Page 13 of Fake Shot

“Hmm.” Turning to face me, that smirk he’s so famous for graces his lips. It’s the one he flashes for fans and photographs, the one that so easily gets him into women’s pants. Colt’s got the easy-going attitude of someone who always gets what he wants in life. “That’s an awfully big bowl of pasta. You having company over?”

I suspect he knows I don’t have anyone coming over and is teasing me so he can offer to help me eat it. But that question rubs at me in a way that makes me feel kind of raw. As much of my life as I spent wishing I had some privacy—which I never had with Jameson and Audrey, and eventually Graham, always around—I wasn’t prepared for how it would feel to live in this big house all alone once they each moved out. Moved on.

It makes me feel like I’m stagnant, while everyone else is growing.

Which doesn’t even make sense, because I’mhappywith my life. I’ve got great friends, an amazing family, and a job I love. It’s exactly the life I wanted to create for myself, and it’s perfect for me. Safe and stable, just how I like things.

“Maybe ...” I say, a heavy dose of sarcasm in my voice, “I just have a really big appetite.”

He looks me up and down, like he doubts I could eat half this much. His lips curve back into a small smile when he says, “Maybe you’re just really stubborn.”

“YouknowI’m stubborn, Colt,” I say as I fold my arms across my chest, hugging my T-shirt to me and wishing I had better armor against his charm. “This isn’t news.”

“Listen,” he says, shoving his hands into the front pocket of his jeans like he knows how awkward this is for me. “I’m sorry Jameson and I went into your closet earlier today. We thought it was just an empty room at this point. We didn’t know you’d made it into part of your living space.” He swallows, his throat bobbing in a way that makes him look guilty.

It shouldn’t be a big deal if he went into my closet ... but if he started poking around, he’d find things I most definitely wouldn’t want him to see.

“It’s fine, Colt. You didn’t know. Just ... stay out of there now that you do, okay?”

“Sure thing, Tink.”

Grinding my teeth together, I try not to let the old nickname from my childhood grate on me. No one ever calls me that anymore, except him—and I’m pretty sure he does it to piss me off.

I was a pre-teen when Colt and Jameson started playing together on the Rebels. Being eight years older than me, he’s always treated me like his kid sister. He teased me mercilessly, probably because I was so easy to get a rise out of, but I secretly basked in the attention.

Then I hit puberty, and as I morphed into a teenager—growing six inches and adding some curves—he continued to treat me like I was a little kid, when all I wanted was for him to see that I was growing up.

“You can stop calling me that any day now,” I say, hugging my arms even tighter across my chest.

To his credit, while he still teases me, he no longer treats me like I’m a kid. Which is good, because I operate power tools and boss people around for a living. I’m not inclined to take crap from someone whose only purpose in life is to prevent rubber pucks from going into a net.

“Nah,” he says with a shrug, “you’ll always be Tinker Bell to me—a tiny blonde spitfire with a temper when she doesn’t get her way.” His smile is affectionate, like he’s remembering how tenacious I was as a kid. Telling me no, or that something was too hard, or that I needed to be older to do something, in my mind that only meant that I needed to try harder. Giving up wasn’t in my vernacular. Still isn’t.

“I’m hardly tiny, Colt.” I’m five feet nine inches tall, and muscular. Most guys are intimidated by my height and the fact that I can usually lift more than they can. Not Colt, though. He’s got at least six inches on me, and I probably couldn’t even lift his warm-up weight.

He steps a little closer so that I have to tilt my head back to see him. If it weren’t Colt, I would be intimidated as hell by a guy this large hulking over me like this.

“You’re still kind of tiny to me.” His voice is low and gravelly in a way that has butterflies shooting through my abdomen. I don’t even recognize his tone ... it’s like he’s talking to someone else. Someone he most definitely doesn’t see as a little sister.

“Sit down,” I say with an exaggerated sigh as I briefly consider all the bad decisions someone could easily make with a guy like Colt. I lightly push against his chest with one hand while stepping back and moving toward the counter where I set the huge bowl of food. “I need help eating all this pasta.”

What I really need is for him to be farther from me, like at the far end of the table, so I can forget the way I felt just now with him that close. How I could barely breathe because of the proximity. How I wanted him to take one step closer, even while I assured myself I did not want that.

It’s just Colt, I repeat Jameson’s words in my head.

And if Colt is known for anything besides playing hockey, it’s the constant rotation of puck bunnies in and out of his life. It’s like he can’t help but talk to women like he’s trying to get them into his bed. I’m about to tell him to cut that shit out—because we antagonize each other, we don’t flirt—when he interrupts my thoughts by asking, “Can I get us some drinks? What do you want?”

“Just water,” I tell him.

“Water it is,” he says as he moves to grab two glasses from the shelf.

“There’s some beer in the fridge if you want it,” I tell him.

He gives me a look I can’t quite read but wish I could, and then he says, “Water’s fine.”

I take two large flat bowls and dish heaping piles of pasta into both, then grate some extra parmesan onto each while he fills our water glasses.

“So, you guys aren’t practicing this week?” I ask as we sit across from each other at the farmhouse table that takes up the middle of my kitchen. I get up early for work and basically want to know if he might be meandering through my space in the mornings. Do I need to put clothes on after my shower when I go downstairs to get my coffee, or can I go wrapped in my towel like normal?

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