Fake Shot (Boston Rebels Book 2)
Chapter 1

6 Years Ago

Las Vegas, NV

From my spot at the edge of the craps table, I take another sip of my whiskey sour. I should have picked a sweeter drink, because then I’d be able to tell if it’s the drink turning my stomach, or if it’s the way the woman in the barely-there pink dress is hanging all over Colt.

“She’s a less pretty version of you,” Brock Lester says as he leans into my side. Clearly, I’m failing in my attempt not to stare at Colt and tonight’s woman du jour.

She can’t be much older than me, and while her hair is light brown with blond highlights and not a shiny blond like mine, there’s enough of a resemblance for a comparison. And it’s that fact that hurts.

All those excuses I’ve made for years—that I’m too young for him or that I’m not his type—to explain why he’s not interested in me, they’re all lies in the wake of tonight’s evidence. It’s not my age or that I’m not his type. It’s just me. Whatever the reason, he’s just not into me, and he never will be.

I know I need to accept that . . . probably should have accepted it years ago, but I can barely remember a time when I didn’t love Colt. From the time I was old enough to be interested in boys, my brother’s best friend and teammate was the only one I had eyes for. It didn’t matter that he was eight years older than me or that he’s always treated me like a little sister. I’ve been too stubborn to quit on my feelings for him, because I’m entirely certain we could be perfect together if only he’d open his eyes and see me.

Tilting the drink against my lips, I drain the glass before I turn toward Brock. “I’m not sure what you’re talking about.”

“Sure you’re not,” he says, a low chuckle following his words. “But if you want to make him jealous, you just let me know.”

I narrow my eyes at him, telling myself it’s because I’m trying to make sense of his meaning rather than because my vision is getting the slightest bit unfocused.

“And why would I do that?” I attempt to keep my voice indifferent, the way I have all night as the NHL’s resident bad boy has shamelessly flirted with me. But my disinterest only seems to have increased his dedication to getting my attention.

“Because we could have a lot of fun together.” The backs of his knuckles trail along the outside of my thigh, and even though he’s not my type, it sends a shiver of excitement up my back. Around us, the large and now very drunk group of hockey players who have congregated in Las Vegas for All-Star Weekend, along with their wives and girlfriends and a fair number of puck bunnies, are loud and laughing and paying us no mind.

I’m fairly certain I’m not cool enough to be here.

Audrey and I convinced our brother, Jameson, to bring us to All-Star Weekend with him—even though we’d each be missing a couple of days of our college classes—so we could enjoy a weekend of sun and relaxation, and attend the game. As an agent, he represents several of the players, including Colt, who’s a goalie for the Boston Rebels, a young center named Alex Ivanov, who’s having a stellar second year in New York, and a defenseman from Ottawa named Tom Bonovono.

When the players headed out tonight after the post-game dinner, Audrey went back to the hotel because she’s very pregnant and always exhausted. And even though I could have hung out with her in the hotel room, watching movies and raiding the snacks in the mini bar like we’d done the last two nights, I felt like going out.

The funny thing about being a freshman in college is that you get used to making your own decisions about how you spend your nights, and I’d forgotten what it was like to need to ask my brother’s permission. Luckily, he didn’t put up a fight about me coming out with them, even though, at nineteen, I’m not technically old enough to be at the gaming tables, and I’m definitely not supposed to be drinking.

Like I suspected, no one has asked for my ID because I put on some makeup and a slinky dress with high heels, and I walked in with a group of the best players in professional hockey. As we moved through the doors of the casino earlier, Colt slung his arm over my shoulder to usher me in with the group, making sure I didn’t get left behind. That moment had given me all kinds of hope.

But that was hours ago, before that woman in the pink dress started hanging all over him. He hasn’t looked at me since.

Except when—about an hour ago—Jameson told him he was going with a few of the players to a strip club. He claimed it was to “make sure no one got in trouble,” and while I believe him, it also feels like these are grown men who should be responsible for themselves. Then he asked Colt to “keep an eye on me.”

Unlike his players, I don’t need a fucking babysitter.

“Are you thinking it over?” Brock asks, and it’s only then that I realize I’ve been completely lost in my thoughts about how I’ll never be anything more than a kid in Colt’s eyes—someone he needs to take care of when my big brother isn’t around.

He’s never going to see you as more.

“Yeah, I’m considering it . . .” I bite my lip as I flag down the waitress assigned to our private VIP area. Then I order another whiskey sour because I’m afraid to change my drink order. I’ve never been drunk before, but I’ve heard horror stories about mixing alcohols, and sticking with the same drink feels safe.

He leans in again. “You’re way too beautiful and sweet to be spending this weekend alone, Jules.” My name is a caress coming off his tongue, and his warm breath glides along my bare shoulder, wrapping me in the promise of companionship.

I’ve dated here and there just to see what all the fuss is about, but I’ve never had a boyfriend because I’ve held on to this stupid childhood crush way past its expiration date. I’ve also never had sex, nor drank too much, nor made a single bad decision.

And suddenly, three drinks in, all these rites of passage that other people my age have typically experienced make me feel like I need to grow up. And moving on from this ridiculous crush, with someone who is not Colt, feels like the first monumental step toward actual adulthood.

“What did you have in mind?” I ask. Notching my index finger behind his belt buckle, I relish his sharp intake of breath and the way he half closes his eyelids as he looks down at me.

And then I let Brock wrap his arm along my lower back, grip my hip, and pull me against him, whispering promises about all the dirty things he wants to do to me. I’m seriously considering his suggestions because, hell, someone needs to take my virginity. I have an incredibly good-looking, highly attentive man standing right here, offering to spend this weekend making sure I have “fun.” And he’s rebuffed every other woman who’s tried to talk to him tonight, focusing all his energy on me because, unlike Colt, he’s clearly into me. Would I be a fool to turn him down?

Before I can agree, Colt’s next to us, one hand on my shoulder and one hand on the neck of Brock’s button down as he pulls him away and tells him to mind his fucking manners with “Flynn’s baby sister.”

Of course he has to go and make me feel and sound like a goddamn child—I don’t know why I’m just now realizing that this is how he views me. I’m so pissed off I could cry, but I have years of experience hiding my anger and frustration and so instead, I stand taller and square my shoulders as I turn to face him.

“I can make my own decisions about whose company I keep.”

“I told Jameson I’d be responsible for you tonight,” he says, looking down at me, “and I’m headed to my room. So I’ll take you to yours on my way.”

“I’m fine here for now. I can replace my way back to my own room,” I tell him. In the dim light of the casino, it’s impossible to tell what time it is. It could be ten at night or three in the morning, I have no idea. But I do know that I’m not tired, and I want to stay out longer. Mostly, though, I want him to stop treating me like a child.

Colt reaches out, gripping my elbow in a way that’s not painful, but is definitely meant to show me he’s not playing. “Let’s go.”

“I’m fine here, Dad.” I spit the word at him, hating how much I sound like a little brat. But who the hell does he think he is?

He leans in close, and I force myself not to notice the way he smells tangy and spicy, or the way his hard chest feels pressed up against my arm and shoulder as he says, “We can do this the easy way or the hard way. Either way, I’m seeing you back to your room like I promised your brother I would. Should I throw you over my shoulder, or can you walk out of here like a good girl?”

I grind my teeth together in frustration. Of all the times I’ve imagined words of affirmation like that coming from his mouth, it was never in a situation like this.

“I’ll see myself up to my own room,” I say, turning to walk away without even saying goodbye to Brock. I don’t want him to notice the anger creeping up my skin, leaving my chest, neck, and face flushed, or my eyes watering from the embarrassment.

Colt’s on my heels as I speed through the lobby of the hotel and approach the elevator. After hitting the button, I turn to tell him he doesn’t need to follow me, and I’m completely blindsided by the puck bunny in the pink dress standing there under his arm.

There’s no way Colt doesn’t know I’ve had a crush on him for years. And the fact that he’s standing here with another woman, taking her up to his room—not an ounce of subtlety or shame, not even having her follow a few minutes later to spare my feelings in this situation—tells me what I’ve suspected all night.

He doesn’t give a shit about me, except as his best friend’s baby sister. And given how I feel about him, that’s utterly heartbreaking.

We ride the elevator in silence, my eyes on the floor the whole time. I don’t want to see how he’s looking at her or what he’s doing that’s making her giggle. When we hit the sixteenth floor and the doors open, I zoom out of the elevator like I’m turbo charged.

I’m sliding the key card into my door and pushing it open—hoping I can make it inside before he sees the tears that have started falling—when he passes behind me on the way to his room a few doors down. “’Night, Tink.”

I slip into the dark room almost silently, determined not to wake Audrey up, and slide my back down the door as I crumple to the floor, completely and totally crushed.

And that’s when my phone lights up with a text. When I tap on it, there’s a photo of Brock, his lips wrapped around the straw sticking out of a whiskey sour, one of his light brown eyebrows raised as his hair falls across his forehead. He’s stupidly attractive. Whereas Colt’s all muscle with fair skin and a chiseled square jaw, Brock’s thinner with darker skin and a more refined bone structure that showcases his cheekbones and his slightly pointed chin.

Brock

This whiskey sour isn’t going to drink itself.

I’m about to respond and ask him how he got my number when I remember that he put contact info in my phone when he first started flirting with me, saying, “in case you ever need it.” I glance up at the top of the screen, and what I didn’t realize at the time was that he also sent himself a text from my phone that says, simply: Jules Flynn.

I press my lips together to hold back the smile, not that there’s anyone to see it. Audrey’s consistent breathing is a sure sign she’s dead asleep in her bed on the other side of the bathroom wall.

I should go put my pajamas on and climb into my bed and let myself have a good cry through the heartbreak that was inevitable. There was never a world where Colt was going to feel the same way about me. I knew it, and I held on anyway.

Or . . . I could go into the bathroom, wipe these tears away, and go out and have fun.

And as the image of that woman wrapped around Colt filters back into my mind, I don’t feel sad. I feel angry.

I deserve to move on, with someone who is interested in me. Colt doesn’t deserve the love I’ve been saving for him. Neither does Brock, but I can go back down there with no expectations that there will be any feelings involved—we’re just having fun. And isn’t that what a nineteen-year-old college freshman should be doing?

Slipping into the bathroom, I shut the door as quietly as possible, wetting a washcloth, and wiping away the evidence of how hard this night has been on my heart.

Jules

I’ll be back down in ten minutes.

Brock

I was hoping you’d say that.

Jules

Enjoy my drink, and order me another.

Brock sends another selfie of him smiling and holding up an already empty glass.

Brock

I just ordered us both another. Get your cute ass back here quickly or I might have to drink both of them too.

As I smile, it feels like it might be the first time in too long. I’m serious by nature, and because I’ve loved Colt for as long as I can remember, I never really flirt with other guys. But this—the attention and the longing—feels good.

I leave the hotel room hoping that by the time I get back downstairs, the red stain of embarrassment and tears from earlier will no longer be visible through the concealer I just reapplied. And as the elevator descends, I make myself a promise: Those were the last tears I’ll ever cry for Mathieu Coltier. Any feelings I had for him are officially dead.

It’s time to move on.