Fake Shot (Boston Rebels Book 2)

She stares at me, her teeth clenched so tight that her jaw ticks and her cute little nose flares as she takes a deep breath. The way she doesn’t exhale has me worried she’s going into panic attack mode again.

“When did they start?” I ask.

“When did what start?” Her reply is flippant as she rests the heels of her hands slightly behind her so she can lean back. I wish she wouldn’t have done that, though, because it pushes her chest out toward me and now all I can think about is how stacked she is. God, I need to get my damn attraction to her under control.

“The panic attacks.”

She sighs, deflating backward as her shoulders sag. Bringing her hand up to the necklace she always wears, she rubs the small gold disc between her thumb and forefinger. Audrey has a matching necklace, and I’ve seen her do the same.  

“It’s not like it happens a lot, Colt.”

“When did they start?”

Another deep sigh, followed by, “A few months ago.”

“What brings them on?”

“I don’t know, the same thing that always causes panic attacks, I guess”—her voice is all sarcasm and sass—“an overactive limbic system combined with a trigger.”

I bring one hand up to her neck, wanting to feel her pulse, but the way my fingers look wrapped under her jaw has my dick going hard instantly. Beneath my fingertips, her blood pumps faster, and she moves her hand from her necklace to my wrist, resting it there without pulling my hand away.

“And what are your triggers?” If it’s assholes putting their hands on her, I’m going to hunt down that suit from the restaurant and beat him to a bloody pulp.

She swallows, her neck bobbing beneath my hand, and I run my thumb across her jawline. “Feeling scared, or like I’m not in control.”

I run the tip of my nose along the bridge of hers. I can’t stop myself. I know this is a bad idea. Maybe the worst I’ve ever had. She’s my best friend’s little sister. I’ve known her since she was ten, and until now I’ve been able to convince myself that she was like a kid sister to me, too.

But somewhere along the line, Jules grew up, and there is absolutely nothing sibling-like about the way my body craves hers. I know I can’t do anything to act on the way I want her—can’t cross that line again—so I’m just torturing myself by letting our bodies get this close.

And the fact that she’s not pushing me away? That she’s leaning into my touch and gripping my wrist like she’s desperate for me to keep my hand on her neck? Yeah, I’ll have to think about what that means later.

“Maybe you need to learn some new ways to let off steam,” I suggest. It comes out sounding highly suggestive, which is not my intention.

“Should I follow the ‘Mathieu Coltier method’ and fuck every guy I meet?”

Normally, I’d take this as her teasing me, and I’d make a sarcastic remark about how I never fuck guys, but there’s a hard edge to the question.

Plus, the thought of her fucking anyone who isn’t me? It’s wrong that I hate that idea, but I do. I really, really hate it. I can’t have her, but I don’t want anyone else to, either.

“I’m sure we can find you some healthier ways.”

“Such as?” Her eyebrow raises, like she’s trying to point out that I should take my own advice.

“I mean, my job is basically a way to blow off steam. But if having pucks shot at you at 90 miles per hour isn’t your thing, I’m sure we could find other ways. I think you may need to put yourself in some new situations, though, to see that you can overcome them without going into panic mode. Maybe that would help when you’re presented with something triggering?”

“You sound like my therapist.”

“Believe me,” I say with a self-deprecating laugh, “I am the last person you want to provide you with therapy.”

“Believe me,” she responds, “you’re the last person I’d open up to.”

I pull back so I can see her more fully. Maybe if I can read her body language, I’ll be able to figure out what the fuck she means by that. Because every once in a while, Jules says something that makes me think she low-key hates me, and this was a perfect example.

As I move my hand from her neck to her shoulder, I notice the way her hand falls back to the top of the dresser, and she inhales sharply in response to my touch. But I can’t tell if it’s the kind of quick, surprised breath that comes from enjoying the contact, or if I’m about to send her into a panic.

“Did I do something to make you not trust me, Jules?”

She scoffs out a laugh, but it sounds forced. “No. I just meant because you’re my brother’s best friend. I’m not likely to tell you all my secrets.”

“Who do you tell all your secrets to?”

“My sister, of course. And my therapist. What about you?”

“I’m an open book.” I shrug. “No secrets here.”

“Sure, you are,” she says, shaking her head.

“What? I am. With me, what you see is what you get.” I’m the good-time goalie. The one the guys all want to hang out with, and the ladies want to go home with. I know who I am, and I embrace it. It’s easier that way.

Her big blue eyes narrow as her gaze locks onto my face. “That might be the biggest lie you’ve ever told. And the sad thing is, I think you might even believe it.”

“Here you go. One Italian grilled cheese,” I say as I slide the plate in front of her. The fresh mozzarella is oozing out of the lightly toasted sourdough, but the basil and fresh tomato have stayed between the bread.

She picks it up, blowing on the corner where I cut the sandwich at an angle, before taking a bite. “Holy shit,” she groans. “You weren’t kidding.”

“I told you. Grilled cheese master right here.” I point at my chest, and she rolls her eyes.

This is exactly the lightness I was hoping for after our heavy conversation in her bedroom. Her last comment made me feel so exposed—because for a moment there, I’d forgotten that she’d seen me on the phone with my brother and that I’d told her a bit about the situation. She knows I have secrets; she just doesn’t know quite how big they are.

Luckily, I know she’s always hungry and had only eaten an appetizer before that dinner ended, so I bribed her by offering to make her my specialty (aka the only thing I can cook). Down here in her kitchen, with me narrating my process for making grilled cheese sandwiches and her inserting her snarky comments, things feel more normal.

Which is why it comes as a shock when she says, “We need to talk about that article.”

I’ve been so focused on her panic attacks and whether I want to let her in on any of my secrets, that I kind of forgot about the article that sent me straight to her bedroom door half an hour ago.

Grabbing the plate with my sandwich on it, I bring it to the table. She’s sitting at the end, so I take the first seat on her left, setting my plate on the placemat and my phone right next to it.

When we sat here a few nights ago, she put me at the opposite end of the table, as far away from her as possible. But fuck that. We need to have a real conversation and I need to be able to see her reactions to things—it’s the little things like the way her shoulders tense up or whether she’s taking shallow breaths that will let me know how she’s really feeling, and you can’t see things like that from eight feet away.

“What do you want to talk about, Tink?”

The question is barely out of my mouth before my phone rings, which doesn’t even make sense because I know I put it on silent. I look down and it’s a video call.

“Shit,” I mutter, then look at Jules. I don’t understand why half of our conversations have been interrupted by calls from my family, but I’m over it. This one, though, I can’t ignore. “It’s my mom. And she never video calls me like this. Something must be wrong.”

She nods her chin toward the phone. “You better take it, then. Do you want privacy?”

“No, it’s fine.” Just shit timing. I pick up the phone, angling it so there’s no way Jules will be in the video. “Hey, Mom, what’s up?”

“YOU’RE ENGAGED?” Her voice is equal parts excited and outraged. “You better be bringing her up here in two weeks for our anniversary party. I can’t believe I had to learn about this from anyone other than you!”

I gulp as my eyes rise above the phone to look at Jules, who stares back at me in horror. But her face is also laced with amusement, like she’s looking forward to seeing me get myself out of this.

I wish I hadn’t answered this call. I wish we’d had time to talk about this first. Because bringing Jules up there with me, pretending she’s my fiancée so that everyone knows I’ve finally moved on, feels like the perfect solution to my problems. But I’m pretty sure she wouldn’t be amenable to that.

“How did you hear about this, exactly?”

“It’s all over the internet. Some of my friends posted the article to The Facebook.” It will never not be funny that my mom refers to it as The Facebook like it’s 1999. “They were congratulating me and your dad. Mathieu, really? You couldn’t have told me ahead of time? You couldn’t have let me meet her first?”

“Are you mad?” I ask.

“And thrilled. I’m so happy for you,” she gushes, one hand on her heart as she pushes the red-framed reading glasses she’s always wearing these days up the bridge of her nose with her other hand. “I need details!”

“Mom . . .” I glance above the screen at Jules.

“Oh my god! She’s there, isn’t she? Mathieu, I need to meet her right now!”

Jules’s eyes are huge, and she shakes her head vehemently.

“No, she’s not here right now, Mom.”

“Hmmm . . .” The disbelieving sound rattles around in my mom’s throat as she gathers her pale gray hair back in a clip. Then her eyes focus on the screen. “Wait, where are you, anyway?”

Shit. “So, there was a flood at my condo earlier this week. I’m living in Jameson’s old apartment. But Mom, I’m on my way out the door right now. I’m so sorry, I have to go.”

“Okay, but promise me you’ll bring her up to meet us? And call me when you have time to talk. I need to hear more about the engagement and meet . . .” She lets her voice carry off there, waiting for me to fill in the name of my elusive fiancée.

“Sounds good, I’ll call you soon. Love you!” I hang up quickly, then slump back against the chair, tilt my head back so I’m looking at the ceiling, and groan out, “Fuuuuuccccck.”

Jules’s laugh fills the space. “Oh my god,” she says as I take my phone and start searching for that article that Zach sent me a screenshot of. “You should have seen your face as she started asking you for details. And I’m sorry, but her excitement is obviously clouding her judgment. I mean, who would even believe you were engaged?”

I stare down at the article, completely dumbstruck. It’s posted on one of those sports fan websites that has a very social media-feel to it. “Uh, apparently 1.5 million people.”

“What?” Jules practically shouts as she snatches my phone from my hand. Her eyes scan the screen, probably noting the same 1.5 million likes that I saw, then she taps on something. Her face drains of color, and she looks like she’s seen a ghost. I’m about to ask her what’s wrong when she looks up at me, the same terror in her eyes that I saw in that restaurant, and says, “They figured out who I am. Already. And someone posted the video from the alley.”