Fake Shot (Boston Rebels Book 2)
Chapter 34

“If this goes wrong and I get arrested—or worse, benched—I’m blaming you.”

“Me?” Jameson says as he pushes the button for the thirty-third floor. “You’re the one who gave me his name and suggested we pay him a visit.”

“Yeah, well, I’m still blaming you if I don’t get to play tomorrow because of this.”

“We’re not going to jump him, you idiot.” Jameson rolls his eyes. “We’re just here to let him know that his company is officially no longer a sponsor of the Boston Rebels.”

This is news to me. “How the fuck did you make that happen?”

“I showed AJ the footage from the restaurant’s security cameras, which clearly show him grabbing Jules and getting up in her face, and she took it to Frank,” he says. Frank Hartmann is the billionaire owner of the Rebels, and our second-string goalie’s dad. He has a largely hands-off approach and generally lets AJ manage all aspects of the team, and only occasionally gets involved in the business operations. The fact that he put his foot down on this is surprising, to say the least.

“And they rescinded his sponsorship based off of what they saw?” Given how much money a sponsorship involves, and how little actually happened in the restaurant, this seems unlikely.

“It didn’t take much to convince them that if that video got out and people found out Jerome was a sponsor, it would reflect poorly on the organization.”

“And who has access to that video besides you?”

“No one. But they don’t need to know that.” Jameson eyes the lights above the elevator doors and sighs when he sees that we’re only at the twenty-fifth floor.

“How the hell did you even get that? And how long have you had it?”

“I got it the night it happened, and that’s all you need to know.”

“Jesus. So who’s taking over the sponsorship?”

“I was so tempted to write a check and have Our House be the new sponsor,” he says, and I laugh out loud.

“Jules would have been so pissed, but it would have been total poetic justice.”

“Yeah, but in addition to pissing my sister off, it would have been a fuck you that made no sense financially for me. So it’ll go to the next corporation on the waiting list for a sponsorship opportunity.”

The elevator dings as we arrive on the thirty-third floor, and Jameson mutters, “Let me do the talking,” right before the doors open.

I follow him as he approaches reception, and the young guy sitting there looks from Jameson to me, his eyes lighting up with recognition. “Oh my god,” he says, clearly a little starstruck. “You’re Colt.”

“This is my client, Mathieu Coltier.” Jameson emphasizes my full name as if to point out that this guy and I aren’t on a nickname basis, even though no one but my family, and occasionally the hockey sportscasters, has called me Mathieu in fifteen years. “We’re here to see Jerome Waters.”

The guy pulls at the knot of his tie as he glances toward his computer screen. “Is he expecting you?”

“Yes,” Jameson says, “and we know the way.”

He starts walking past the reception desk quickly, and I assume I’m supposed to follow.

“You can’t just barge into his office,” the guy calls out from behind us.

“Watch me.” Jameson doesn’t turn his head back toward the guy, but his words carry across the mostly empty office. Apparently, things wrap up right at five here.

“Does he know we’re coming?” I ask Jameson quietly as I follow him. He somehow seems to know exactly where he’s going.

“Derek got a meeting on his schedule, but no, he doesn’t know it’s us.”

I don’t bother asking how Derek managed this, because the guy’s clearly a magician.

When we get to the large double wooden doors with Jerome Waters engraved across them, Jameson doesn’t bother knocking, he just pulls them both open and we stroll through. Jerome is at his desk and glances up with a distinctly annoyed look across his face. Then his eyes narrow in on me.

“You.” He spits out the word like I disgust him, which is fine, because the feeling is very mutual. Then he looks back and forth between Jameson and me, and I can’t tell if he recognizes my best friend or not. Jules mentioned that Jerome was a huge Rebels fan and season ticket holder, but it’s been over a decade at this point since Jameson played, so maybe he doesn’t remember him.

“I’m Jameson Flynn,” he says, holding out his hand to Jerome, who dubiously extends his own hand before Jameson crushes it in his grip. “I’m a former Rebels player, Colt’s agent, Jules Flynn’s big brother, and close friend of just about everyone on the Rebels’ management team. So on behalf of my family and the entire Rebels organization, I’d like to give you this.”

Jameson reaches into a pocket on the inside of his suit coat and hands over a folded piece of paper. The groove between Jerome’s eyebrows deepens as he unfolds the check. “Why are you giving me a check from the Boston Rebels?”

“I’m glad you asked.” Jameson’s voice drips with sarcasm and reminds me what a shrewd businessman he is. I never saw this side of him when we played together, but he has just the right disposition for negotiation and he doesn’t mind doing something underhanded every once in a while, if it’s really necessary. “This is a pro-rated refund on your sponsorship for the team. Your signage has already been removed from the rink, your logo is no longer on the website, and you’ll never be listed as a team sponsor again.”

“What? You can’t do that,” Jerome says, sounding an awful lot like a man who’s never been challenged . . . or at least, never defeated.

“Funny, I already did. You fucked with the wrong family, Waters. Next time you decide to lay your hand on a woman, I hope she cuts off your fingers like my sister should have done.”

“Nothing even happened.” His gaze flies to me. “You made a big deal out of nothing.”

“Nothing?” The word rips from my throat like a roar. “You put your hands on the woman I love, and you think that’s nothing? You’re lucky that all we did was rescind your sponsorship. Piss me off again, and we’ll come after your business next.”

He scoffs. “Like there’s anything you could do to my business.”

“Would you like to try me?” I ask. “Because that’s exactly what will happen if you don’t stop running your mouth.”

I have no idea what I’m even saying. I wouldn’t know the first thing about going after his business, but the man who’s been my best friend for most of my life and is standing right next to me looking at me like I’m amusing him, will know exactly what to do.

“You can leave now,” Jerome says. He’s backing down but trying to do it without losing any authority—as if he has any in this situation.

“Gladly,” I say. “And by the way, we didn’t touch your season tickets. I wanted to make sure that you’re still able to enjoy watching me win.”

With that, we turn and leave. We don’t speak until we’re in the elevator and the doors have closed.

“So you love her?” Jameson asks the question without looking at me. He’s eerily calm, which has me a little worried.

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure I do.”

“Does she know yet?”

“I’m trying to show her every day.”

“I’m having a really hard time being okay with this,” Jameson says, turning to me. His jaw ticks, and I realize there’s a lot he’s not saying.

I steel myself against his disapproval. I wish it wasn’t this way, but I understand why it is. “I’m telling you what my intentions are. I’m not asking for your permission.”

“That’s good, because you don’t have it. She’s my baby sister. She’s way too young for you. And you’ve got a reputation and a past that she shouldn’t have to deal with. I hope that you truly have changed your ways like you seem to think you have, and that you deserve her. But just know: if it goes badly and I have to choose, I’m always choosing her.”

The elevator dings to let us know we’re at the ground level, right as I say, “As you should.”

My best friend walks out of the elevator and across the lobby, and I stand there, hoping that I’m doing the right thing. Hoping that Jules will one day trust me enough to feel the same way, because if she doesn’t, I’ve just ruined my relationship with the only family I have in Boston.

When she gets home from dinner with her friends, I’m sitting propped up against the pillows on her bed, watching some game footage from Carolina’s last series in preparation for our first game against them tomorrow. She didn’t take me up on my offer to walk her home from the restaurant, but there was no way I wasn’t seeing her tonight.

After two nights in a row of sharing a bed with her, I’m in no hurry to get back up to my own bedroom. Is it too soon to move my bed down here into her bedroom?

She takes one look at me, lying there in nothing but a pair of black athletic shorts, and says, “Change your mind about fucking me?”

“Nope. Change your mind about just using me for sex?”

“Nope.” The way that word comes out of her mouth—hard and certain—is at odds with the way her eyes soften while she looks at me.

“Come here.”

She walks around the bed to the far side, where I slept last night. And as she comes up to what I’m already thinking of as “my side of the bed,” I turn so my legs hang off the edge and I pull her between my knees, holding on to her hips as I look up at her.

“I missed you.”

Staring down at me, her face heats under my gaze, then she closes her eyes and shakes her head with a little laugh. “I missed you, too.”

“I need to tell you something, and I need you to stay calm and not panic when I do.”

Her exhale is shaky, but she manages to squeak out, “Okay?”

I should probably tell her where I was tonight while she was at dinner. I should tell her about Jerome, and about my conversation with Jameson. But that doesn’t seem as pressing as the reality she doesn’t know she’s going to face when she walks into Liberty Arena tomorrow night.

“You know how we’re playing Carolina in this next round of the playoffs?” I ask, and she nods in response. “Do you know who plays for Carolina now?”

She shakes her head, but I can see on her face that she realizes there’s only one reason I would ask her this question. Closing her eyes, her head drops forward.

“I didn’t realize you didn’t know. When Gabriel started talking about Carolina yesterday, I expected some sort of a reaction, but I thought maybe you were just holding it in because we were with my family. But when Walsh started listing the players off at the bar last night, and you didn’t tense up or seem uncomfortable, that’s when it finally occurred to me that you didn’t know.”

“Is that why you wanted to play pool? So I wouldn’t accidentally hear his name?”

I use the tips of my fingers to massage her lower back, hoping she’ll relax from the rigid pose she adopted the minute she realized Brock Lester now plays for Carolina. “Yeah. That, and I wanted to get you alone. I have a hard time sharing your attention with others.”

A single, silent laugh shakes her body. “Well, I appreciate you making sure I didn’t replace out from someone else. After Vegas, I made it a point not to follow hockey because I never wanted to think about, or hear about, him again.”

“You don’t have to come to the home games this week if you don’t want to. As much as I would love to have you there, I will completely understand if you stay home. I don’t want you to do anything you’re not totally comfortable with.”

She slides one knee up onto the bed, resting it against my hip, and then does the same with the other so that she’s fully straddling me. Wrapping her arms around me, she clings to me like a koala, and I’ve never been so happy to be smothered in my life.

Holding her tight against me, I realize that the only thing I want in the world is for her to feel safe, and for me to be the one who makes her feel that way.

“I’m not sure if I can go to the game,” she murmurs into my neck, her hot breath caressing the muscles there. “But also, the thought of staying home when everyone else is there . . . Why should I have to miss out, because of him?”

“Don’t come if it’s going to be too hard. Or do if it helps you feel like you’re over what happened. Whatever you feel is going to be best for you is what we’ll do.”

She sits up and cups my jaw in her hands. “Part of me wants to show up in your jersey and prove that I’ve moved on.”

“Jules.” Her name is rough coming off my tongue. I don’t know how to be vulnerable and ask the question that needs to be asked, but I want her to be honest with me about how she’s feeling, and I won’t know unless I ask. “Is that what it would mean? Because last time you wore my jersey to a game, you did it to keep up appearances. If you wear it now, is it because you’ve truly moved on?”

Her thumbs stroke my face, running along the line of my cheekbones above my beard. “I think so?”

I wish she knew for sure, but this is progress, at least. She’s still got work to do to learn to trust, and I need to keep being there so she knows she can trust me.

“I’m not here to break down your walls,” I tell her. “You put them up, you have to choose to dismantle them. But don’t fucking think for one second that I’m not going to climb over them whenever I can, hoping that eventually you won’t feel like you need them anymore.”

She presses her lips to mine gently, raining tentative kisses across them before moving to my nose and my forehead. “I know. And I’m working on it. I promise.”

“As long as you’re doing it for you, Jules. I don’t want to move faster than you’re ready for,” I say as I rest my palm in the space between her breasts. “I’m going to be here for as long as it takes, because you’re worth waiting for.”