Lucky Hit (Swift Hat-Trick Trilogy Book 1)

THREE MONTHS LATER

“Ava, get your ass moving! The game starts in an hour!” Morgan yells, pounding on my bedroom door.

“Relax, you nutcase,” I retort, earning a grumble from my best friend/roommate as she stomps away.

After giving myself a quick once-over in my full-length mirror, I spin on my heels and leave my bedroom.

I can’t say that my black hoodie plastered with the Vancouver Saints logo and ripped skinny jeans are going to drop jaws, but I know I won’t be freezing to the death in the arena tonight.

When I enter the living room, Morgan’s already waiting for me on the couch. The two of us live together in a small two-bedroom apartment about fifteen minutes away from the University of Vancouver. It isn’t anything special, but it’s more than enough for us.

The kitchen has a small island with light granite countertops to go with the light wood cabinets and stainless-steel appliances. The living room is on the opposite side of the room, lit up by the sunlight that barrels through our floor-to-ceiling windows.

Morgan’s platinum-blonde hair is curled loosely like always, sitting just below her shoulders, and her long, thick eyelashes flutter when she catches sight of me and smiles.

Her boyfriend, Matthew, is the starting goalie for the Vancouver Saints WHL hockey team—one of the highest-level junior teams in western Canada—which means as her certified best friend, I’m obligated to join her at every game, including the season opener tonight.

“Ready to go?” I ask when I pass by the couch.

She hops up and trails after me. “I have been for the past half-hour, Octavia. You’re lucky I didn’t break down your door and drag your perky ass out ten minutes ago.”

I wince at her use of my full name but shake it off and open the door. She joins me a breath later, and we head downstairs.

Once we get inside her new Jeep—a gift from her OB/GYN parents—she looks over at me and starts the engine. Whatever frustration she was feeling has washed away and been replaced with excitement.

“You’re coming with us for dinner after the game, right? I’ll be suffocated with testosterone if you don’t.”

I inwardly groan. “I have homework.”

“Already? Jesus, they couldn’t even wait until the second week of classes to start piling it on?”

I look at her as we pull onto the road. “You don’t have any yet?”

“Nope.” She pops the p. “I only have three classes this semester, though. I didn’t want to overload myself like last year. I told you that you should have done the same.”

Morgan is majoring in English literature. It makes complete sense, considering she’s a serious book nerd, although a closeted one.

“I just want to graduate as soon as possible. It’ll be worth it in the end,” I defend. “Plus, five classes a semester is quite normal.”

She sighs. “I just want you to live a little, that’s all. I can’t imagine spending all day, every day hearing about social-work nightmares is very joyful.”

I shrug. “It’s better than actually being in the system and living it. I would take this over going back there any day.”

“I’m sorry. That was insensitive.”

I reach across the seats and cover the hand she has gripping the steering wheel. “It’s fine. I’m long over being offended by the past.”

She smiles. “So, does that mean you’ll come with me tonight?”

I place my hand back in my lap with a laugh. “You’re relentless.”

“Pretty please?”

“Who’s going?”

When her fingers start tapping on the wheel, I lean forward in my seat and pin her with a narrowed gaze. “Morgan?”

“It’ll be us and the guys,” she squeaks.

“Elaborate.”

Her tapping increases in speed. “Matt, Tyler, Adam, and Oakley Hutton.”

Well, I can’t say I didn’t see that coming. Shutting my eyes, I exhale slowly.

The infamous Oakley Hutton. Rumours have been flying around about the city’s new hockey god since he moved here a few months ago. I wonder how we got lucky enough to be granted a dinner in his presence.

“No, thank you” is my reply.

“No, thank you?” she echoes, incredulous.

I nod. “Yep. Glad we got that cleared up.”

“You’ve never even met him!” Her voice is a higher pitch than usual. “Come on. He’s been living with Matt and Braden since he got here, and there hasn’t been any problems yet. I’ve met him in passing and he’s a looker. He came from some small town a few hours away or something.”

“If Oakley’s anything like the other guys on the team, then I don’t need to meet him to know I’m not interested.”

“That’s not fair, Ava. You get along great with a lot of the guys on the team.”

“Yeah, I get along with them. As friends. I wouldn’t date any of them, and I have a feeling that is where your mind is going.”

She grinds her teeth and inhales sharply. “Okay. You don’t have to talk to anyone but me tonight. Just please come.”

My gaze finds hers and holds. “Fine. But I’m not staying long.”

With a beaming smile, she’s smacking the steering wheel with excitement. “Thank you, babes. It’ll be fun, I swear it.”

I settle into my seat and push the thought of dinner out of my head. Instead, I spend the twenty minutes it takes to get to the arena preparing myself for what I’ll find when we walk through the front doors.

The screaming crowds of fans, sudden drop in temperature, and the groups of girls that are going to be lingering in the halls, looking for a player who will hopefully take them home and give them a story to blab about tomorrow morning.

Having spent the past few years being hauled to game after game, tournament after tournament, you learn to keep away from the locker rooms directly afterward. The smell of lust and clouds of expensive perfumes is enough to do your head in.

As soon as we park and go inside the arena, I can barely hear anything Morgan says past all the “Let’s go, Saints!” chants and other screams that I try to tune out. After struggling to keep up with her, I end up just ducking my head and letting her pull me through the crowds to our seats.

The game has a slow start, but that changes quickly after the second intermission. There are ten minutes to go in the third period, and the Saints are up by a score of three to two.

Tonight should have been an easy win with the long list of missing players from the Eagles roster, but we’ve been sloppy. Careless and arrogant.

Maybe it’s just new-season nerves or the false confidence that comes with adding a future NHL franchise prospect to our team, but whatever it is, they have to nip it in the bud before it spreads like a virus. Last season ended rough for the Saints, and I know how badly they want to bring home a trophy this year.

There’s an obvious shift in the air when Braden Lowry, one of the Saints’ best defensemen, takes an illegal check from behind. Braden’s massive frame crumples on the ice, and he stays down for a few seconds too long before shakily pulling himself up with the help of a few other players.

The crowd erupts in a fit of angry voices while some fans take to clacking those stupid plastic clappers. My brows furrow before I realize what—or who—they’re shouting at.

The player responsible for sending a guy as big as Braden flat on his ass is currency dancing in circles across from our newest star player, Oakley Hutton.

The dance doesn’t go on long before Oakley’s rushing forward like an unhinged bull and grabbing the front of the player’s jersey, forcefully bringing him closer. In a blink, Oakley drops his gloves and sends a hard right hook straight to the defenseman’s face. Before the other guy can get a hit in, his lips part on words I wish I could hear, and Oakley is throwing another punch, this time at his abdomen.

Our new player continues his brutal beat down, his lips moving as he says something to the losing instigator. I can’t help but notice just how tall Oakley is as he towers over his opponent on the ice. I can’t get a good view with all of his hockey gear in the way, but by the strength of the hits and the fact the Eagles’ player is now being helped off the ice toward the dressing room, I feel as if he’s not lacking in the muscle department either.

There’s a jab in my side as Morgan leans toward my ear. “That’s Oakley. He knows how to fight.” She stares at me with a playful glimmer in her eyes before looking away. Her features tighten up. “Oh, hell no! He’s being ejected from the game!”

I jerk my head forward and am immediately met with a pair of raging green eyes. Oakley is on his way to the dressing room. To the hallway that will take him there. The same hallway I’m sitting flush up against.

His eyebrows are deeply furrowed, mouth in a tight line as he holds my stare, not showing a sign of letting it go. White noise bubbles in my ears as I grip my knees, squeezing as if doing so will somehow pull me out of this brain fog.

My heart stops when he gets closer. Close enough for me to notice the scar above the corner of his mouth and the depth of his evergreen-coloured eyes. The same eyes I spent hours looking into that night three months ago.

Oh my God. When recognition flickers across his face, his eyes go wide, his steps faltering. He places a palm on the hallway wall to steady himself and swallows so hard his throat strains.

My knees shake when I push forward in my seat, unable to look away from him as he moves further down the hall. It’s not until we have no other choice but to break eye contact that I force myself to sit back.

I close my eyes and touch my cheeks, not surprised to find them burning hot and beating with their own pulse.

“Do you two know each other or something?” Glancing over at Morgan, I watch with discomfort as she wiggles her eyebrows suggestively.

“He’ll be lucky not to get suspended for that,” I mumble, trying to shake the last few minutes out of my memory. But just like that night, Oakley is impossible to forget. “Can you go without me tonight?”

Please say yes.

Morgan scoffs. “You’re joking, right? The Eagles deserved that. And no way. You’re coming. It’s been too long since you’ve gone out with everyone.”

I stiffen at her words. The hair on my arms rises.

“I gave you some leeway after you and David broke up, but he’s been out of the picture for three months now. You can’t let what happened keep you from enjoying yourself from time to time,” she says. I hate the way she’s looking at me—like I’m a ticking bomb that could go off with the brush of the slightest breeze.

I know she just wants to help, but it’s not as easy as she thinks it is. David was my high school boyfriend, but our relationship carried over into university. We dated for two years, and our breakup was a disaster of epic proportions.

“Do you ever think maybe it isn’t even David keeping me from putting myself out there in the way you want me to?” I snap. “What if I just want to focus on school? Would that really be so bad?”

She flinches. “No, of course that wouldn’t be bad, Ava. I’m not saying that. I just hate seeing you hold yourself up in your room like a hermit when you have people who would love to spend time with you.”

“So it has nothing to do with your unhealthy obsession with matchmaking?” She’s silent for a beat too long. “That’s what I thought.” I blow out a breath. “I’ll still come tonight, but I’m serious, Morgan. Let me do things my own way.”

“Fine,” she agrees.

Thankfully, she leaves it alone, and we spend the remaining few minutes of the game in silence.

With neither team scoring another goal, the Saints take the win.