Page 45 of Fake Shot

I guide her through drawing her club back and bringing it down to the tee a few times so she’ll get a sense of how to line it up to hit the ball. Then we practice swinging through, with me explaining how her body should be positioned at the end of the swing.

“You ready to try it on your own?” I ask.

“Not really.”

“I think you are.” What I really think is that I need to step away, because if my body is pressed up against hers like this for much longer, my reaction is going to be visible. And while I want people to see us out together, see me flirting with her, I don’t need them to see me sporting a boner like a goddamned teenager.

Setting the ball on the tee, I look up at her. “Do it exactly like we just did, and you’ll do fine.”

Then I step back so I’m opposite her, and when shepositions her hands on the club, the overhead lights shine off her ring, making me squint.

“Holy shit,” I laugh. “The way the lights just caught your ring blinded me.”

That’s what I get for buying her a five-carat oval cut diamond with smaller diamonds lining the solitaire and the band. All-in-all, I think it’s about six-and-a-half carats, and it’s way more than what I was expecting to buy, but pissing her off is one of my favorite pastimes and you can’t put a price on that kind of joy.

“Yeah,” she deadpans, sending me a glare, “it’s a bit much.”

“Baby ...” I make a show of stepping close enough to her that I can lean over and kiss the top of her head. “I’ma bit much.”

“No doubt.” With a sigh, she uses her index finger against my chest to move me back to the other side of the small patch of turf.

And then she winds up and smacks the ball like she’s taking all her frustration out on it. It flies more than halfway down the range, and we’re both so surprised that I scoop her up in my arms and spin her around.

“I can’t believe you just did that. You’re a natural.” I’m beaming up at her as she laughs triumphantly.

She looks down at me with a smirk as I slow to a stop. “What can I say? I’m good with balls.”

Chapter Seventeen

JULES

“Oh, no he didn’t!” I say as I spin in my seat toward my sister, clutching my phone in my hand. On the ice several rows in front of us, the players are already warming up.

“What happened?” Audrey asks as she hands a big container of popcorn to Graham.

“He had me added to the WAG group chat.”

Audrey bursts out laughing so loud that everyone near us turns to look at her. She fishes her phone out of her pocket, scrolls up a bit to find the right text thread, and then her shoulders shake with laughter again. “Ladies, let’s welcome Colt’s fiancée, Jules, to the chat. Most of you already know her, since she’s Audrey’s sister and Drew’s future sister-in-law,” she reads the latest text from Patrick Walsh’s wife, Marissa.

From what I hear, Walsh—or Walshy as his teammates call him—is the most happily married guy in the NHL, andMarissa serves as the “head WAG” since the team captain, Ronan McCabe, isn’t married.

Not that I’d ever let someone get close enough to me that I’d get married, but if I ever found a guy who worshiped me the way Walsh worships Marissa ... maybe I’d consider it. Someone with that level of open adoration and an anything-to-please-my-partner attitude might even convince me to trust again. But where do you even find a guy like that?

My eyes track over to Colt, where he’s standing behind the goal, getting his water bottle set up. Behind him, girls holding signs with his name and clever sayings bang on the glass, trying to get his attention.

Not there, that’s for sure.

But when he glances up at me and finds me staring at him, he skates over to the glass in front of us and motions for me. I roll my eyes at him, but don’t dare refuse because I’m sure plenty of fans who are here early for warm-ups are watching this interaction.

Since photos and videos of us golfing together the other night started circulating all over social media, there’s been even more interest in our relationship. Luckily, it’s only the fans who seem to be paying much attention and they’ve been largely positive—they’re surprised, but supportive. People’s comments about the videos of us at the driving range together, especially when I hit my first ball and Colt picked me up and swung me around in celebration, focused on how “wholesome” we seemed.

And aside from a quick mention in our local Boston paper, there hasn’t really been any other coverage of our relationship, thankfully.

I take the steps down to the glass, and when I get there,Colt gives me a cocky grin as he circles his pointer finger in the air, indicating that he wants me to turn around. I sigh. I swore I’d never wear a player’s jersey, and yet here I am with COLTIER written across my back.

I had just walked in the door from work this afternoon—sweaty and covered in a thick layer of construction dust—when he’d come downstairs, clearly on his way to the arena for the game.

The perfectly tailored navy-blue suit, with that sexy purple tie, had him oozing so much sex appeal that I’d momentarily lost my mind and agreed to wear the jersey he handed me. Once I realized what I’d done, I’d added, “One time only, to keep up appearances.”

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