Hat Trick (Fake Boyfriend 5)

“W-what?”

“I own it. I bought it when Ryder started hinting about leaving Eleven. I’m also blackballing you from every other recording studio in town. Eleven and Radioactive’s feud is all over the news, you know.”

I’m confused as fuck. “What in the ever-loving hell—”

“I’ll use my clout to get you the studio time in New York you’ve been asking for. Really think about what I’m saying here before you yell at me.”

It finally registers. “Y-you’d do that for me?”

“Record this song with me and go home to your man, Jay.”

“Harley,” I croak.

He holds up his hand. “Don’t. I’m doing a good job of being the bigger person right now, and I don’t want to blow it by taking it all back and begging you to pick me. We both know you won’t. I’ll get over you eventually. Just … make sure the hockey player is worth it, okay?”

I don’t say anything because I don’t want to rub it in that I already know Soren is worth it. He’s everything to me.

Chapter Thirty-Three

Soren

As we stand for the national anthem at a home game, I’m trying to get in my zone. My streak has continued, and I’m having the best season of my entire career, but I can’t get comfortable. Not now. It’s still too early.

I’m so distracted by my thoughts of the game and trying to suck the atmosphere into my lungs that I barely register who they introduce to sing.

“Please welcome Jay from Radioactive to sing the national anthem.”

The crowd does its usual screaming thing, just like they always do when he’s onstage.

Morgan nudges me, but my eyes are locked on Jet walking out onto the carpet they’ve laid across the ice.

“Did you know he was coming?” Morgan asks in my ear.

“Had no idea,” I murmur.

I glance up to find my face on the giant screen. Not an odd occurrence during a game, but this is different.

Jet’s eyes find mine, and his smile softens to something that’s just for me. “Love you,” he mouths.

The crowd goes wild again because they must’ve caught that on camera.

Jet’s here.

Here, here.

And in perfect timing, this is our last home game before we hit the road for eight days.

I laugh because it makes me want to cry. We leave for Carolina tomorrow, and I don’t know how long Jet’s in town for.

Only the first line is out on the ice. I’m stuck in the team box when all I want to do is jump over the railing and skate for him.

Jet’s decked out with a headset and microphone, and he’s holding his black guitar. My guitar. After his middle of the night visit, I told him to take it with him. It’s his baby. But now instead of using his pride and joy—his acoustic Firebird he bought with his first royalty check—he’s using ours. And I know it’s for me.

The entire arena goes quiet to listen.

Whether it’s the acoustic version of the national anthem, or perhaps it’s the way he sings it, Jet’s voice has his Southern lilt, making it sound country.

I want to blow off the game and take my man home and worship him in the best way I know how, but my team would hang me by my skate’s laces if I did that. I’m the highest scorer of the season so far.

Jet finishes the song, hitting every note flawlessly with that rasp I love so much, and then he gives me a wink, leaves the ice, and I’m left wishing the game was already over.

Morgan hits me in the back of the head. “Don’t let this distract you. Your man’s here. Show him in person how you’ve been kicking ass.”

He’s right. I can’t let Jet’s surprise appearance distract me, and when I hit the ice, I’m surprised at how easy it is to block it out.

Superstition is a big part of hockey, and any change in routine can be a disaster. Not that I actually believe good luck or bad luck is real; it’s all mind over matter. Anything that can get into your head has the ability to affect the game.

But knowing Jet’s here watching me, it inspires me instead of hinders.

By the end of the first period, I have a goal and an assist.

When the new kid started, I thought he was going to outshine me, but it turns out we make a great team.

We leave the ice and head down the chute when my eye catches on someone hanging over the railing from the stands. Jet’s an inch or two away from falling over the thing.

Lennon gives me a wave behind him as Ollie holds on to Jet’s tight jeans so he doesn’t fall. Lucky Ollie doesn’t have a game tonight, or my boyfriend would be broken in many places.

With my skates and how far Jet’s leaning over the barrier, it almost brings us face to face when I reach him. “You couldn’t have given me a warning?”