Lucky Hit (Swift Hat-Trick Trilogy Book 1)
Lucky Hit: Chapter 11

When we arrive at Adam’s house, the victory party is already in full swing.

The music is so loud I can feel the bass pulsing at the soles of my feet as we step out of the cab. I look up the winding driveway and release a dreamy sigh. The sight of Adam’s parents’ mansion never fails to amaze me.

Floor-to-ceiling windows line the dark grey brick walls, and tall, strong arches drape above the exaggerated cobblestone walkway. Elaborately decorated flower boxes that would make any florist’s mouth water are perched below each window.

The house is a designer’s dream, that’s for sure.

Now, my parents’ house is by no means “small.” Thanks to both of their successful culinary careers, they’ve been able to provide a comfortable life for me and my brother. But unlike Adam’s parents, they’ve never been obsessed with looks and broadcasting their money in purchases that don’t actually have any meaning. To each their own, but I know Adam would love their genuine attention more than another expensive car or a giant flat-screen TV. Their absence wears on him, whether he wants to actually admit that out loud or not.

Morgan and I walk past the countless drunks who are already throwing up and stumbling around in the well-groomed bushes and cringe at the shirtless frat boys who are playing beer pong on one of the large white tables scattered along the driveway.

“To the kitchen!” I yell over the music as we carefully maneuver around the growing crowd. After a couple of minutes, we enter the full chef’s kitchen. Much to my disappointment, it’s not any less busy here. If anything, it’s worse.

“Finally. I need a drink.”

I nod, and Morgan heads off to the drink table while I look around. Relief washes over me when I spot a grinning Adam leaning against the back wall with Matt, Tyler, and a couple of other guys I don’t recognize.

Adam is wearing a white hoodie at least one size too small and light-washed, distressed jeans with far too many holes. His dark brown curls are hidden under a tight fitted baseball cap, and when his shining chocolate eyes meet mine, they light up.

Morgan pushes a cup full of what smells like a vodka drink into my hand, and I mumble a quick thank you before we head toward our friends. Matt greets his girlfriend by pulling her into his side and whispering something in her ear that turns her cheeks bright red.

“Damn, baby. What’s your name? Do I know you?” Adam murmurs when I reach him. He palms my back before dragging his hand up to cup my nape. I roll my eyes at his antics but decide to go along with whatever game he’s playing.

“Oh, my God! Are you Adam White? The starting left-winger for the Saints? I just loved you in tonight’s game.” I twirl a lock of hair around my finger, and his smirk turns into a grin. I reach out and grab his massive bicep, squeezing the hard muscles twice.

He leans in close to me until his cheek brushes mine and whispers his next words in my ear. “Not going to lie, you had me at the beginning. But no puck bunny would know that much about hockey. Solid effort, though.”

He pulls back, and I swear I see something warm grow in his stare before he distracts me with a hug. I accept his affection without hesitation.

An hour, five shots of tequila, and two rounds of beer pong later, the group of us has migrated to the massive backyard.

Matthew and Morgan are lying together on a hammock strung from a massive tree, talking to themselves, while Adam and I sit beside the house on a thick blanket. The breeze has a bit of a nip to it now, but it’s not uncomfortable yet.

“Should I order pizza? I’m starving,” Adam mutters. I look at him, surprised at the random outburst but definitely into the idea. My stomach has been rumbling for a solid half hour.

“Yes, please.”

Adam turns to Morgan and Matt. “You guys hungry?”

“Hell yes,” Morgan groans, and Matt mumbles his agreement.

“What kind?” he’s asking me.

“Anything without pineapple.”

“You haven’t grown out of this ridiculous phase of yours yet?”

“What do you mean phase? You can’t honestly tell me that fruit belongs on pizza? With meat?” I scoff. Adam scrunches his nose. “Tomatoes will forever be the only exception.”

“That’s because tomatoes go on everything, gorgeous,” he rebukes, leaning back on his hands and tilting his head to the sky.

“They most definitely do not.”

“Prove it.”

“You don’t always have to be right, you know?”

“What’s the fun in being wrong?” he throws back, looking mighty smug.

I shake my head. “Always the smartass.”

Adam doesn’t respond; he’s too busy glaring at something over my shoulder instead. I turn to look at whatever triggered his drastic mood change and feel my face flush.

I trail my eyes up two very long legs and thick thighs and grin up at Oakley. A plain navy blue T-shirt hugs his chest, leaving almost no muscle to the imagination. I stare, mouth hanging open. The ball cap on his head is facing forward for a change, and for some reason, my fingers tingle with the urge to flip it backward.

I hear Adam mumble something about going to talk to one of his friends, his tone surprisingly sharp, but when I turn around to say goodbye, he’s already halfway across the yard.

I chew on my lip but decide to shake off his attitude. Shifting my attention back to Oakley, I replace him staring at me. I know I’m wearing a huge grin when I push myself off the damp grass and throw my arms around his neck.

If I didn’t have an ample amount of alcohol in my system, there would be no way in hell I would jump on a guy that I barely know. Thankfully, he responds almost immediately and wraps me in his arms. He holds me there against him before I can pull away and hide, flushed with embarrassment. I step away from him after a few seconds and smile timidly.

“You came. I was starting to worry you stood me up.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it. I got a call from my sister on the way here that lasted way longer than I expected.”

My gut twists. “Is she okay? Nothing bad, I hope.”

He shakes his head and rolls his neck. “That depends on what you consider to be bad. Personally, learning that she has a new boyfriend is disastrous news for me. I called my buddy to check him out for me.”

I fight back a smile. “Big brothers. You’re all the same.”

“What do you mean? It’s our job to be protective.”

I arch a brow. “It’s your job to scare away any person who dares spare us an interested glance?”

“Yes. It is.” He says it like it’s the most obvious thing in existence.

“There’s something loose in your brains. A few missing screws, maybe. I think that’s a more acceptable probability.”

A smirk tugs at his mouth. “You enjoy picking on me, don’t you? I think I like that about you.”

“That’s good, because I wasn’t planning on stopping.”

“And there it is, that quick return I’ve also grown to enjoy.”

“Alright. Cool it on the compliments, Hotshot.” I’m too tipsy to hear them without blushing.

“Hutton! Come over here and play a game of pong!” a slurred voice calls. We both look at the crowd of jocks huddled around a long white table and sigh at the same time.

“Your presence has been requested,” I tease, hoping he can’t hear the twinge of disappointment in my voice at losing his company so soon.

He stares down at me. “Will you come with me?”

“That looks like a nightmare.”

“I agree. But it won’t be so bad if you’re with me. Please don’t make me go over there alone,” he pleads. His eyes widen, and his bottom lip juts out ever so slightly.

“Are you seriously giving me a puppy dog face right now?” I choke on a laugh.

He blinks innocently, and I lose it. My loud laugh breaks through the night, but I can’t stop. Watching a six-foot-three Hulk of a man pout might be the most ridiculous thing I have ever seen.

“You’re ridiculous,” I wheeze.

He sobers up and takes a step toward me. My laughter dries up at his closeness. The smell of his cologne makes me woozy in the best way. He smells so good.

Tipping my head back, I swallow at the heat in his eyes.

“You’re something else, Ava,” he mutters, his voice deep and raspy.

“Thanks.”

A laugh rumbles in his chest. “You don’t take compliments well.”

“Was that a compliment?”

“A bad one,” he admits with a half-smile. “Look, I promise I’ll make it up to you if you come play a quick game with me.”

“How are you going to do that?”

Oh God. Am I flirting with him? This feels a whole lot like I’m flirting with him.

His grin is sly, dangerous. “Name your price.”

“Anything?”

“Anything.”

I roll my lips and try to think of something but come up with nothing but hot air. “Do I have to decide right now, or can I think on it?”

He runs a hand over his jaw. “Think on it. You’ll have plenty of time after we whoop some beer pong ass.”

Despite how badly I don’t want to spend my night with a bunch of random bro-guys, I replace myself nodding. “Okay.”

My breath skips when Oakley reaches for my hand and flashes me a white-toothed smile. His fingers are long, his palm wide and hot. My hand disappears in his as he holds it and starts to lead me toward the crowd.

I steel my spine when everyone turns to look at us. The group of guys couldn’t care less about my presence as they focus on Oakley beside me, and for that, I’m oddly grateful.

A blond-haired guy with a manbun I recognize as Jarod Knoxville, Oakley’s linemate, whoops loudly when his pupil-blown grey eyes focus on Oakley. “My man!”

Oakley shifts me slightly behind him when Jarod comes stumbling over and pulls him into a half hug. “Hey, Knox.”

Jarod releases him and spins to the two guys on the far end of the pong table and yells, “You’re done! Hutton’s on that side.”

Without hesitation, they quickly place their Ping-Pong balls in an empty red cup and move out of the way. It’s creepy how they just do what they’re told like that.

Jarod looks at Oakley again. “You need a partner?” Before Oakley answers him, he’s already pointing at someone else in the crowd. The guy looks surprised but nods anyway. “You’re Hutton’s partner now.”

Oakley squeezes my hand and pulls me in beside him again before looking at his new “partner” and saying, “I have a partner already. You’re good.” Then he grips Jarod’s shoulder. “Thanks anyway.”

Suddenly, everyone’s looking at me as if just realizing there was someone beside Oakley the entire time. My skin immediately starts to itch under their stares. Some uncaring, some scrutinizing.

“Avery, right?” Jarod asks, moving his eyes over the length of my body. He smirks.

I clear my throat. “Ava.”

“Oh shit. That’s right. Adam’s Ava. I recognize you now.” He says it like it’s some revelation. I narrow my eyes on him and open my mouth to tell him that I’m nobody’s Ava when Oakley beats me to it.

He grits his teeth. “It’s just Ava to you. To everyone.”

Jarod puts his hands in front of his chest. “You got it, boss. You and Just Ava can go first.”

I sense Oakley getting annoyed again and squeeze his fingers to let him know it’s okay. It’s actually quite funny to watch these people interact with each other. Does Jarod know how douchey he seems, or does he just not care?

“Who are we playing against?” I ask the group.

“Us,” says one of the two beefy guys already at the end of the table. I don’t know either of them.

Oakley nods at them, and we walk to our side of the table. Someone has replaced all of the cups from the last round with new ones, organizing them in the usual triangle shape. Jarod has taken charge of refilling them all with a pitcher of beer. I cringe.

“That’s definitely going to taste like piss,” Oakley notes. He reaches up and takes his hat off before quickly running his fingers through his hair and slapping it back on. Backward this time.

Swoon.

“Do you want me to drink your cups for you?” I ask softly.

His eyes are warm when they meet mine. He smiles. “Sure. I don’t think you’ll need to, though. I’ve never lost a game of beer pong before, and those two look about two drinks away from collapsing.”

I peel my eyes away from him and look at our competition. They’re taking turns draining the extra beer from the pitcher, swaying every few swallows.

“Good point.” I laugh.

Jarod comes over with two plastic, white balls in his hands and holds them out to me. I take them from him with a quick thank you.

Oakley moves quickly, catching Jarod’s arm before he slips back into the crowd. He drops his voice. “That beer better be clean, Knoxville. You got me? If she drinks something—”

“She’s good, bro. Got the beer from the keg right before I poured it in the cups.”

Oakley lets him go. “Great. Let’s get started, then.”

I hold back my laugh, watching Jarod rush off. Oakley nods encouragingly at me and waves his hand toward the cups.

“Ladies first,” he says.

I release a breath before stepping in front of him and lining up my first shot. It’s distracting having him behind me, his body heat pulsing against my back and the smell of his cologne swirling in the wind, but I try to pretend he’s somewhere else and focus. It turns out to be a lot harder than I was hoping it would be. Especially when he shifts closer, brushing the back of my arm with his.

Gripping the ball, I force myself to concentrate on the middle cup and let it fly. It arches in the air before sinking in the beer. I do the same with the second ball, this time aiming for the cup beside it. It goes in. Two for two.

With matching scowls, our competitors remove the balls from the cups and drink. Once they’re empty, they toss them on the grass.

“Atta girl,” Oakley murmurs, his breath brushing the back of my ear.

I look over my shoulder at him, flying high on his praise. He grins at me, green eyes twinkling.

“I’ve never lost a game either,” I admit.

His grin gets bigger somehow. “I knew I chose you as my partner for a reason.”

“You mean it wasn’t because I wanted to play so badly?”

“Absolutely not.” He laughs.

One of the guys across the table clears his throat and yells, “Beginner’s luck. Watch and learn.”

He uses a shaky hand to push his shaggy brown hair out of his face before narrowing his eyes on our cups and tossing the first ball. He overshoots the cups, and Oakley catches the ball in one hand before it hits the ground.

“Come on, Rex,” the thrower’s friend grumbles. “Get it in!”

Rex spins to face his friend, his face red. “Yeah. I’m trying, dipshit.”

Oakley chuckles and cocks his head at the two guys. “You said something about learning?”

Rex throws up his middle finger and throws his second ball. It rims the top of our first cup before bouncing off the side and hitting the table. The crowd makes an ooh noise.

Oakley collects that ball with a smug smile. “There’s always next time.”

I step to the side of the table to make room for Oakley to take his turn. He lifts his arm, lining up his shots, and I watch his biceps bulge and tense with the motion. My hopeless curiosity has me wondering what it would feel like to wrap my hand around all that warm muscle. Would I even be able to touch all of it?

The crowd cheering pulls me from my thoughts. When I zone back into what’s happening, I replace Oakley watching me, a spark of what I think is arousal in his eyes.

He quickly looks away and rolls the ball in his palm. “One more to go.” Moving into position, he doesn’t hesitate before tossing it. My eyes go wide when he misses and it hits the table in front of the first cup.

“Grab it!” Rex yells at his friend.

But it’s too late. Oakley stretches that long body over our cups and covers the ball with his hand, grabbing it and standing back before the other guy even gets close.

“Trick shot!” Jarod shouts.

Oakley ignores him, turning to me instead. “Come here.” I blink at him. He laughs. “Please, come here. I need your help.”

Eying him suspiciously, I slowly close the distance between us.

“Will you stand behind me and cover my eyes?” he asks.

“There’s no way I’ll reach.” Not without a step stool, at least.

He shrugs. “Hop on my back, then.”

Flutters bloom in my stomach. “Okay.”

Without wasting any more time, Oakley faces the table and crouches down. I stand behind him and carefully drop my hands to his shoulders. He tenses beneath my fingertips.

“Just jump on, Ava. I won’t drop you,” he says quietly.

If only that’s what I was worried about. I move slower than a normal, sane woman would given this opportunity, and it’s apparently too slow for him. I gasp when he reaches back and grips both of my thighs, pulling me toward him. On instinct, I wrap them around his waist and slip my hands from his shoulders down to clasp in front of his neck. God, I shouldn’t fit against him this well.

“There we go,” he says, his voice low. “Now, cover my eyes and wish me luck.”

I place my hands over his eyes and smile when his eyelashes flutter against my palms. “Good luck,” I whisper.

He lets go of one of my legs but keeps his hold on my other one, even though there’s no reason to. They’re squeezing his waist tight.

I hand him the ball and watch as he blows on it and then slowly brings it up to where he thinks my lips are.

“Blow, Ava. For double luck.”

He’s a few inches off, so I push myself higher up his back to reach. I swallow to keep myself from making an embarrassing noise at the sudden pressure between my legs as I move. Stop it.

I purse my lips in front of the ball and quickly blow on it before leaning back.

“Good to go,” I murmur.

His body vibrates with a quiet laugh before tossing the ball. My jaw drops when it falls in a cup.

“You got it in.” I don’t hide my surprise.

Oakley barks a loud laugh, and I drop my hands. “I did. And now we can leave.”

With those final words, he grabs my thighs again and starts off toward the house, leaving the game and everyone watching like they’re not even there.

“The game isn’t done!” Rex’s friend shouts, but Oakley only waves him off.

My chest floods with something ooey gooey. I rest my chin on his shoulder and let him take us away.