Page 24 of The Hot Shot

Jake flips me the bird. “Bring it, Manny pants.”

Things devolve from there as we give each other smacks on the head.

“Okay, fuck, I give!” Jake yells when I get him in a headlock. An older woman walking by peers into the cab of my SUV with suspicion. I give her an innocent smile and let Jake go. He pushes off me, adjusting his shirt with a mutter. “Touchy priss.”

Grabbing my bag, I get out of the car. He follows, getting his own gear.

“When’s the last time you hung out with a woman?” I ask. “One that wasn’t trying to take a selfie with you or rifle through your stuff when your back was turned?”

Jake’s expression scrunches up as we head for the building’s entrance. “Uh, freshman year.” He laughs. “Of high school.”

“Exactly.” I pull open the door, and we enter the freezing haven of air-conditioning. “Chess is just Chess. I don’t need to fuck her. I just want tobeand not have to explain it.”

“Frankly,” he says, as we jog up the stairs, “I’m more surprised she even talks to you. I could have sworn she hated you.”

“I grow on people.”

“Like fungus.”

My reply is lost to the ringtone blaring from my phone. Since I’ve assigned all the people closest to me a tone, I knowwho it is right away, and my insides clench at the sound of “Bohemian Rhapsody.”

It’s an easy thing to hit Ignore, but it doesn’t halt the guilt. Jake frowns. “You ignoring your mother now?”

Yes, I am now the son who sends his mother straight to voicemail. “This from someone who ignores his mom all the time?”

“My mom usually calls to complain about my sisters, and I end up getting stuck in the middle of one of their heinous fights. Have you ever had to deal with five pissed-off women? It’s not a pretty sight. Your mom, on the other hand, feeds me and tells me how cute I am. She’s like Martha Stewart and Betty White rolled into one adorable package.”

I try to visualize that, but decide it’s best not to for the sake of my sanity. “All this because she sends you care packages after you made up some sob story about being a starving bachelor.”

“It’s the truth. I am a starving bachelor.” He pulls open the door of the studio we’re going to spend the next hour in. “Her snickerdoodles are prizeworthy. Besides, can I help it if she loves me? At this point, I’m fairly certain she wants to adopt me. Hell, she needs to babysomeone.”

His words send a bolt of pain straight into me. It squeezes my chest with hard hands, and I suck in a breath. Immediately, Jake pales. “Oh, shit, man. I didn’t—”

“It’s okay,” I cut in, lifting a hand. I don’t want to talk about that.

Lips pinched, he nods shortly.

“She wants me to come home forThanksmas.” There are some seasons when I’m stuck playing a game on Thanksgiving or Christmas. My mother came up with the idea of celebrating both during one of my bye weeks and calling itThanksmas.It’s a ridiculous name, but one that usually makes me smile.

Now I dread it. My mother always means well with her meddling ways, but she has all the subtlety of a bulldozer. “Shemarried Glenn off, so now I’m her pet project. I do not have the energy to deal with it.”

“You want me to come with you?” Jake offers. “I’m an excellent distraction. I can moan about not getting enough to eat and how I’m wasting away.” He runs a hand over his chest where he’s put on about ten pounds of lean muscle during the off-season. Not that my mother will care; she’ll feed him regardless.

“Thanks,” I say, toeing off my shoes. “But that will only give her two of us to fixate on.”

Jake stows his gear in a cubby and stretches his arms overhead as three women walk in. Barely dressed, their bodies lithe and graceful, they eye us with familiar, playful interest. Jake tracks their movement through the room. “Best fucking day of the week,” he says with a feral grin.

“I enjoy coming here, Ryder. So don’t fuck it up by dipping your wick in this particular wax.”

Jake snorts. “Too late.”

“Jesus. Who?”

“Rachel.”

Which would explain why the little blonde keeps sending covert glances our way. “And Sheila,” he adds, as Sheila of the bouncy curls and death glare stomps by.

Thankfully, a guy can’t actually lose his balls with one look, or we’d both be hurting right about now.