Fake Shot (Boston Rebels Book 2)
Chapter 16

I face 200-pound men who are shooting rubber pucks at me at over 90 miles per hour on a regular basis. That fact alone means there’s almost nothing that makes me nervous. So why, as I sit on Jules’s couch waiting for her to get home from work, is my stomach twisted up in knots?

Pulling out my phone, I read through our text exchange from last night. It’s embarrassing how frequently I’ve done this, trying to figure out what she’s thinking and how she’s feeling. She’s so damn hard to read.

Colt

Tell me you don’t have any plans tomorrow night.

I sent that text a full hour before our game, and when I hadn’t heard back from her before the game started, I was annoyed. I took a quick peek at my phone in between the first and second periods, which was a mistake. Her lack of response at that point pissed me off.

Why was she ignoring me? I was so busy getting myself worked up about it that I let a puck, which should have been an easy stop, fly right by me at the beginning of the second period.

That was the wake-up call I needed. This distractibility—me thinking about her when I shouldn’t be—it’s exactly why I don’t date. No woman is worth fucking up my career over. Especially when I have so little of it left to enjoy.

I got my head on straight and didn’t let a single shot past me after that, and we ended the game 2-1. Leading the series by two as we headed back to Boston was a great feeling, but I honestly couldn’t enjoy the celebration with my teammates as we loaded onto the plane for our flight home—until her text came through.

Jules

I don’t. Why, what did you have in mind?

Colt

A trip to the jeweler so you can pick out a ring, and then our first “official” date as a newly minted fake-engaged couple.

Jules

Do we have to?

When I’d chuckled at that, Drew’s head snapped over to my phone screen so quickly I had to flip it over. Of course I’d pick the only woman in the world who’s resistant to my charms. This couldn’t have happened with someone who’d have made it easy.

You don’t want easy.

I don’t know where the thought comes from. But as I sit on the couch now, waiting for her, I have to admit that it’s true. Every woman I’ve ever been with has been easy. Easy to get into my bed, and easy to leave. Even leaving Cheri, who I’d dated for two years and who was supposed to transfer to a college in Boston at the end of her freshman year so she could be with me, wasn’t the painful part. It was getting over my brother’s betrayal that gutted me.

Not only is Jules not easy, but she’s a legitimate challenge . . . a puzzle I’m desperate to finish putting together while half-afraid I’ll be missing the last piece. Somehow, that only makes me want to work harder at figuring her out.

Colt

Only if you want this to be believable.

Jules

What I want is for this not to be happening at all.

She’s so much less snarky when she’s within two feet of me. It’s like her walls come down just enough for me to climb over them. It makes me wonder why those walls are there in the first place, and what I’d have to do to get them to crumble entirely?

Colt

Us against the world, remember? So start dreaming about what you want that ring to look like because you’re going to be picking one out tomorrow night.

Jules

I work in construction, Colt. Can’t we just get me one of those silicone rings so if it gets caught on something, I don’t lose a finger?

Colt

There’s no way in hell I’m buying you a $20 silicone ring as your engagement ring. Do you even know me? And you don’t have to wear my ring at work. But you will wear it when we go out together.

Jules

Ooooh, just what I always wanted. A man to tell me what I will and won’t be doing.

Colt

Trust me, you’d like it a whole lot if I was bossing you around.

It had taken almost a full half hour for her to respond to that one, and I was worried that I’d stepped over the line. It’s one thing to flirt with a random woman you’re trying to sleep with, and another thing entirely to flirt with your fake fiancée after promising your best friend you wouldn’t touch her. We’re not going to be sleeping together, so why do I enjoy teasing her like this?

Jules

Trust me, I’ll be the one bossing you around.

I’d laughed out loud, jolting Drew awake in the dark plane. He looked up at me from where he was reclined, and quietly asked, “If this is all fake, why are you so goddamned happy?”

Am I happy? Is that what this feeling is? I sure as shit wasn’t happy last night waiting for her to text me back. Or during the game, when I was so distracted by the fact that she hadn’t texted me that I fucked up.

But in those moments where she did reply? Or right now, when I read through our text exchange, am I happy?

Colt

I look forward to that. A lot.

“Are you for fucking real right now?” Jules hisses in my ear as we stand in front of the glass display case at the world’s most well-known jeweler. We’d arrive at the Newbury Street store via a private car and a back entrance, right at 6 p.m. when the store closed. No one but the clerk helping us, who already signed an NDA, needs to know that Jules didn’t already have the ring.

“I’ll give you two some time to consider these options, and if you don’t like them, I’m happy to select some other choices. I’ll be over there if you need anything.” She nods her chin toward the corner of the room, far enough away that with the classical music playing quietly in the background, we can have a private conversation.

“Thank you,” I tell her. Then I snake my arm around Jules’s waist, pulling her against my hip so we’re side to side, and turn my head to ask, “Is there a problem, Tink?”

“I can’t wear one of these.” She almost sounds scared by the thought.

“Do you remember how you said that no one who knows you would believe we were engaged?” I ask, and she glances up at me, but doesn’t respond—it’s something that I notice she does a lot. It’s like she lets her facial expressions speak for her and saves her words for when they’re necessary. It’s exactly the opposite of her family’s refrain that she doesn’t have a filter, and it has me even more curious about what she doesn’t say. “Well, no one who knows me will believe I bought you any ring that wasn’t like one of these.”

She looks down at the selection of ostentatious rings. “Why, because you’re showy and rich?”

“No, because I like to spoil the people I care about.”

She stiffens. “Yes, but you don’t actually care about me.”

Is that what she thinks? I mean, I’m not in love with her, and never will be. I promised myself long ago that I was never going down that road again. But that doesn’t mean I don’t care about her. I wouldn’t have gone to La Gallina last weekend, or stepped in like I did, if I didn’t care. And I sure as hell wouldn’t have kissed her to save her from having a panic attack.

“That’s not true. And me getting you a cheap-ass ring would be a sure sign that I didn’t care. We can’t have people speculating.”

“If your idea of a cheap-ass ring is anything smaller than four carats, you’re even more pretentious than I thought.”

I laugh at that. “Maybe I am. But that doesn’t change the fact that I’m getting you one of these rings, since you didn’t do what I asked and think about what you wanted ahead of time.”

She grinds her teeth together as she looks down at the five rings set out on velvet pedestals on top of the glass case, then lets out a frustrated sigh. “Why don’t you choose, then, since it obviously matters more to you than it does to me.”

“You’re being a brat just to prove a point, aren’t you?” Reaching over, I take her chin between my fingers as I tilt her head so she’s looking up at me. Why do I like it so much when she’s difficult?

She just raises those light eyebrows and blinks, her long dark lashes descending over those blue eyes, as she bites the corner of her lip to hold in a smile. “Go ahead, choose one.”

I let go of her chin and pull her in front of me, wrapping my arms around her like I think someone might do if they were actually picking out a ring for their fiancée. Then I lean my head down close to her ear and say, “You sure you don’t want to choose? Because this is your last chance.”

“I’m good.” Her voice is full of amusement as she relaxes against my chest. It’s then that I realize how right I was . . . when I’m close, or when I’m touching her, her walls start to come down.

“Okay,” I tease out the word in a way that sounds just like you’re going to regret this, as I lift my hand and motion the salesperson over. I turn my head toward her as she approaches, and right over Jules’s head, I say, “My fiancée would like something . . . bigger.”

Jules is still not speaking to me when we pull up to the outdoor driving range. The sun has almost set, and the bright lights illuminate the front of the building and the nets in the distance. Outdoor speakers pump music so loud I can hear it through the windows of the car as the driver pulls right to the front of the parking lot to let us out.

“Colt, no,” Jules says with an enormous sigh.

“It’s just golf. It’ll be fun,” I promise as I open the door and step out, holding the door for her. The driver rolls his window down and confirms that he’ll be back for us in a few hours.

“Colt, I’ve never golfed. And I know that, like most hockey players, you spend a fair amount of your off-season on the golf course.” It’s true. It’s one of the only sports I can participate in without violating my contract—they pay me way too much to risk me hurting myself in the summer.

“Right. So I’m going to kick your ass, and you’re going to enjoy learning how to do something you’re not already good at.”

“You think that discovering I suck at golf is going to teach me how to loosen up and let off some steam?”

The disdain in her voice clues me into two things. First, she really hates to lose. And second, she honestly doesn’t know what to do when she’s not in control, except to back away, refusing to participate.

Resting my hand on her lower back, I guide her toward the front doors. “Why so tense? I’ll make sure you can hit a golf ball by the end of the night. You might even enjoy yourself if you just relax and let things happen.”

I get the sense that relaxing and letting things happen is exactly what she’s trying to avoid, but I just don’t know why. I’m determined to figure it out eventually.

We’re greeted by name and shown to the bay I reserved on the top level—right in the middle of the action so that there will be plenty of evidence that we were out together. After choosing the right size clubs for each of us, and ordering some food and drinks, she looks out at the giant targets lit up along the grass, then at the nets surrounding the range.

“So how does this work?” Her voice is quiet, and not just because of the loud music surrounding us.

I step up behind her. “I’ll show you how to hold the club and how to swing, then I’ll walk you through it.”

Is it wrong that the thought of wrapping my arms around her again, holding her hands in mine as I show her how to swing, has the blood rushing to my dick? Yeah, probably. Do I care? Not as much as I should.

She steps aside so I can demonstrate what to do, then she tosses me a ball. “Show me.”

I bend to set up the ball on the tee, plant my feet in the slightly wide stance I prefer, wind up, and bring my club down to meet the ball. The satisfying ping of the golf ball leaving my club has me grinning at her with a cocky smile.

“Show off.” She rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling.

“You want to try?” I know she doesn’t want to do this, but I need her to do it willingly, not because I’m forcing her to.

She shakes her head, but the way she’s biting her lip as she looks at me has me thinking she’s more willing than she’s letting on. “C’mere.”

Stepping across the turf, she says, “We have a little problem.”

“And what’s that?”

“I’m not left-handed.”

I bark out a laugh. “Yeah, I should have thought of that. I’m sure I can figure out how to swing right-handed.”

“This feels a little like the blind leading the blind,” she says as I step up behind her, lining us up at the right distance from the tee.

“We’ll take a few practice swings before you try with the ball.”

I line myself up, hyper-aware of how my quads are pressing against her hamstrings and ass, and I bring my arms around her to adjust her grip. Then I clasp my hands over hers and explain the mechanics of the swing. She glances to her left, where my head is dipped beside hers.

“Eyes on the tee, Jules.”

She looks down, but presses her ass back into me in a way that has to be intentional. The way this woman doesn’t back down does strange things to me—like making me want to spend more time with her.

I guide her through drawing her club back and bringing it down to the tee a few times so she’ll get a sense of how to line it up to hit the ball. Then we practice swinging through, with me explaining how her body should be positioned at the end of the swing.

“You ready to try it on your own?” I ask.

“Not really.”

“I think you are.” What I really think is that I need to step away, because if my body is pressed up against hers like this for much longer, my reaction is going to be visible. And while I want people to see us out together, see me flirting with her, I don’t need them to see me sporting a boner like a goddamned teenager.

Setting the ball on the tee, I look up at her. “Do it exactly like we just did, and you’ll do fine.”

Then I step back so I’m opposite her, and when she positions her hands on the club, the overhead lights shine off her ring, making me squint.

“Holy shit,” I laugh. “The way the lights just caught your ring blinded me.”

That’s what I get for buying her a five-carat oval cut diamond with smaller diamonds lining the solitaire and the band. All-in-all, I think it’s about six-and-a-half carats, and it’s way more than what I was expecting to buy, but pissing her off is one of my favorite pastimes and you can’t put a price on that kind of joy.

“Yeah,” she deadpans, sending me a glare, “it’s a bit much.”

“Baby . . .” I make a show of stepping close enough to her that I can lean over and kiss the top of her head. “I’m a bit much.”

“No doubt.” With a sigh, she uses her index finger against my chest to move me back to the other side of the small patch of turf.

And then she winds up and smacks the ball like she’s taking all her frustration out on it. It flies more than halfway down the range, and we’re both so surprised that I scoop her up in my arms and spin her around.

“I can’t believe you just did that. You’re a natural.” I’m beaming up at her as she laughs triumphantly.

She looks down at me with a smirk as I slow to a stop. “What can I say? I’m good with balls.”