noise when
she was aroused, who was ashamed of her own enthusiasm.

He plucked up the note and opened it as he walked across the
cold floor, stopping in the middle of the room as he read.

Duncan Morrison 202.266.2360

Callum Morrison 303.405.1105

You asked if I knew anyone who wanted to buy a hockey
team. They’re expecting your call. Good luck. ~ S.

Garrick blinked, hardly believing his eyes.

The Morrison brothers were two of the hottest properties in
the NHL. He barely resisted the urge to smack his own forehead. She’d told him
all her brothers played hockey. He just hadn’t realized she meant some of them played
hockey
professionally
.

Now he knew who was assigned the Olympic Anthem ringtone on
her cell phone. Callum, goalie with the Colorado Avalanche, had a silver medal.
He and Duncan, who was a winger for the Washington Capitals, had a good chance
of going to the next games, too.

And if he wasn’t mistaken, one of her other brothers played
in the WHL in Vancouver. And there was an infamous legend about another Morrison
leading his team at Harvard to a championship before leaving the sport to
pursue his Ph.D.

Garrick staggered back to the bed and sat down hard.

Did Savannah’s brothers want to buy the Moncton Ice Cats?

Hope surged. Tossing the note down on the mattress, he bolted
into the bathroom to take a quick shower then threw on his workout clothes. He grabbed
the paper again on his way to the kitchen. He had to get his fitness routine
done or his trainer, not to mention his groin and hip, might never forgive him.
But in the meantime, he could leave a voicemail or two.

He nearly swallowed his tongue when Callum picked up after
two rings. “Hello, Garrick. You being good to my sister?”

“Uhhh…” Garrick floundered, totally unprepared for one of
his heroes to answer his call, let alone address him by name. He stumbled for a
response, unsure what Savannah had told her brother but one hundred percent
certain that revealing anything would land him in the doghouse. Possibly for
life.

Callum Morrison chuckled. “I can tell she’s got you well
trained already. Join the club. Six bothers, and not one of us would dare cross
her. She’s damn bossy. But I bet you know that already.”

Garrick was glad Callum couldn’t see his face heating. “She
likes to think of it as persuasive.”

Callum’s laughter boomed down the line. “Oh man, she’s got
your number. Though, look at me talking to you about buying some damn hockey
team. I guess she
is
pretty persuasive after all.”

Garrick’s gut clenched. “If you have some time, I’d like to
talk to you about that very thing.”

“I bet you would,” Callum said, a smile in his voice. “Give
me a second to figure out how to conference Duncan in on this damn phone and
we’ll talk about what’s possible and what’s not. You got numbers for us?”

“I’ve got some.”

“Savannah says you’re good with numbers. That you’ve got the
chops for the business side of this thing.”

She did?
A flush of pleasure warmed Garrick and eased
the roiling nerves in his gut. “I have a business plan.”

“We’ve seen it. That’s why we’re talking. Hold on while I
get Duncan.”

The following night, Savannah sat in the owner’s box at the
Boston Garden, watching the Bruins play for a sold-out crowd. The noise was
awesome, the fans roaring as the team fought for a win in a closely matched game.

Re-crossing her legs, she smiled and thought of Garrick. As
she’d thought of him every time the gentle pang zipped through her body from
her still-sensitive ass. He’d effectively ruined her plan to focus solely on
her interview while she was in town. Her smile widened and she intentionally
sat back in her seat, enjoying another zing.

All eyes were pinned to the ice, following the action as it moved
the length of the rink and back. She, on the other hand, had spent most of the
night with her gaze riveted to the interim trainer. His job looked fast-paced,
hectic even, and exactly the same as working with the Ice Cats.

She could totally rock this job.

Her interviews had gone well and she’d left each meeting
confident and energized. She knew her stuff. They knew she knew her stuff. She’d
played down her name, never mentioning her connections, though prepared to be
honest if someone asked. No one had. They either had no idea, or knew for
certain and didn’t need her to confirm it.

Regardless, she didn’t see that as an obstacle. And if it
was, it was small compared to the bigger hurdles she had to clear to get this gig.

Like the fact that she was young. And a woman.

She couldn’t change either of those things, so it boiled
down to whether or not the management gave a damn.

The previous trainer had been a year older than she was now
when he’d started, and he’d been with the team for the almost two decades since.
A genetic degeneration of the spine combined with a recent car accident had
made the job too painful and dangerous for him. His interim replacement—the assistant
trainer, who had a good, if relatively short history in sports medicine and training—seemed
competent.

The sound of a whistle yanked her attention back to the ice.
One of the Bruins was down and within seconds the trainer was on his way.

Savannah immediately knew two things about the assistant
trainer—he was nervous and he’d never been a hockey player. He looked damned
uncomfortable out on the ice.

As if the fates had heard her, the trainer stopped short by
his player’s side and promptly lost his footing, landing on his ass instead of
taking a knee. Savannah winced as he caught himself with one hand. She’d bet
his right wrist wasn’t feeling too good right now. Probably sprained.  No doubt
adrenaline and embarrassment got him back on his knee and over his player to triage
the injury.

Fortunately, the player got up on his own and easily skated back
to the bench. The trainer rose more slowly, cradling his hand in the crook of
his other elbow as he walked back to the tunnel. As soon as he got there, the
coach looked up at the box and reached for the phone.

Savannah wasn’t surprised when the phone on the bar promptly
rang. A vigorous round of swearing behind her confirmed her suspicions. The assistant
trainer was out for the game.

She jumped a foot when a hand landed on her shoulder. She smiled
tentatively at the strength-and-conditioning coach, with whom she’d been
sitting for most of the game.

“I need your help.”

She suppressed the urge to gulp and squared her shoulders. “What
can I do?”

“I’m in for the rest of the game and I’ve got a handle on
most of it, but the team doc and I suck at taping and that shit. You’ll
probably just be keeping me company, but you should come along in case I need
you to keep me honest if someone needs a patch up.”

Savannah rose from her seat slowly, her dignified carriage
somewhat diminished by the huge grin on her face.

“Let’s go.”

Garrick stared at the huge LCD screen above the Sugar
Shack’s bar. For the love of Christ, Savannah was on the bench at the Bruins
game.

He’d asked the bartender to switch to the game in some vague
attempt at solidarity, knowing she was there and hoping by some miracle he’d
catch a glimpse of her in the sweet seats she’d texted him about earlier.

But on the bench? Well, okay, standing
next
to the
bench in the tunnel, watching the game from ice height, which was close enough.

He’d seen their trainer go down, but what the hell happened
after that, he couldn't imagine. Still in her interview clothes, she clearly
hadn’t gone to the game prepared to work. She wouldn’t show up at the Ice Cats arena,
let alone go out to the bench for a game, without her hair up, her shapeless
pullover, and those yoga pants. Garrick was almost certain this would be the
first time anyone in high-heeled, knee-length leather boots and a plum-colored
skirt suit had ever worked the bench of an NHL game.

Smiling, he dug his cell phone from his pocket and texted
Savannah.

Having fun?

The TV cut to a commercial. Garrick caught the bartender’s
eye and ordered another beer. He’d been here for two hours and this was only
his third. At his size, with his metabolism, he was sober as a judge.

His phone buzzed and he looked down to see a text from
Savannah.

WOOO!

God, she was so going to get that fucking job.

It was just as well, since even with her brothers throwing
in a good portion, it wasn’t enough to outbid Robert Kramer. Garrick thought he
could pull together another chunk of the bid from his own savings, matching the
Morrison brothers’ stakes, but they still needed a fourth to make a go at it. It
was a damn good thing he’d been lucky with his investments over the past decade.
As much as it freaked him out to think of life after hockey, some part of him
had known all along the day would come.

Sighing, Garrick paid his tab and picked up his beer, sorry
to miss the rest of the game. He’d have to watch it on DVR later.

He’d been trying his hand at detective work all night,
hoping to see something—a transaction, a shady character doing shady things,
anything—
if
he hung out at the bar. After two hours, he accepted his plan sucked.

He wandered through the restaurant, ducked into the back
room to watch some pool, and flirted with a couple women who he might once have
found interesting, but now left him totally cold. When one put her hand on his
chest, he actually felt skeeved out.

He was going to have to figure some way to get the hell over
this when Savannah left. For now, he was quite happily monogamous.

And there was the masochistic truth.

By the time another hour had passed, he’d stood in every
corner of the Sugar Shack, checked every booth and alcove, even looked behind
the damn jukebox. The only things anyone might take exception to at this fine
Kramer-owned establishment were the warm beer, cheesy music, and sticky floors.

Garrick laughed at himself, wondering when he’d become such an
old fudd.

The only area of the building he hadn’t inspected was the
back hallway. He’d made it to the men’s room once, but there was no way he was
going to get inside the ladies’ room. Even if there hadn’t been a line, which
there inevitably was, getting arrested for being a pervert didn’t rank high on
his bucket list.

The back hallway continued beyond the bathrooms, with three
more doors lining the way to the emergency exit, which the sign claimed was
alarmed. He circled around three times to see where those doors might go, but
every time he made his way into the hall, the same guy was leaning against the
wall, appearing to all the world as if he were waiting for his girlfriend in
the ladies’ room. He was young and had hair so light blond, it appeared almost
white. If he hadn’t been built like a professional wrestler, Garrick might have
believed he was just some dumb kid.

When Garrick stepped into the corridor for the fourth time
in an hour, Blondie stood away from the wall and watched him carefully.

Chucking his beer bottle in the trash can outside the
bathroom door, Garrick ducked into the stench of the men’s room one last time,
resigned to waiting a few minutes before leaving the Sugar Shack for the night.

As clandestine missions went, he had managed an epic fail.

He washed his hands, giving an inordinate amount of
concentration to the task. The other guys probably thought he had OCD but after
four trips into this bacteria farm, all he wanted to do was go home and shower.

The door from the hallway squeaked and he glanced up into
the mirror. His guts clenched when Blondie came in, followed closely by another
thug in matching black t-shirt and cargo pants, and none other than Robert
Kramer.

Oh shit.

Garrick rinsed his hands and shook the excess water off as
if he hadn’t a care in the world. At least two other men were in the room with
them, so he calmly reached for some paper towels and turned toward the door.

He didn’t bother to act surprised to find the Goon Squad
behind him. He wasn’t that good an actor. Instead, he moved toward the exit,
trying to follow the guy who’d just zipped up and run from the urinal and out
the door without washing his hands.

Blondie clamped a hand on Garrick’s left arm. He stopped, lifted
an eyebrow and gave him his best face-off stare. Goon Two grabbed Garrick’s
other arm and yanked him back toward the sink.