Page 65 of Shots Fired

I don’t want to be the one to let her down and tell her the truth that all we are is fuck buddies. I might be good at fooling myself into believing this is a date, but I’m not about to lie to my mom. I’ve spread enough bullshit lately.

As Darcy continues talking with the random guy, who I want to punch square in the face for even looking at her, I focus back on my call with Mom.

“Not exactly.” I wince, pushing my head back into the rest. “It’s more like I want to get serious, but I’m pretty sure she doesn’t share the same feelings.” I close my eyes, rolling my tongue across the roof of my mouth. “So, I’m doing what any down-bad guy would do, and I’m chasing her like a fucking idiot.”

She chuckles softly. I’m happy my misery can bring her some relief. “And you don’t think you’ve broken a few hearts along the way? The other day, I opened a magazine while I was waiting for my pedicure to set, and there, across two pages, was a picture of my son on a night out with two beautiful girls, one hanging off each arm. The title of the article read, ‘Shots Fired: The NHL’s Leading Goal Scorer Off the Ice.’”

Despite myself, I can’t suppress a smile as it tugs at my lips. “What did the article say?”

“I don’t know,” she quickly answers. “I immediately closed the magazine and moved toHorse & Hound. Do you know I can barely surf the web or open any kind of article without seeing a supermodel wrapped around you?”

“Was this supposed to make me feel better?” I drop my head between my shoulders.

Mom clears her throat. “Sorry, sweetheart. The article was at least eighteen months old, if that helps.”

My gaze finds Darcy as she finishes up talking and scans the street for my car.

I flash my lights to capture her attention.

“Yeah, well, any images or posts you find are all recycled from a while back. I haven’t played around in a long time. Everything that’s been printed recently is purely speculation. I only need to look in a girl’s direction on a night out, and the media automatically concludes I’m banging her.”

Mom releases a low groan.

“Sorry,” I reply. “Probably too much information?”

“Just a touch,” she confirms. “Am I to assume you’ve quit messing around because of this girl?”

I hum my confirmation.

Mom’s breezy tone immediately makes a reappearance. “I like this mystery girl already. You know all I’ve ever wanted for my only boy is for him to fall in love and settle down. You can’t play around forever, Archer.”

In the past, I’d have rolled my eyes in response, but now I’m nodding along in agreement. She’s right; it is what I want.

“I gotta go, Mom. Just keep this all close to the vest, okay? It’s complicated, and I’ll explain why another time,” I rush out when Darcy starts crossing the road, walking toward my car.

“Okay, sweetheart.”

“I’ll get you tickets to a game, and we can do dinner afterward.”

“Yes, that’s what I was asking when you zoned out on me earlier. Anyway, let me leave you to your girl. Love you. Bye.”

Mom disconnects the call just as I unlock my door and Darcy climbs in.

If I wasn’t sitting down, I’d be bouncing on the balls of my feet over the chance to take my girl out and spoil her.

“Hey, Doll,” I greet her, leaning over the center section and planting a soft kiss against her collarbone, her oversize sweater granting my lips the access they need.

Her skin reacts, pebbling with excitement. Except Darcy’s face doesn’t hold the same enthusiasm. Her usually bright and sparkling blue eyes shine, but with a gloss I never want to see again.

Worried as hell, I cup the right side of her face in my palm. She doesn’t look away, although I can tell she wants to.

“Talk to me, Darcy,” I say, coaxing her to explain what the fuck has got her feeling this way. I nod my head toward where she was talking to the guy a few minutes earlier. “Was it him? Did he say something to hurt you?”

A single tear falls from her left eye, and, fuck, I’m going to murder the son of a bitch.

I’m opening my driver’s door before she can say anything, ready to hunt the fucker down and bury him.

Chess-playing prick.

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