Fake Shot (Boston Rebels Book 2)

“You seriously slayed,” Audrey whispers as she leans toward me. We’re standing together at the front of the room, with the heads of four other nonprofits who are all looking for start-up funding.

“I didn’t do that alone. You were awesome too.”

“All I did,” she says quietly, tucking a piece of her long dark hair behind her ear while we wait for the applause to die down, “was talk a bit about the financials. It was your passion for this program that’s going to get us some funding.”

She might be right, but I couldn’t do this without her. I tell her as much as I loop my arm behind her back and squeeze her to my side in a quick hug.

The host thanks all of us for presenting and then welcomes each nonprofit to take a seat at the tables around the room. While the first half of the evening was a typical pitch fest where we had to sell the work of our nonprofit, the second half of the evening is an opportunity for potential donors to stop by and chat with us over drinks and hors d’oeuvres if they’re interested.

There’s an excited energy coursing through me as we take our seats. I don’t get nervous, and when it comes to my work, I almost never second-guess myself. I have an acute sixth sense about what’s going to succeed in our business, and this nonprofit that we’ve started as a spin-off of our company is no different. When I meet the right donor, I’ll know.

The first two people who come talk to us both express interest in investing in Our House, the all-female design and construction company we’ve built together over the past few years.

“It’s so weird,” I say to Audrey as the second man leaves. “We were perfectly clear about what we were looking for in terms of donors, and at no point did we indicate that we were looking for investors for Our House. This whole event is for nonprofits.”

Her response is practically a snort. “They must know a good business opportunity when they see one. But do they really think we’d turn over ownership of any portion of our company to a man, when the whole basis for our company is that we’re entirely female owned and operated?”

“Maybe . . .” I bite the corner of my lip. “I don’t know, maybe the purpose of our nonprofit would be clearer if we could get a video testimonial from someone like Rosie?”

“Think she’d say yes if you asked her again?”

“I’m not sure.” I shrug, thinking about the first woman I mentored. I met her when our friend, Morgan, who now runs all our business’s social media, suggested partnering with trade schools to help develop a pipeline of qualified female contractors to work with us.

Even though we’re the same age, Rosie’s life experience makes me feel like a damn baby. She’s had it hard and risen above it—going to electrical school as soon as her daughter was old enough for kindergarten—because she’s determined to break past cycles of abuse and poverty to provide a better life for her child. As soon as she finished trade school, I hired her and arranged for her to complete her required hours of work experience with our master electrician, Jessica, so she could earn her journeyman license.

Rosie was the first person I mentored, back at the beginning of our program, which we’re now trying to turn into a full-fledged nonprofit so we can help even more people.

“She might be more open to it now than she was when I first asked her,” I say.

“Maybe you can try. Because if we can show that kind of first-hand testimonial, those success stories, I think it’ll be even more clear how this work has the potential to change lives.”

I start to respond, but a man I recognize as the third donor we were hoping to talk to strides up and takes a seat at the high-top table we’re sitting at. “You’re looking for a large-scale donation, is that right?”

“We like to think of it as an investment in women, and an opportunity to improve their job options,” Audrey says.

“So then . . .” His voice has the hard edge of someone used to talking about money, but his face is full of interest. He’s handsome in that way older men often are—when they’ve grown comfortable with who they’ve become and are confident in their own skin—but our age difference doesn’t intimidate me. The fact that I’ve accomplished so much by my mid-twenties makes me that much more sure of myself. “ . . . tell me more about how this enriches lives.”

“Trade jobs offer steady and dependable work, and yet there’s a shortage of qualified people in almost every construction-related skilled trade. Women make up less than 10% of people in these industries. Our goal is to help bridge that gap—to make sure that there are enough skilled tradespeople by helping to get more women into these professions.”

His eyes slide down my body and then back up to my face. He’s most likely sizing me up, rather than checking me out, but either way, it gives off a slimy vibe that makes me question if he’s the type of person I want to work with.

“I’m intrigued. I want to know more about the success rate of people you’ve mentored and what my role would be as a donor. I have a few hundred grand I’d be interested in donating to the right nonprofit as long as my input is considered in how the money is used. I’d like to talk more about this.” He glances at his watch, which I’m fairly certain costs more than my brand-new truck. “But I’m supposed to be on a flight to Ireland in like forty minutes.”

“Shouldn’t you already be at the airport, then?” Audrey asks, and he coughs out a laugh.

“I just have to get to the helipad a few blocks away, and it’ll take me straight to the jet. Don’t worry about me,” he says. I’m so focused on not cringing at his condescending tone that I almost don’t notice when he turns his attention back to me. “I’ll be back at the end of the week. Maybe we can meet for lunch on Saturday to discuss this further?”

“We already have plans during the day,” I say pleasantly as I gesture between Audrey and me, trying to remind him that she’s part of the conversation. The way he keeps his eyes trained on me makes me think he’s missing my cues.

“Dinner it is, then.”

“I don’t—” I start, ready to tell him dinner won’t work for us because I know Audrey’s going to be busy that night, but it’s a surprise I can’t ruin for her.

“Dinner is perfect.” She smiles brightly as she hands him our business card. “Feel free to email or text the details. We appreciate your time.”

Once he’s gone, I turn toward Audrey. “What the hell? We don’t want him involved in this.”

“Are you sure?” she asks. “Because he said the magic words: a few hundred grand.”

“He’s too pompous for my taste.”

“He’s got three hundred grand he’s willing to sign away, and you’re surprised he’s pompous? Who cares, as long as he’s also interested in giving us money to further a mission we care about deeply? Let’s hear what he has to say, and then we can decide.”

“Fine,” I say, having accepted long ago that I’m incapable of saying no to my siblings. Since I’m the only person who knows the surprise Drew has up his sleeve, I know full-well there is no we when it comes to this dinner meeting—I’ll go alone.

The event wraps up quickly after that, and when Audrey and I part on the sidewalk, we say the same thing we always say: “Text me when you’re home.”

She heads toward the Back Bay condo she now shares with Drew and their son, Graham, and I head toward our family brownstone in the South End that, until recently, I shared with both my siblings and my nephew. But Jameson moved in with his fiancée, Lauren, and her two kids a year ago, and Audrey and Graham moved in with Drew five months ago.

As if he knew I was just thinking about him, my phone rings and Jameson’s name pops up on the screen. “Hey,” I say as I make my way into Copley Square, headed toward the bridge over the Mass Pike that will take me into the South End.

“Hey, I thought you’d be home.”

“Audrey and I just gave a pitch to some potential donors⁠—”

“For the nonprofit?” Jameson’s question cuts me off. He’s technically a silent owner of Our House, and even though he remains 100% uninvolved in the day-to-day, he does like to know what’s going on.

“Yes, for the nonprofit, not the business.”

“Remind me why I can’t be your investor in that?” he says. He’s been an agent for several of the NHL’s best players for many years. Given how many players he represents, he makes more than the highest paid players in the league. And he’s nothing if not generous, but Audrey and I want this program to stand on its own merit, not because our brother invested in it.

“We don’t need to have this conversation again. Anyway, I’m on my way home now,” I say, coming to a stop at one of the crosswalks in Copley Square. “Are you there?”

“Yeah. See you in a few minutes.”

The traffic light changes, and I start to move with the after-work crowd across the crosswalk. Once I hit the tree-lined streets of the South End, some of the noise of the city fades away. I inhale the early-spring scent—the trees, with their leaves finally blossoming, and the tulips and daffodils that line people’s small planting areas in front of the brick row houses. The days are finally getting longer and warmer, and I already can’t wait for the first really nice day.

Audrey’s text that she’s arrived home safely comes right as I take the steps to our row house, so I let her know I’m home too. And when I shut the heavy wood and glass front door behind me, all I can see of Jameson is his dark dress pants and his crisp light blue button down, because his head is shoved into my refrigerator.

“Why are there no leftovers?” he calls out, standing fully and turning toward me.

“I haven’t felt like cooking lately.” I shrug out of my long cardigan and hang it on the hook by the door.

“Life not stressful enough?” he teases.

It’s always been the joke in our family that you can tell if I’ve had a stressful day by how much I cook that night. But the truth is, cooking is my love language, and without my family around to enjoy the food, there’s far less pleasure in it. I still cook for our weekly family dinners, but I find myself making something simple or ordering out more often than not on the weekdays.

“What’s the point, if there’s no one here to eat it?” Setting my bag on the counter, I reach up to grab a glass off the open shelf above it. I spent so long talking tonight that I’m parched.

“I might have a solution for that,” Jameson says as he shuts the refrigerator door.

My face scrunches up in confusion as I try to figure out what he’s talking about. “A solution to what?”

“To not having anyone here to eat your cooking.”

Pausing mid-step on my way toward the water dispenser, I turn my head slowly and look at my brother. “What are you talking about?”

Oh god, please don’t let something be wrong with him and Lauren. I send the plea up to the universe, even though the thought is ridiculous. But he’s standing in my kitchen asking about leftovers instead of going home after work to her . . . so for the briefest moment I’m worried he means he’s moving back into his old apartment on our third floor. But no . . . I’ve never known him to be this happy, and Lauren has the quiet confidence of knowing he’d do anything for her or her daughters. They’re solid.

“I need a favor.”

“The last time you asked me for a favor, I ended up remodeling Lauren’s entire house.” I place the empty glass on the counter and fold my arms across my chest, a small smile on my lips.

“And look how that turned out,” he says.

Our lives all changed for the better when Lauren moved back to Boston. Not only is she now one of my closest friends and my future sister-in-law, but I also gained her sister, Paige, and her cousin, Morgan, as close friends. Combined with Audrey, we have a very tight-knit circle—they’re part of the family we’ve built in the aftermath of losing both our parents. “I don’t need any more friends, Jameson. What’s the favor?”

“I . . .” He pauses and then shoves his hands in his pockets as the next words come tumbling out in a jumbled rush that’s entirely unlike my brother’s normal air of calm confidence. “. . . told Colt he could stay in my old apartment for a couple months.”

“You . . . what?” My heart races as the reality of the situation settles like lead in my stomach.

No. No, no, no. This isn’t happening. This can’t be happening.

“His entire condo flooded. He came home yesterday to a partially collapsed second floor and six inches of water in his first floor. It’s totally uninhabitable. He needs a place to stay while his condo is fully gutted and remodeled.”

“How about he rents something?” That man is the highest paid player on the team, and he’s had lucrative endorsement deals since I was a kid. It’s not like he can’t afford it.

“He’s about to start the playoffs, Jules. Finding a place to rent, furnishing it . . . he doesn’t have time for that shit. He just needs a place to stay when he’s not traveling for hockey.”

“So find him a furnished apartment to rent for a couple of months.”

Distance is what makes our relationship work. Having him in my space, where I can’t avoid him, is a no-go.

“I have a furnished apartment he can stay in. Why would we go through the trouble of looking for other places? Neither of us has time for that. Colt’s in New York today and tomorrow filming a commercial for one of his brand endorsements. We have Drew and Audrey’s party this weekend, and then Lauren and I are heading up to Blackstone with the kids for a few days next week to visit Jackson,” he says, referring to one of Lauren’s best friends who owns a ski mountain in New Hampshire with her husband, Nate. “I told him I’d help him move in on Wednesday once he’s back.”

Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath, trying not to let my thoughts escape my mouth. My family always accuses me of not having a filter. If only they knew the things I don’t say. 

“You can’t just offer up that apartment like that, Jameson. It’s not like it’s separate from this house.”

After our mom died and our father left a note under an empty bottle of scotch saying he “couldn’t do this anymore,” Jameson retired from the NHL to become a sports agent, and to serve as Audrey’s and my guardian. He raised us in our family’s brownstone, trying to give us as much stability as possible after a few years of hell.

And then when we were both in college, he remodeled our house and created a one-bedroom apartment for himself on the third floor. But to get to it, you have to come in through our entryway, which with our open floor plan basically means you walk into our living room and kitchen, and then go up two flights on the central staircase, right past the second-floor bedrooms. This wasn’t a problem when it was my brother living on the third floor, and Audrey, Graham, and me living on the first two floors.

“It’s just Colt.” Jameson says it dismissively, and my nostrils flare as I try not to react to that statement.

Just Colt.

To Jameson, Colt is family. He has no idea about my complex emotions around the man—how I went from idolizing him when I was younger, to a terrible crush that just about ruined me, to doing everything I can to avoid him. Since Vegas, I’ve used sarcasm as a defense mechanism. But there isn’t enough sarcasm in the world for me to be willing to be around him without my entire family there to serve as a buffer.

“No.” I pick my glass up off the counter and walk around the table to the sink.

“Jules, I need you to be okay with this,” he says from behind me, his voice placating like he’s talking to an unreasonable teenager. I stare out the window above the sink, looking at the back of the brownstone across the alley behind our house.

How do I tell him I can’t live with Colt, without also telling him that everything that happened in Vegas was a result of feelings I had for him back then?

“Why? This is Colt’s problem to deal with, not mine.”

“I don’t see why it’s a big deal,” he says, exasperation creeping into his tone.

I can’t tell him the truth, so instead I say, “He’s a grown man. He can find his own damn accommodations. Stop babying him.”

Colt’s got the kind of golden retriever energy that draws people to him, makes them want to do things for him. He and Jameson were best friends as teammates, and since Jameson became his agent, he’s basically managed Colt’s life—gotten him out of trouble, made him a fortune with endorsement deals, and brought him into our family since he doesn’t seem to have much of a relationship with his own back in Canada.

“I’m not babying him, Jules. He’s a grown-ass adult. But like I said before, he doesn’t have time to find a place. He’s leaving next week for his first playoff games, and I can’t risk anything taking his focus away from hockey right now,” Jameson says.

I hold in my questions about whether Colt could spend less time being a man-whore and use that time to find his own place instead—because I do have a filter, even if no one believes it.

“There’s too much on the line,” Jameson says when the dubious look on my face must speak for me, “for his career, and for the whole team.”

Well, fuck. Even as much as I hate hockey—or have said I do since the All-Star Game in Vegas—I don’t want to be responsible for this screwing with his focus and the Rebels ending an amazing season at the beginning of the playoffs. I know how important this is.

“Just until playoffs are over, then.” I sigh. A few weeks. I can manage that, right? “After that, if his condo isn’t inhabitable, he needs to find his own place.”

Jameson reaches out and squeezes my arm. “Thank you, Jules.”

“Tell him to stay out of my way. I don’t want him in my space.” Can’t have him in my space is more like it.

“I’ll mention that.”

“Jameson, make sure he understands it. He can stay in your apartment, but aside from coming in and out, I don’t want him around.” My words are practically a desperate plea, and he eyes me like he’s trying to figure out what’s going through my head.

For the past six years, Colt and I have bantered as he tries to antagonize me, but I’ve never indicated that I don’t want him around. It’s always been easier to keep him at a distance, pretend like he’s just another older brother to me. I don’t want to think about how the truth would change things between him and Jameson. I can’t be responsible for that.

“I will. And I’ll make this up to you,” he says.

I sigh again, thinking about everything my brother has sacrificed for me in the past, and how in comparison, this is a small ask. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for him.

“You already have.”