Fake Shot (Boston Rebels Book 2)
Chapter 43

“Looking good, Lester!” I call out to him where he’s stretching just on the other side of center ice. “The cage is a nice addition. Helps block out the sight of your ugly face.”

Unlike Games 2 and 3, he’s suited up tonight, but he has two black eyes and his nose is taped under the metal face cage he’s sporting. Hopefully, the cameras have zoomed in on him at some point, and Jules is watching at home so she can see firsthand the condition he’s in now.

I’m hoping he gets some ice time tonight, because we don’t plan on there being a Game 5 and half my team now wants their shot at him. When they asked why I’d pulled him down and beat the shit out of him, I only gave them a three-word answer: “He hurt Jules.”

Doesn’t matter how or when, because if there’s one thing I’m more certain of now than ever, it’s that karma does come back to you in the end—and he deserved this. I’m not a violent guy by nature, but if you hurt someone I love, there’s no way I’m not getting involved.

I skate over to the visitor’s goal to rough up the crease, then sink to the ice to get some stretches in before my teammates start taking shots at me. I can hear the fans behind me, banging on the glass to get my attention. It’s not like when we play at home, but there are definitely fans that have traveled here for the game. I focus on my stretches, tuning them out as I lean from one side to the other to make sure my abductor and adductor muscles are well stretched.

A few minutes later, my teammates are waiting to practice some shots, so I grab my stick and get into position in front of the net. But despite the pucks all around and the fact that I’m ready, no one skates forward to take a shot. They’re too focused on something behind me.

That’s when McCabe rolls his eyes and circles his finger in the air, just like I did to Jules when I wanted her to turn around so I could see her wearing my name on her back. I move out of the crease, turning to skate behind the net, and that’s when I come face to face with her.

My heart pounds powerfully at the sight of her—it can’t be. How is she here? Then I notice what I think has everyone staring—her WAG jacket is wide open, and instead of a plain white shirt like she wore at our last home game, this one has a big red fabric heart sewn into the front. And in thick block letters that match the Rebels font, my name is spelled out over the heart.

She made that. For me.

She finally let me see her closet Saturday morning, showing me where she sews all the sexy lingerie she designs. And sometime between then and now, she made the decision to surprise me at this game, and crafted this shirt, so I’d know she’s mine.

I’ve been hers since the moment I kissed her in that alley. I tried to fight it at first, but it was no use. Sometimes it felt like I’d be waiting forever for her to admit that she was mine too. But somehow, Jasmine trying to pull us apart actually brought us closer together—made us realize what we stood to lose, and made us both want to fight to keep what we have.

When I told her I loved her the other night, her first response was, “I know.” Which means I did what I set out to do. I showed her how I felt, proved she could trust me, and made her feel safe and secure in her feelings for me.

My jaw must be hanging open from the shock of seeing her, because her laugh is airy as she smiles down at me. She seems more certain about us, and more carefree, than I’ve ever seen her.

I skate right up to the glass, pull my glove off, and put my hand up. She meets it with hers.

“I love you,” I tell her. “I love you so fucking much.”

She laughs again. “I love you too.”

As I skate back to the net, ready to warm up, I’m more driven to win than I’ve ever been. Because if we win the series in Game 4, we’ll have a whole week off before the next series starts. And that’s a lot more time to spend with her.

Jules is standing next to AJ, waiting for me right outside the locker room post-game, as I walk out in my suit, dreading the flight home. The second she sees me, she comes barreling toward me. I drop my bag so I can catch her as she jumps into my arms, wrapping her legs around my waist like she’s a koala.

She nuzzles her face into my neck, breathing in deeply as she squeezes her arms around me. “You did it.”

“We all did it.”

“Yeah, but that save you made on the penalty shot right at the end secured the win.”

“I was just determined to be able to spend next week with you.”

We’ll still have practice, but not having two more games in Boston, or the possibility of traveling for a Game 7, means I’ll be home every night with her.

“I can’t wait,” she says. And then she lowers her voice, her lips ghosting across my ear. “I also made lingerie that matches the shirt, and I’m really looking forward to modeling it for you the minute we get home.”

“Jesus, Tink.” I squeeze her tighter to me, wishing we were alone and naked.

“Speaking of going home,” she says, sitting up in my arms, “AJ said I could come on the team plane with you guys.”

“Good.” I press a kiss to her lips. “You’re sitting with me, then.”

Drew must have come out of the locker room right behind me. “Hey, where am I going to sit?”

“I don’t fucking care,” I say as Jules puts her feet back on the ground and I turn toward him. “You can sit with AJ.”

His eyes flick over to where she stands, chatting with Coach Wilcott, and he drops his voice low. “No way.”

Next to him, McCabe says, “You can have my seat.”

Drew and I turn to look at him in surprise, because not only is he giving up one of the best seats on the plane, but he and AJ barely tolerate each other. It’s not a hostile relationship, exactly. They’ve always maintain a level of professionalism, but it’s easy to tell that he doesn’t like her, and she seems like she puts up with him because she has to. I’m pretty sure that years ago, she was the Assistant GM in St. Louis when he played there, right before he was traded to Boston. He’s never mentioned it, though, so I’ve never asked.

“It’s no big deal,” McCabe shrugs. “I’m going to be sleeping. Why do I care where I sit?”

Given that I haven’t been able to sleep on a flight home this entire season, I’m fully expecting that I’ll be wide awake all night, gazing at Jules as she rests in my arms. But that’s not what happens. She cuddles into my side before the plane takes off, and about half an hour into the trip, she falls asleep. And somehow, with her curled up next to me and our seats reclined, I sleep on a flight home for the first time all season.

When we get back to Boston, I bring her back to our house—the one she grew up in, the one she started her business in, the one I moved into as her temporary roommate, the one I am planning on living in for as long as she wants to stay here.

It’s almost four in the morning when we arrive home, but I’m more well rested than normal. So when we get upstairs, I follow her into her closet, no longer a secret room I’m not allowed into now that I know about her sewing projects and exactly which drawer she stashes her vibrator collection in. And as I slide her jacket off her shoulders, and undo her belt, pulling her jeans down those long, muscular legs, she’s left standing in front of me in nothing but an almost transparent thong with a big red heart sewn across the front. It exactly matches the one on her shirt, but without my name.

She turns slowly so I can see the back, and along the thin strap that runs above her ass cheeks, she’s sewn gold letters that read: COLT. If it was anyone but her—anyone else at all—I don’t think I’d like seeing my name written across someone’s ass. But because it’s Jules, because it’s yet another way she’s marking herself as mine, the caveman deep inside me puffs up his chest.

With my hands on her hips, I lean in and kiss the side of her neck. “This is a whole new way of seeing my name across your back. I kind of love it.”

“I thought you might,” she says, her voice husky as she moves her hands to the hem of her T-shirt and pulls it over her head. Looking down over her shoulder, I can tell that the bra is made up of the sheer fabric from the front of her thong, no hearts or my name anywhere, just nearly transparent fabric shimmering across her breasts and doing nothing to hide the stiff peaks of her nipples.

My thumbs trace the letters across the back of her thong as I kiss my way down the side of her neck and across the ridge of muscles above her collarbone. Then I take the strap of the bra between my teeth and slide it over her shoulder. I’m about to do the same with the other side, but she’s impatient, as she so often is when it comes to sex, and doesn’t want to take it slow.

Reaching up, she pulls both straps down, then says, “You’re wearing entirely too many clothes,” as she hooks her thumbs into the stretchy fabric around her rib cage and slides the bra down over her hips, letting it fall to the floor.

Standing there in nothing but her thong, I wonder if there will ever come a day that all the blood in my body doesn’t rush to my dick when I see her naked. Hopefully not.

She steps forward, pushing my suit coat off my shoulders and tossing it onto the bench beneath the window. Then she’s undressing me with her eyes closed because I can’t stop kissing her, can’t take my hands off her, can’t stop touching every part of her until she’s sighing into the kiss, pressing her body forward until we’re skin to skin.

“That’s better,” she says.

“No. Better will be when I can taste you,” I tell her as I lift her hips and set her on the countertop of the island in the middle of her closet. “It’s been too long.”

I kneel before her, lifting her knees until they’re over my shoulders, and then I reach out, tracing the red heart to where the pointy end sits right over her clit. My fingers continue down to replace her underwear soaked.

“Clearly, I missed you too,” she says. I know she’s perfectly capable of taking care of herself, but the thought of her, here without me for the last two nights, has me determined to provide her with multiple orgasms that will put her vibrator to shame.

Sweeping her thong to the side, I reach out with my tongue, savoring her taste as I lick up every last drop of her arousal. And then I feast, bringing her to orgasm in what has to be record time before I’m flipping her over so she’s bent forward over that island and sliding into her from behind, watching her take me inch by inch.

The pace is fast and hard, how she likes it best, and I enjoy every one of her cries as she chants my name while she comes. And when I carry her back to the bedroom, the sun is already rising. I smile to myself as I settle us in our bed, thinking how lucky I am to hold this woman in my arms every night.

When I envision my future, all I see is Jules. We can live here if that’s what she wants, or in my condo, or somewhere entirely new. I don’t care, as long as it’s with her.

And one day, when she’s ready, she’s going to be my wife. I’ll spend every day reminding her that she’s worthy of a forever kind of love . . . because that’s exactly what I intend to give her.