Page 1 of Fake Shot

Chapter One

JULES

6 Years Ago

Las Vegas, NV

From my spot at the edge of the craps table, I take another sip of my whiskey sour. I should have picked a sweeter drink, because then I’d be able to tell if it’s the drink turning my stomach, or if it’s the way the woman in the barely-there pink dress is hanging all over Colt.

“She’s a less pretty version of you,” Brock Lester says as he leans into my side. Clearly, I’m failing in my attempt not to stare at Colt and tonight’swomandu jour.

She can’t be much older than me, and while her hair is light brown with blond highlights and not a shiny blond like mine, there’s enough of a resemblance for a comparison. And it’s that fact that hurts.

All those excuses I’ve made for years—that I’m too young for him or that I’m not his type—to explain why he’s notinterested in me, they’re all lies in the wake of tonight’s evidence. It’s not my age or that I’m not his type. It’s just me. Whatever the reason, he’s just not into me, and he never will be.

I know I need to accept that ... probably should have accepted it years ago, but I can barely remember a time when I didn’t love Colt. From the time I was old enough to be interested in boys, my brother’s best friend and teammate was the only one I had eyes for. It didn’t matter that he was eight years older than me or that he’s always treated me like a little sister. I’ve been too stubborn to quit on my feelings for him, because I’m entirely certain we could be perfect together if only he’d open his eyes andsee me.

Tilting the drink against my lips, I drain the glass before I turn toward Brock. “I’m not sure what you’re talking about.”

“Sure you’re not,” he says, a low chuckle following his words. “But if you want to make him jealous, you just let me know.”

I narrow my eyes at him, telling myself it’s because I’m trying to make sense of his meaning rather than because my vision is getting the slightest bit unfocused.

“And why would I do that?” I attempt to keep my voice indifferent, the way I have all night as the NHL’s resident bad boy has shamelessly flirted with me. But my disinterest only seems to have increased his dedication to getting my attention.

“Because we could have a lot of fun together.” The backs of his knuckles trail along the outside of my thigh, and even though he’s not my type, it sends a shiver of excitement up my back. Around us, the large and now very drunk group of hockey players who have congregated in Las Vegas for All-Star Weekend, along with their wives and girlfriends and a fair number of puck bunnies, are loud and laughing and paying us no mind.

I’m fairly certain I’m not cool enough to be here.

Audrey and I convinced our brother, Jameson, to bring us to All-Star Weekend with him—even though we’d each be missing a couple of days of our college classes—so we could enjoy a weekend of sun and relaxation, and attend the game. As an agent, he represents several of the players, including Colt, who’s a goalie for the Boston Rebels, a young center named Alex Ivanov, who’s having a stellar second year in New York, and a defenseman from Ottawa named Tom Bonovono.

When the players headed out tonight after the post-game dinner, Audrey went back to the hotel because she’s very pregnant and always exhausted. And even though I could have hung out with her in the hotel room, watching movies and raiding the snacks in the mini bar like we’d done the last two nights, I felt like going out.

The funny thing about being a freshman in college is that you get used to making your own decisions about how you spend your nights, and I’d forgotten what it was like to need to ask my brother’s permission. Luckily, he didn’t put up a fight about me coming out with them, even though, at nineteen, I’m not technically old enough to be at the gaming tables, and I’m definitely not supposed to be drinking.

Like I suspected, no one has asked for my ID because I put on some makeup and a slinky dress with high heels, and I walked in with a group of the best players in professional hockey. As we moved through the doors of the casino earlier, Colt slung his arm over my shoulder to usher me in with thegroup, making sure I didn’t get left behind. That moment had given me all kinds of hope.

But that was hours ago, before that woman in the pink dress started hanging all over him. He hasn’t looked at me since.

Except when—about an hour ago—Jameson told him he was going with a few of the players to a strip club. He claimed it was to “make sure no one got in trouble,” and while I believe him, it also feels like these are grown men who should be responsible for themselves. Then he asked Colt to “keep an eye on me.”

Unlike his players, I don’t need a fucking babysitter.

“Are you thinking it over?” Brock asks, and it’s only then that I realize I’ve been completely lost in my thoughts about how I’ll never be anything more than a kid in Colt’s eyes—someone he needs to take care of when my big brother isn’t around.

He’s never going to see you as more.

“Yeah, I’m considering it ...” I bite my lip as I flag down the waitress assigned to our private VIP area. Then I order another whiskey sour because I’m afraid to change my drink order. I’ve never been drunk before, but I’ve heard horror stories about mixing alcohols, and sticking with the same drink feels safe.

He leans in again. “You’re way too beautiful and sweet to be spending this weekend alone, Jules.” My name is a caress coming off his tongue, and his warm breath glides along my bare shoulder, wrapping me in the promise of companionship.

I’ve dated here and there just to see what all the fuss is about, but I’ve never had a boyfriend because I’ve held on tothis stupid childhood crush way past its expiration date. I’ve also never had sex, nor drank too much, nor made a single bad decision.

And suddenly, three drinks in, all these rites of passage that other people my age have typically experienced make me feel like I need to grow up. And moving on from this ridiculous crush, with someone who isnotColt, feels like the first monumental step toward actual adulthood.

“What did you have in mind?” I ask. Notching my index finger behind his belt buckle, I relish his sharp intake of breath and the way he half closes his eyelids as he looks down at me.

And then I let Brock wrap his arm along my lower back, grip my hip, and pull me against him, whispering promises about all the dirty things he wants to do to me. I’m seriously considering his suggestions because, hell, someone needs to take my virginity. I have an incredibly good-looking, highly attentive man standing right here, offering to spend this weekend making sure I have “fun.” And he’s rebuffed every other woman who’s tried to talk to him tonight, focusing all his energy on me because, unlike Colt, he’s clearly into me. Would I be a fool to turn him down?

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