Fake Shot (Boston Rebels Book 2)
Chapter 22

The sun’s only been up for an hour and already my bag is packed and sitting by the back door. I rarely travel, so I don’t really know what I’m supposed to bring for a weekend with my fiancé’s family. It’s only one night away, but we have the party tonight, and then breakfast at his parents’ place tomorrow. And the weather looks unpredictable, with a forty-degree range in the daily temps.

I’m strangely nervous about the whole thing—about meeting his parents, lying about our relationship, staying in the same room as him at the inn. He’d called to ask if we could get a room with two beds because he’s “a big guy and sharing a small bed would be a problem,” and was politely told that they didn’t have any rooms with two beds, but that there was a couch in our room, too. I’ve offered to take that, but he only laughed and said he’d take it. I don’t know how he thinks he’s fitting his six-foot-four frame on a couch comfortably enough to sleep, but okay.

I think I’d be less nervous if he hadn’t been gone all week. Luckily, they’d won the series during Game 6 in Florida, so they didn’t have to play last night’s home game. I thought that might mean we’d have more time to talk about this weekend at some point yesterday, but he was booked up all day with practice, and the media, and an appointment with his massage therapist, then he went out with his teammates last night. He invited me to come along, but I’m a nervous traveler and was afraid I’d be a mess today if I didn’t get enough sleep. But I tossed and turned until I heard him come up the stairs anyway, so maybe I should have just gone out?

I’m headed out to get my sunglasses from the center console of my truck, busy thinking that I’m glad Colt’s driving today, when I hear a too-familiar voice. My shoulders stiffen and I press my eyes closed for a moment. Even though I’d been expecting this a couple of weeks ago, I guess I must have let my guard down because my father’s voice catches me by surprise.

“You’re headed out early for a Saturday morning.”

I turn slowly and replace him leaning back against the exterior brick of our row house, one foot resting on the wall next to his opposite knee. His tattered jeans and T-shirt with small holes along the seams are practically stiff from the filth, and even from six feet away, he smells like the inside of a trash can on a hot day. The hollows under his eyes are a purplish gray, and his sallow skin sags along his gaunt cheeks, where there’s not an ounce of fat to fill it out. His body’s so thin it looks like the wall might be holding him up.

“What are you doing here?” It’s the same question I ask him every time he shows up. Usually, it’s even earlier on a weekday, and he catches me heading out to work. He’s never come by on a weekend, which might be why he’s caught me so off guard.

“I need some cash.”

“I told you last time, I’m not giving you money anymore. Not unless you go to rehab.”

“Rehab’s a waste for a guy like me. I don’t want you spending your money on that.”

“No,” my voice is harsh as I look him up and down, “you just want me wasting it on alcohol and drugs instead?”

His head rears back in surprise. I never talk back to him. I’m always the obedient daughter, the only person in his life who’s still willing to help him out. I don’t know why I’ve held on to the hope that he’s going to change, but I’m finally realizing he never will.

“Listen, girl,” he says, his nostrils flaring as he takes a step toward me. “You are where you are because of me. You think you’d be running your own construction company if I hadn’t taught you everything you know? The least you can do is help me out now.”

Behind me, the back door slams and I jump in surprise. Colt’s next to me so fast he must have jumped down the back steps because there’s no way he could make it down the six stairs that quick.

“With all due respect,” he says, his voice level and firm as he places a reassuring hand on my lower back, “if you’re going to speak to my fiancée that way, you’re going to answer to me instead.”

Dad looks at Colt, and his eyes widen in recognition. They’ve met a handful of times, back before Dad left, when we used to go to all the Rebels games to watch Jameson play. Clearly, Dad hadn’t heard our engagement news, which makes me wonder if he still follows hockey at all.

His dull blue eyes, once so bright and similar to mine, slide over to me. “Ahhh, getting yourself hitched to a hockey player, eh? And you can’t spare a Benjamin Franklin for your old man?”

Colt’s hand flies out, pulling me behind him as he steps forward in front of me. I don’t feel threatened by my father, who is so emaciated from his addiction that he can’t possibly weigh more than I do, but once again, Colt is putting himself between what he perceives as a potential threat and me.

“She’s my daughter, and I’m not talking to her through you,” Dad snarls. Everything about him—from the way his knees are a little bent to the way his lip curls up to bare his teeth, or what’s left of them anyway—reminds me of a mangy dog about to attack.

“You’re done talking to her, period,” Colt says. “You clearly don’t deserve whatever sympathy she has left for you. Now get out of here, or I’ll call the cops and tell them you’re trespassing.”

The way Colt is keeping his calm, the way he doesn’t let my dad’s veiled threats affect his outward demeanor, surprises me. He’s level-headed, yes. But I saw him just about lose his shit a few weeks ago when I was being threatened, and it makes me wonder why he hasn’t gone into attack mode this time too. Whatever the reason, his calming presence is calming me, too.

“We’ll talk about this later,” Dad says to me, then he makes a hideous noise in the back of his throat that sounds like he’s coughing and choking at the same, before he spits a wad of phlegm at Colt’s feet.

To his credit, Colt doesn’t react. We just stand there together, watching him hobble down the alley. It’s not until Dad turns the corner onto the sidewalk that I realize I’m holding Colt’s hand. I don’t even know when that happened.

“Hey,” I say, squeezing. “You didn’t have to jump in like that. I don’t need protecting.”

He obviously didn’t absorb that message after what happened at the restaurant, but at least there was no catastrophic fallout this time.

“I know you don’t. You could have handled him by yourself . . . but I wanted you to know you didn’t have to.” Then he turns, giving me a quick kiss on the forehead that has me softening toward him even more. “Don’t forget your sunglasses.”

We’re an hour into our drive north when Colt says, “So, you want to talk about what happened back there with your dad?”

I shift in my seat, bringing my travel mug with my always-warm coffee up to my lips and noting, as I do each time I use it, what a thoughtful gift it was. “Not particularly.”

“How often does he come around asking for money?”

“You asked if I wanted to talk about it, and I said no.”

“Well, I’m going to need some basic information, Jules, so I know whether I need to be worried about him coming back.”

“Colt, you saw him. It’s not like he’s a threat.” At least, this confrontation didn’t result in a panic attack like I had after the interaction with Jerome.

“Do Jameson and Audrey know he still comes around?”

I glance out the windows at the evergreens lining this part of the highway. Now that we’re farther north, the trees are just starting to get their leaves, whereas they are completely filled in back down in Boston. “No.”

“And why do you think that is?”

“Because I haven’t told them,” I say, swallowing roughly.

“Has he contacted either of them?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Would you know if he did?”

“Yeah.”

“And why’s that?” He’s led me straight to the point I don’t want to let him make. I know exactly why my dad only ever approaches me.

“Because if he had, either of them would have told him to fuck off, and then told the rest of us about it.”

“So why haven’t you done that?” He’s got one arm loosely gripping the top of the steering wheel, and the ends of his sandy hair curl up from under his backward ball cap. Outwardly, he’s relaxed, but I can tell just by the line of questioning that he’s not.

“What do you want me to say, Colt? That I feel bad for him, and that despite the fact that he left us, I feel some obligation to help him?”

“That’s a start. Does your therapist know you’ve helped him out in the past?”

“You’re jumping to a lot of conclusions for someone who heard, like, five seconds of our conversation.”

“The kitchen window was open, Jules. That’s how I knew he was out there in the first place. It’s not like I’d have recognized him if I hadn’t heard your conversation and known it was your dad.”

It’s true that my dad is barely recognizable. I remember when I was still very young, back when Jameson was in high school and my parents were happily married—Dad used to look so much like my brother looks now, but without the dark eyes. Jameson got those from his own mom, but otherwise, they’re practically twins. Their personalities couldn’t be more different, though. Where Jameson is fiercely loyal, staunchly determined, and completely disciplined in all aspects of his life, Dad’s a loose cannon of bad decisions. It’s why I try so hard to be more like my brother—I don’t want to end up like my dad.

“No,” I say finally. “My therapist doesn’t know about my dad.”

“And why not?”

“I don’t know, Colt,” I say, sarcasm heavy in my tone. “Because I have so many other issues to talk to her about that this one hasn’t come up yet?”

Besides, I’m well aware that just about every issue in my life stems from my father in the first place. There’s a reason they call them “daddy issues.”

“So how about this,” he says. “When you talk to her tomorrow morning, let’s tell her about what’s happening with your dad, and see what she says. Or, I can tell your brother.”

My incredulous laugh comes out sounding an awful lot like a snort. “Are you fucking giving me an ultimatum? We haven’t been together long enough for that. And also, what do you mean let’s talk to her about it. Are you planning to join my therapy session?”

“I’d like to,” he says. His eyes flick from the road to me quickly before he refocuses them straight ahead. “If you’re open to it.”

Is he even for real right now? “Why in the world would I be open to that?”

“I just want to be there when you tell her what happened. Then I’ll leave.”

I genuinely laugh at that. “No, you won’t. Because she’s going to have a lot of questions for you, Colt.”

“For me?”

“Yeah. Like she’s going to ask why you keep jumping in to save me in situations I can clearly handle by myself. And why your first instinct was to say we’re engaged. And why you have probably hundreds of former hookups in your contact list and haven’t slept with anyone in half a year, but you can’t keep your hands off me.”

His lips curve up into what I can only imagine is a classic Colt smirk, but I can’t tell for sure since I can only see his profile. “You sure those aren’t the questions you want to ask?”

“I think those are the questions that anyone who knew about our situation would have,” I say, hoping he doesn’t glance over here and see how my face is heating up. He hit the nail right on the head, because those are exactly the questions I want answers to. “Besides, I canceled tomorrow’s appointment already.”

“Why would you do that? You could have still had a video call with her.”

“I didn’t know what our plans would be, or if I’d have a private place to take the call.”

“Jules, those appointments are important. We could have moved plans around and made sure you had space so that you could have been on that call.”

I feel oddly defensive that he’s questioning my judgment here. It’s not like I don’t think they’re important, it’s just that I couldn’t imagine how I’d take that call when we’re sharing a room at the inn and have some sort of breakfast plans with his parents. At the same time, I’m touched that he’s willing to reschedule things like that.

My feelings for him, and about him, are getting so damn complicated.

He reaches for his phone where it rests on the charging pad and hands it to me. “2-6-3-8.”

“What?”

“That’s my passcode. Enter it.”

“Okay . . .” I drag the word out as I unlock his phone. “Now what.”

“Open my contacts.”

“Why? I don’t want to see what’s there.” Is this some form of torture, making me look at the long list of women he’s slept with, with details about the location and experience noted prominently in their name?

“I’m pretty sure you do, actually.”

“I kind of hate you right now.” I hate him the way you hate something you know you want, but can never have. I hate the way he always thinks he knows what I’m feeling. And I hate it even more that he’s always right.

“You don’t hate me, Tink. You just wish you did.” See? Bullseye, every freaking time. “Now, open my contacts.”

I do as he says, wrinkling my nose in advance of what I imagine I’ll replace there. But I’m not really sure how to process the screen I land on.

I use my finger to scroll through the contacts, all thirty of them. And I recognize, or can at least place, every single name. His parents and brother, his teammates, my brother and sister . . . I’m about to object that I’m not in there, but replace myself listed near the end as Tinker Bell.

I know why he’s showing me this, but I still feel the need to hear him say it. “Yeah, so?”

“I deleted them all. And blocked them. And turned off my DMs on social media.”

“Why would you do that?” I try to keep my tone nonchalant, making it sound like this makes no difference to me. But it does matter, and we both know it.

“For exactly the reasons you think.”

I’m about to tell him that he doesn’t know what I’m thinking, but we’d both know that’s a lie. So instead, I just say, “Hmmmm.” I’m so intent on looking out the window at the passing trees like they are the most interesting thing in the world that I startle when he places his hand just above my knee and gives my leg a little squeeze.

When he doesn’t pull his hand back, I relax into the seat. I’m starting to feel safe any time Colt’s hands are on me, no matter how dangerous that might be.