Page 31 of Fake Shot

“I’m sure we can find you some healthier ways.”

“Such as?” Her eyebrow raises, like she’s trying to point out that I should take my own advice.

“I mean, my job is basically a way to blow off steam. But if having pucks shot at you at 90 miles per hour isn’t your thing, I’m sure we could find other ways. I think you may need to put yourself in some new situations, though, to see that you can overcome them without going into panic mode. Maybe that would help when you’re presented with something triggering?”

“You sound like my therapist.”

“Believe me,” I say with a self-deprecating laugh, “I am thelastperson you want to provide you with therapy.”

“Believe me,” she responds, “you’re thelastperson I’d open up to.”

I pull back so I can see her more fully. Maybe if I can read her body language, I’ll be able to figure out what the fuck she means by that. Because every once in a while, Jules sayssomething that makes me think she low-key hates me, and this was a perfect example.

As I move my hand from her neck to her shoulder, I notice the way her hand falls back to the top of the dresser, and she inhales sharply in response to my touch. But I can’t tell if it’s the kind of quick, surprised breath that comes from enjoying the contact, or if I’m about to send her into a panic.

“Did I do something to make you not trust me, Jules?”

She scoffs out a laugh, but it sounds forced. “No. I just meant because you’re my brother’s best friend. I’m not likely to tell you all my secrets.”

“Who do you tell all your secrets to?”

“My sister, of course. And my therapist. What about you?”

“I’m an open book.” I shrug. “No secrets here.”

“Sure, you are,” she says, shaking her head.

“What? I am. With me, what you see is what you get.” I’m the good-time goalie. The one the guys all want to hang out with, and the ladies want to go home with. I know who I am, and I embrace it. It’s easier that way.

Her big blue eyes narrow as her gaze locks onto my face. “That might be the biggest lie you’ve ever told. And the sad thing is, I think you might even believe it.”

“Here you go. One Italian grilled cheese,” I say as I slide the plate in front of her. The fresh mozzarella is oozing out of the lightly toasted sourdough, but the basil and fresh tomato have stayed between the bread.

She picks it up, blowing on the corner where I cut the sandwich at an angle, before taking a bite. “Holy shit,” she groans. “You weren’t kidding.”

“I told you. Grilled cheese master right here.” I point at my chest, and she rolls her eyes.

This is exactly the lightness I was hoping for after our heavy conversation in her bedroom. Her last comment made me feel so exposed—because for a moment there, I’d forgotten that she’d seen me on the phone with my brother and that I’d told her a bit about the situation. She knows I have secrets; she just doesn’t know quite how big they are.

Luckily, I know she’s always hungry and had only eaten an appetizer before that dinner ended, so I bribed her by offering to make her my specialty (aka the only thing I can cook). Down here in her kitchen, with me narrating my process for making grilled cheese sandwiches and her inserting her snarky comments, things feel more normal.

Which is why it comes as a shock when she says, “We need to talk about that article.”

I’ve been so focused on her panic attacks and whether I want to let her in on any of my secrets, that I kind of forgot about the article that sent me straight to her bedroom door half an hour ago.

Grabbing the plate with my sandwich on it, I bring it to the table. She’s sitting at the end, so I take the first seat on her left, setting my plate on the placemat and my phone right next to it.

When we sat here a few nights ago, she put me at the opposite end of the table, as far away from her as possible. But fuck that. We need to have a real conversation and I need to be able to see her reactions to things—it’s the little thingslike the way her shoulders tense up or whether she’s taking shallow breaths that will let me know how she’s really feeling, and you can’t see things like that from eight feet away.

“What do you want to talk about, Tink?”

The question is barely out of my mouth before my phone rings, which doesn’t even make sense because I know I put it on silent. I look down and it’s a video call.

“Shit,” I mutter, then look at Jules. I don’t understand why half of our conversations have been interrupted by calls from my family, but I’m over it. This one, though, I can’t ignore. “It’s my mom. And she never video calls me like this. Something must be wrong.”

She nods her chin toward the phone. “You better take it, then. Do you want privacy?”

“No, it’s fine.”Just shit timing. I pick up the phone, angling it so there’s no way Jules will be in the video. “Hey, Mom, what’s up?”

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