Fake Shot (Boston Rebels Book 2)

“You couldn’t have hired a fucking moving company for this?” Jameson says through clenched teeth as we carry my mattress across the gleaming black marble entryway of the high rise that houses my condo.

“We’re moving a bed and some suitcases. We don’t need a moving company.” I readjust my grip because this king-size mattress is heavy as hell. “Or are you too weak in your old age to carry heavy shit?”

“Fuck you,” he spits out.

We met during our rookie year on the Rebels together, but he’s a few years older than me because he came to the NHL after college, whereas I came up directly through the Canadian league. And I never let him live down the age difference.

“Really, though,” I say, as we walk slowly across the lobby, “if you need me to get someone else to help, just let me know. I should have asked Jules. She’s probably stronger than you, old man.”

Jameson leans forward on the mattress, pressing it into my chest so that I almost stumble backward and lose my balance. Almost.

I just laugh and then ask, “Can we carry this outside now, or do you need to whine some more?”

“Is this how you say thank you for fixing your problems?” Jameson’s voice is low and raspy in his annoyance, which only fuels my desire to piss him off.

“Save that tone for your family, asshat. I’m immune.”

“I don’t know why I still put up with you,” he mutters as we continue moving across the lobby. The doorman rushes to prop open the glass doors, and he follows us out to the truck so he can open the back like he did when we brought my suitcases out. Once we load the mattress in, I tip the doorman and we’re on our way.

“I can’t believe how much damage there was from a busted hose,” Jameson says, shaking his head before he looks over his shoulder and pulls out into traffic.

My entire first floor was already gutted by the restoration company, and it was pretty shocking to walk into. The glass doors to my balcony were wide open and fans were placed strategically around the space to dry everything out. It smelled faintly dank, like moisture without mildew. Thank God. The upstairs was significantly better, with the bedrooms at least being mostly unaffected. Some water had seeped through the doorways and caused damage to the floors, but the walls and all the furniture were fine. I was able to pack up most of my clothes and my personal belongings from my bedroom and bring my brand-new bed with me.

“Yeah, the insurance guy is coming by this week to take a look at everything and let me know what they’ll cover.”

“Did you find a contractor yet?”

“I was going to ask Jules and Audrey,” I tell him, even though that should be obvious.

He gives a dismissive snort. “Good luck with that.”

“Why? I’m practically family,” I say. There’s no one else I’d trust like I trust them.

“That’s why Jules won’t do it,” he says. “She doesn’t work with friends and family.”

“Bullshit. Isn’t she renovating Drew’s mom’s house right now?” Drew’s practically married to their sister, Audrey, so he’s both a friend and a family member.

“Yeah, but that was a favor to Audrey.”

“Okay, well, she renovated Lauren’s house last year⁠—”

“That was a favor to me.” He and Lauren weren’t even dating yet when they started the remodel on her house, but I’m pretty sure he’d been secretly pining over her for years before she moved back to Boston.

Slowing the moving truck down, he waits to make a left turn that will take us out of the Seaport.

“So you can ask Jules to renovate my place as a favor too.”

“I’m fresh out of favors with her,” he says. “Letting you stay in my old apartment has already exceeded her good will.”

“Why?” I ask, pulling a pack of Hot Tamales out of the bag that sits on the bench seat between Jameson and me. “I’m awesome. She’ll love having me around.”

The sound that comes from the back of his throat is practically a snort. “I don’t think she sees it that way.” He glances at me with one eyebrow raised before looking back at the road and then making the turn.

What the hell? People love spending time with me.

“How does she see it, then?” I toss some of the cinnamon candies into my mouth. I’d offer him some, but I know he hates them.

“Jules is a very private person,” he says cautiously.

Of his two sisters, I think she’s the one he’s always worried about. Audrey got pregnant in college and didn’t tell anyone who the father was, then finished architecture school and started Our House with Jules—but he didn’t seem to worry about her. Audrey is a straight shooter; you always know where you stand with her.

Jules, on the other hand, is much harder to read. She’s brazen and comes across as a bit brash. She seems kind of like a badass, but I think there’s a lot more below the surface—especially because she’s got a complicated past that she never wants to talk about.

“I’ve known her since she was, like, ten,” I remind him. It’s funny to think that when I met her, she was all long, gangly limbs, and perpetually covered in construction dust. All she wanted to do was build shit.

“That doesn’t mean you know her.” Jameson’s words give me pause, because when you think of someone like family, you think you know them. It makes me wonder what I don’t know.

“Okay, so she’s a private person,” I say, suddenly feeling tentative. I’m not used to being told to get lost. Quite the opposite. Women, especially, seem to love me. “I can stay out of her hair if that’s what she wants, or needs, or whatever.”

“Can you, though?” Jameson asks.

“Of course I can. I’m not used to having people around constantly, either.” I’ve lived by myself since I moved to Boston when I was nineteen. In that time, I haven’t had a roommate or even a serious girlfriend. I’m used to having my own space, too.

“And you can’t parade a different woman through there every fucking night. You know that, right?”

“Won’t be a problem.” Why does it bother me that he’s judging my reputation? It’s not like everyone else doesn’t do the exact same thing. “Also, you’re judgy as fuck now that you’ve settled down into a serious relationship.”

“You came by your reputation honestly, Colt. Don’t make this about me. I’m just making sure you’re not going to make Jules uncomfortable by having a string of different women there every night.”

“Scout’s honor,” I say sarcastically, holding three fingers in the air.

Jameson barks out a laugh. “I’ve never met anyone who was less of a Boy Scout.”

“Just because you were always better at hiding your womanizing doesn’t make you a Boy Scout either.”

“No, but the difference is, I understand the meaning of discretion.”

“You sure it wasn’t because you lived with your little sisters, so it wasn’t like you could bring women home all the time?”

“Speaking of, I have a feeling my old space is going to feel small for you pretty quickly.”

It’s true that the one-bedroom apartment is significantly smaller than anywhere I’ve lived as an adult. It’s smaller than his old place too—the sleek apartment he had downtown before he retired to move back into his family home and essentially be a parent for his sisters. But I’ll only be there for a couple of months.

“And,” he continues, “I told Jules that you’d only stay until the playoffs are over. After that, if you can’t move back into your place while they finish the remodel, I told her you’d find a different arrangement.”

“The fuck?” I groan. The thought of having to look for a place once playoffs are over feels kind of overwhelming. Then again, if we go all the way, maybe they’ll be done with my condo by the time it’s over. Or done enough that I can live through the finishing touches?

“Sorry. But it’s her place, and she’s doing you a favor letting you stay there.”

“Don’t you own that house?”

Jameson releases a deep sigh as he turns the van onto a side street. “Technically.”

“And you don’t feel like you can let your best friend stay there for a few more weeks after the playoffs are over.”

I glance over in time to see his jaw flex like he’s biting back his words. “We’ll see what happens. Maybe you’ll play like shit and be out after the first round.”

“Asshole,” I mutter. He just broke the first rule of playoff superstition. There’s no if. We only talk about the Cup like we’re going to win it.

“But if you go all the way, and there’s only a short time before your place is ready, then we’ll see.”

“Maybe Jules will love having me around,” I suggest, but he only snorts in response, his eyes sliding to the side to look at me like I’m an idiot.

We got my bed moved into Jameson’s old apartment and carried all my suitcases and my few boxes upstairs. It’s freaking hot out, as our unusually warm spring has taken an even warmer turn, so now there’s sweat trickling down my back. I adjust the thermostat so the air-conditioning comes on before we carry his old bed downstairs.

“Graham’s old room should be totally empty, and we can store it in there,” he tells me as we move the mattress from the third floor down to the second, where Audrey and Graham used to live. It was only a few months ago that I was helping carry their boxes and Graham’s bedroom furniture out when we moved them in with Drew. “Jules moved up here to Audrey’s old room.”

She’d lived in the bedroom on the first floor since she moved home from college, which makes me realize how much has changed for her in the last year with Jameson moving out, and Audrey and Graham leaving shortly after.

Setting the mattress down as we stop in front of Graham’s closed bedroom, Jameson reaches out to open it, but it’s locked.

“That’s weird,” he says. “Hold on, there’s a Jack and Jill bathroom between the two bedrooms, so I’ll go through Jules’s room and open the door.”

A few seconds later, a loud, “What the hell?” comes from the other side of the door.

“What’s wrong?” I call out.

Jameson opens the door, and behind him is what can only be described as a Kardashian-level closet. There’s a chandelier made up of some sort of flat, shiny shells hanging from the high ceiling. The walls and ceiling are a deep gray, and the floor-to-ceiling built-ins are painted to match. Natural light floods the room through the sheer floor-length curtains hanging in front of the windows, bathing the enormous island with a shiny wooden countertop in the middle of the room in a soft, glowing light. Between the windows on the far side of the room is a tall floor mirror, trimmed in ornate gold and leaning back against the wall.

“Is this . . . Jules’s closet?” I ask.

“I have no fucking idea. Last time I saw this room was when we moved Audrey and Graham into Drew’s place,” Jameson says. “It was barren, and still the same pale blue we painted it before Graham was born.”

My eyes scan the room again, and I can’t reconcile this space with what I know of Jules. I’ve rarely seen her in anything besides jeans, T-shirts, and flannels, or leggings and sweatshirts. And while there are obviously portions of this closet dedicated to those essential parts of her wardrobe, there are also a lot of really nice items hanging up here. There are entire shelves of handbags, sunglasses, and necklaces, half a wall of shoes that are far from her typical work boots, and tons of built-in drawers that I can only imagine house more items.

“This is a pretty big change,” I say, and it feels like a huge understatement.

“I got bored and needed a project.” Jules’s voice comes from the hallway behind me, and both Jameson and I jump before turning to face her. She has a distinctly annoyed look on her face, and I feel like she’s caught us snooping through her underwear drawer or something. “And it’s not like this space was being used for anything else.”

She crosses her arms under her chest and leans back against the exposed brick wall at the top of the stairs, but her mouth twists to one side, and Jameson’s words from the truck come back to me: Jules is a very private person. Her raised eyebrow and the way she tilts her chin as she looks at us asks the question without her having to say it.

“We thought this room was empty, and we were going to store Jameson’s old bed in here,” I say. “We didn’t mean to pry.”

“It’s just a closet, Jules,” Jameson adds, and I can tell it was the wrong thing to say by the way her eyes narrow in on him.

“Usually, when doors are locked, that means you shouldn’t enter.” Her gaze sweeps from her brother to me before she points at the ceiling of the second floor. “Your space is up there. Do I need to build you a special exterior staircase up the back of the house so you can find your way?” Her tone is sarcastic, and I want to believe she’s teasing, but it feels like there’s more to it than that.

“Jesus, Jules,” Jameson mutters, and it’s a phrase I’ve heard him use a lot when she says something out of pocket.

“Nah, it’s fine.” I shrug it off. “It’s her house, and Jules made it clear that she wants her personal space. No big deal.”

I’m not sure if this really is no big deal, or if I’m just acting like it is. There’s something under the surface of her comments—some hostility that I didn’t expect and wasn’t prepared for.

“Is there somewhere else we can put the bed for now?” Jameson asks.

“How about in the storage room in the basement?” she asks.

“It won’t be in your way?”

Jules converted the walkout basement into a sleek office for Our House, and the back part was a playroom for Graham. I’ve only been down there a handful of times, but I remember that storage room off the playroom being pretty small, and this is a king-size bed.

“If it is, I’ll put it on the floor in the playroom and let the kids jump on it like it’s a trampoline every time they’re over.”

“Don’t you dare,” Jameson says, and I’m guessing he doesn’t want the twins getting any ideas about jumping on beds since they just moved into regular twin beds recently.

Jules rolls her eyes. “If it’s in my way, I’ll just move it. It’s only for a few weeks.”