Lucky Hit (Swift Hat-Trick Trilogy Book 1)

“Tell me why we have to watch this movie again?” Tyler grumbles. He’s sitting on the couch beside me with his arms crossed and his head tilted back against the back cushion.

The four of us—Tyler, Morgan, Matt, and I—are all huddled in front of the TV as the first Captain America movie plays. It was Matt’s choice, and although Tyler isn’t a superhero fan, Morgan and I would never turn down spending a night with a shirtless Chris Evans.

I rest my elbow on the armrest and set my chin in my hand, watching as a newly Super-Soldiered Steve Rogers lifts a motorcycle weighed down by several women above his head onstage. I’ve seen this movie more than enough times to have a good chunk of the dialogue stored in my memory bank, so when my thoughts start to drift elsewhere, I don’t care.

I haven’t heard from Oakley since our call this afternoon. Much to my displeasure, I’ve begun to worry, but I’ve kept that to myself.

I know it’s ridiculous to be antsy after only one missed call and a few unanswered texts, especially when I know he’s busy, but something feels wrong. It has all day.

There was no way I was going to tell Oakley that I shared his feeling of dread during our phone call, not when he was already so nervous, but that worry is still here, festering. If my mom were here, she would tell me I was going to give myself an ulcer, but I just can’t seem to shake this.

My fingers tap at my thigh as I begin to bounce my leg. I check my phone, turning down the brightness so that I don’t blind us all in the dark room as I scroll through the notifications.

Nothing. I scowl.

Tyler’s head swivels my way when I shove my phone back into my hoodie pocket. “Why are you so antsy? You’re acting weird.”

“I’m fine.”

He arches a thick brow and continues to stare at me, unbothered. Maybe that’s why I give in so easily. Because he’s not pressuring me.

“I just have a bad feeling. Haven’t been able to shake it,” I admit in a hushed tone.

A noise of what I assume to be understanding escapes him as he turns back to the movie. I’m about to do the same when he—still watching the movie—leans to the side and says, “Would offer you a smoke to clear your head, but you’d just turn me down.”

“You really should stop smoking. You’re an athlete, y’know? Don’t want to damage those money-making lungs of yours.”

He chuckles lowly. “It’s not my lungs that will make me money. It’s my fists.”

I shrug. “If you say so.”

“Besides, I can’t stop. Tried and failed too many times already.”

“When did you start?”

I should stop asking questions before he hits the end on this conversation and freezes me out, but digging around inside Tyler’s head for a few minutes is a pretty appealing distraction from all the worrying.

“Before I stopped caring about what others thought of me,” he answers.

“That’s not a real answer,” I push.

The corner of his mouth twitches. “It’s the only one you’re getting, Snoopy.”

I grin. “A nickname. I’m honoured.”

“Can you two stop talking? You’re worse than a bunch of middle schoolers in the back of a theatre,” Morgan hisses, bending over and glaring at us over Matt’s lap.

Tyler gives her the finger before standing up and heading toward the balcony. His fingers dig into the front pocket of his black jeans before he pulls out a white box of cigarettes.

“Where are you going, man? This is the best part,” Matt says.

Tyler ignores him and steps outside.

“Stop talking and watch the movie,” Morgan whispers to Matt.

He does, and just like I knew it would, the lack of distraction makes my head go into overdrive again. I pinch my lips between my fingers and roll them, dragging my eyes across the room and to the brooding man on my balcony. Tyler’s leaning forward, his forearms resting on the balcony, a lit cigarette hanging from his lips. I let out a sigh and move to join him outside.

The quiet click of the patio door closing behind me catches Tyler’s attention. He glances at me and tips his chin.

“You really, really shouldn’t smoke.” I join him by the railing and look down at the traffic that, despite the time, still hasn’t slowed down. Vehicles honk, brakes squeak, people yell.

We live downtown, fitted between apartment after apartment. There’s no view of the ocean here, just brick and windows. One day, I want to live somewhere secluded, somewhere away from the hustle and bustle of the city. If I’m only minutes from the water, I want to be able to see it.

Tyler takes another drag of his cigarette and blows smoke out in front of him. “I know.”

I frown. “You have a story.”

He flicks the embers from the end of his cigarette into an empty pop can Morgan put out here earlier. “So do you.”

“Everyone does.”

It takes him a few seconds to respond. “Your mom’s back, right?” He flicks the end of his smoke again.

“Yeah. Suddenly, she wants to get to know me, or so she says.”

“She’s probably lying.”

I wince at his bluntness. “Don’t hold back on my account.”

I’m not surprised when he doesn’t apologize for his harsh words but simply moves on instead. He stares out at the city with a blank expression and says, “I don’t mean it like that. Just be careful. People don’t abandon those they care about and then decide one day to come back. My biological dad pissed off sometime before I was born. The guy never even knew my mom was pregnant. If he came back now, I would tell him to kiss my ass.”

“I didn’t know your dad wasn’t in the picture.”

“It’s not exactly something I lead into conversation with. My mom’s a junkie, and my stepdad loves to hit anything that breathes. I don’t talk about them. Don’t like to.”

My exhale is heavy, full of a thousand words that I don’t think I could ever form into anything worth saying, so I choose something simple. “I’m sorry.”

He takes a final drag from his smoke and stamps it out on the railing. Once the butt is in the can, he wipes his hands on his jeans before running them through his hair. “Me too. You’re worth more than being a second thought, Octavia.”

My chest is tight, achy. God, I wasn’t expecting this tonight. “So are you. You’re going to do great things with your life, Ty. I know it.”

Quietly, he pushes himself off the railing and awkwardly pats my shoulder. “We should go back in before Morgan guilts us for skipping on her movie.”

I nod. “I’ll be right in. I just want to check something first.”

He dips his chin and heads inside. As soon as the balcony door closes, I pull out my phone and open my call history with Oakley. I’ll call once more, and if he doesn’t pick up, I’ll leave it and wait until tomorrow.

I suck in a deep breath and then make the call. Lifting it to my ear, I worry my lip and wait for the familiar ring. Once, twice . . .

“You have reached the voicemail box of—”

The voice cuts off when I hang up.

Two rings. He sent me to voicemail.

What does that mean? Oh, my God. I sound like a psycho. A full-blown psycho stalker. Good grief, Ava.

I shove the phone back into my pocket and straighten my shoulders. So what if he sent me to voicemail? Maybe he’s still eating dinner. Sure, it’s past nine . . . but maybe it went long, or his phone died?

Enough.

I pull open the balcony door and step back inside. The lights are on now, and the movie is paused. A feeling of dread fills my veins.

“Why is the movie off?” I ask, and all at once, three heads snap my way. My stomach twists when I lock eyes with Morgan. There’s no mistaking the sympathy on her face. “What?”

“What were you doing out there?” she asks slowly.

“Uh, calling Oakley again. He put me right through to voicemail. What the hell, right?”

Tyler sets his jaw and stares at Morgan. “You or me?”

“You or Morgan what?”

“Honey, maybe you should come sit down,” she murmurs.

Despite the fact I know it’s going to hurt when I do, I sit between her and Tyler. She’s warm while he’s unnaturally cold. I fight back a shiver.

“Before I show you, I really want you to promise me that you will at least hear him out first. Oakley isn’t this type of gu—”

“Show me,” I order, tone cold. The walls around my heart are already building back up again at hyperspeed. All I can think about is that I’ve been here before. Right. Here.

Silently, Morgan pulls her phone out from where she must have shoved it beneath her leg when I came inside. As soon as she unlocks the screen, a series of photos is already up, above a caption that I wish I wouldn’t have read.

Is Oakley Hutton already tethered to Minnesota? According to these photos, it seems like we might have all been kept in the dark when it comes to his plans after the draft. Yikes.

Veronica Anderson is the daughter of Harvey Anderson, the Minnesota Woodmen general manager. It’s no secret that Minnesota has gone to extreme lengths to secure a chance at success, but this doesn’t look good. With Veronica set to take over for her father in the coming years, is it a coincidence that she’s found herself up close and personal with this year’s top prospect?

We’ve reached out to Oakley Hutton’s agent, Douglas Trelix, for a comment but have not been successful.

Acid burns my stomach. I grip my knees when the world dares to tilt on its axis. The photos are enough to make my eyes gloss over.

In the first photo, Oakley’s front and centre, his handsome face shining below the bright lights hung above the dining table. He’s dressed in a suit, with the top two buttons of his navy dress shirt undone like always. No tie. Yet I can’t concentrate on him like I usually would. Not when he’s sitting shoulder to shoulder with a bombshell in a risky dress I could never pull off.

The blonde woman I assume to be Veronica Anderson stares unabashedly at my boyfriend, her lids lowered to half-mast, long, thick black lashes teasing the smooth skin beneath. The long red nails on her right hand are wrapped around a wineglass, but her left hand is out of view.

“Next photo,” I snap. Morgan slides to the next.

Veronica’s left hand is on Oakley’s knee as he stands at the table. My brows furrow at the expression on his face. He looks genuinely uncomfortable.

“He looks like he’s about to piss himself,” Matt notes.

I ignore him, and Morgan swipes to the last photo. Veronica is grabbing his hand, her fingers halfway intertwined with his. He’s twisted away from the table, and his eyes are narrowed the slightest bit.

I feel sick. My head is thumping with too many thoughts to sort through. Part of me feels betrayed, like my automatic response to this is to see the obvious and believe he’s interested in this woman. That he’s been ignoring me for her and lied about why he’s there. But another part knows he wouldn’t do this to me—to us. Maybe I would have believed the worst of him months ago, but this man loves me. He wouldn’t do this.

I bite down on the inside of my cheek when one reoccurring thought thumps harder than all the others.

Is this life for me after all?

Morgan locks her phone and tosses it to Matt. Then, she’s wrapping me in her arms and tugging me to her side. She expects me to cry—I think they all do—but I don’t want to.

“I need to talk to him when he gets home,” I mutter.

“Oakley loves you,” she says.

“Do you think he’s okay?” I close my eyes, remembering how distraught and upset he looked in those photos.

Morgan tightens her hold. “I think he will be when he gets home and sees you.”

I nod. That makes one of us.