Page 10 of Fake Shot

“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 downtownbefore 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’tyouown 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 noif.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 fromthe 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.

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