Page 48 of Fake Shot

In all the years I crushed on him, I never imagined us faking being together. But the way he picked me up and turned in circles with me in his arms after I hit that golf ball the other night, the smile he gave me as he told me I was a natural, it felt way too real. And tonight, the way he keeps dropping his voice when he uses my nickname, the way he can’t seem to let me be more than a few inches from him, it doesn’t feel fake. Obviously, he’s an incredibly good liar, which is something I would do well not to forget.

We fall into easy conversation as Ashleigh tells us about finishing up her first semester as an astrophysics PhD student in the Astro/Aero department at MIT. The girl is going to be a literal rocket scientist when she finishes her graduate work, and it amazes me how down to earth she seems even though she’s obviously next-level smart. And then Zach is telling us about the vacation they have planned in July, and as Ashleigh’s gushing about how excited she is to learn to scuba dive, she lets out a huge yawn.

“My girl’s tired,” Zach says. “Time to go home.”

They could very well be going home to sleep, but just like with Drew and Audrey, I can’t help but think that they’re going home to fuck. Why is everyone around me happily paired off and getting laid regularly, and here I am, still a virgin at twenty-five?

As much as I don’t want to date anyone—don’t trust myself enough to be vulnerable like that—I really would like to know what it’s like to share my body with someone else. If I could just get over the mental hurdle of it.

As we say goodbye and Zach and Ashleigh leave, Colt’s thumb traces the column of my spine, just above my tailbone, and it sends a shiver up my back, causing me to squirm. His other arm wraps around my lower abdomen, anchoring me in place.

“You’d better stop that,” he says, his words a dark caress that slides along my neck and curls behind my ear, making me shiver again. “Or we’re going to have a big problem.”

I can’t help the laugh that shakes my body as I feel him growing hard between my ass cheeks. “I’m pretty sure we already have abigproblem.” I don’t know what comes over me as I grind against him intentionally—a slow, circling press of my hips that I hope will quell the aching need building between my legs.

“Jules,” he warns.

“Colt.” My voice is teasing as I repeat the action. I’m only on my second drink, not nearly enough to blame my actions on the alcohol. No, it’s my stupid inability to be in control of myself whenever he’s around, but I’m not sure I really care at the moment.

“Here’s how this is going to go.” His growl reverberatesagainst me as his lips brush my earlobe again. “Either you stop that right now, or I’m going to slide my hand between your legs and make you come so hard this entire bar will hear you screaming my name.”

The need that courses through me is like a hot flash, and I have the overwhelming desire to rip my clothes off. I slide my hips back and forth again and he hisses out a breath.

“Good choice,” he says as his fingers trail from my abdomen along my leggings and down toward my clit, which is literally aching for his touch. Even though I shouldn’t let him, I want his hands on me more than I’ve ever wanted anything. “Let’s put on a convincing show.”

His words are the slap that jolts me out of my lust-induced haze as my half-lidded eyes fly open and glance around the bar. I slide off his lap before he has a chance to stop me.

“Change your mind?” he teases, making me believe that was his intention all along—he was just seeing how far he could push me before I backed out.

“Shit, Colt. You can’t say things like that to yourfakefiancée.”

“That was tame, Jules. You should hear the things I’d say if we weren’t pretending.”

I’m so tempted to throw out a taunting remark so that he’ll elaborate, but now I’m hyper aware how many of his teammates at the surrounding tables are watching us, trying to gauge what’s going on. And I’m not really in the mood for acting anymore.

“I’m tired,” I say through a forced yawn. “I got up at five and now it’s almost midnight. I’m going to head home.”Shifting in my seat, I move my legs out of the booth so I can stand, but Colt grabs the back of my jersey to hold me in place.

“We’regoing home.” He leans over and kisses the top of my head, then lets me scoot out of the booth. As soon as I’m standing, he smacks my ass playfully, and when I spin in surprise, he’s already right behind me, wrapping his arm around my shoulder and turning me toward the doors of the bar.

We don’t say much as we walk back to the player’s parking area at the arena, but Colt keeps his arm wrapped around my shoulders, his thumb tracing the line of my collarbone the whole time. He’s quiet on the drive back to the South End, and I lean my head back, staring out the sunroof at the hazy night sky illuminated by the city lights, while we listen to the radio.

My mind is a mess, running through all the questions I have about what just happened. What I’m most wondering is: how is he so good at pretending?

The way he demanded I come show him his name on my back in front of the fans during warm-ups, how he hugged me in front of his teammates’ families after the game like he couldn’t possibly go another second without having me in his arms, how he forced me onto his lap and got me all wound up in the bar and how his body was responding to mine.

It’s like he knows exactly what we need to do to convincepeople this is real, and he’s executing that plan perfectly. So perfectly, in fact, that it all feels a little too natural.

And then my mind does that thing I can’t seem to convince it not to do. It flashes back to Vegas. Because that seemed natural too. The way Brock flirted with me all night, the way he held me like he adored me, the way he suggested I meant something to him. And then in the morning, when I woke up hungover and having made a terrible mistake, I discovered that not a single moment of it was real for him.

I’m swallowing down the lump in my throat when I realize that he’s already turning into the alley that runs behind my house. Good. I’m suddenly desperate to get out of this car. I need to put distance between Colt and me. I need to remind myself that my judgment is fucked up, that I can’t believe anything I’m feeling, and that this is all just an act for him.

My hand is already on the door handle when he pulls into his parking spot, and I have one leg out of the car before he even shifts into park.

“I need to ask you a question,” he says before I can get out.

“How about another time?” I step out of the car and shut the door behind me, needing air, needing to clear my head. But he’s out quickly too, following me up the back steps where he grabs ahold of the loose fabric on the jersey and stops me in my tracks. Then he steps up behind me, and because I’m on the stair above him, his head’s level with mine.

“Why are you running away?” His words glide along my skin, raising goosebumps across my neck and down my shoulders.

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