Page 1 of Trick Shot (Bainbridge Hockey #4)

Claire

P ete Santos is everybody’s favorite guy at Bainbridge University. His signature wolf howl is a staple at sporting events, whether he’s helping the hockey team score another win or leading the student section in cheering on everything from intramural Frisbee to Co-ed Pickleball.

When he’s not assisting in the Chem Lab, he’s hiking through trails with his fellow Bio Ed majors. Pete helps out everywhere he goes.

His study sessions are the reason half the students in Physics I have passed, and his propensity for managing chaos is why the hockey team hasn’t run amok through campus. Yet.

He’s here on a full academic scholarship.

His GPA is 4.0.

When he graduates with dual degrees next December, he’s going to share his passion for science with hordes of angsty, moody, hormone-ridden middle schoolers.

Then he’ll stay late to coach the high school hockey team .

He volunteers at a wild animal rescue and treats his Gramma to breakfast once a week.

He even dresses up as Santa at the local toy drive.

He’s a lovable teddy bear.

A golden retriever no one can get enough of.

In fact, as far as I know, there’s only one person on this campus who’s not singing his praises and cheering him on from the sidelines.

But I have my reasons.

And it’s times like these that I really need to remember them. Because even though the man grates on my very last nerve, even though the mere thought of him can send me into a rage, even though I detest his privilege, his natural charisma, and his unflappable demeanor, I have to admit he’s hot.

So hot. I’ll never say it out loud, but Pete’s my catnip. He’s no Hollywood pretty boy. He’s not chiseled in granite. He’s not the kind of guy you see on the cover of a magazine unless you happen to subscribe to Lumbersnacks Monthly .

And if you do, please let me know where I can get a subscription.

Right now, he’s standing ten feet away from me and I’m doing my best not to stare.

It’s a losing battle, though. He’s wearing his standard uniform: basketball shorts, a BU Hockey tee with the sleeves cut off, and a backwards ball cap.

It’s not sexy. At least, it shouldn’t be.

Half the guys surrounding us are dressed in the same way, but none of them have me on the verge of swooning.

No. Not swooning. I don’t swoon. I scowl.

Giving my head a mental shake, I take a calming breath and relax as my features return to their natural state of resting bitch .

His gaze darts in my direction and I realize my fatal mistake.

The very first rule of hating someone from afar is that you have to keep your distance. (Hence the previously mentioned afar .) But I’ve been caught looking. Dammit.

Pete saunters toward me, and honestly, that shouldn’t even be possible.

Santos is six-four. His legs are like tree trunks.

The man doesn’t have hands. He has giant, meaty paws that match the rest of his hulking body.

Sauntering shouldn’t be in his wheelhouse.

But, like everything else at this damn school, he does it with ease.

“Need some help, Claire?” he asks, his straight, white teeth gleaming.

“You weren’t on the plane,” I blurt, because dammit, he wasn’t one of the hundred Bainbridge students who flew from Baltimore to Jacksonville early this morning for the minimester Marine Bio course.

I know he wasn’t. I’d have noticed. I swear my brain gets an alert when the man comes within a few hundred feet of me.

When I get a whiff of his woodsy cologne or hear his booming laugh, my body hears those little beeps that precede a storm warning.

It’s been this way since freshman year. I ignored it then, and I’m ignoring it now.

Over the past three and a half years, I’ve become a pro at ignoring Pete and concealing any effect he has on me.

“I was on a plane,” he says, chuckling. “Trust me, I didn’t walk to Florida from Maryland. I flew down a few days ago with the faculty and the other assistants.” Holding up his badge, he flashes another smile.

Pete Santos is perpetually cheerful and it’s nauseating.

He may be hot as hell, but that doesn’t mean I like him.

“You work here?” I ask, once again proving that the pathway from my brain to my lips has no filter .

He nods. “For the next two weeks, yes. I’ll be in the lab with Dr. Azarian and helping out with whatever they tell me to. I’ve done this trip a couple times, so if you need anything?—”

“I won’t,” I say, cutting him off. The day I ask Pete Santos for anything—any fucking thing—will be the day the zombies take over. And even then, I’d probably rather have undead corpses snack on my brain than accept help from Bainbridge’s favorite son.

To punctuate my point, I pull up the handle on my suitcase and stride toward the glass-walled building in front of me. I’m in Room 413, so all I need to do is find an elevator or stairway once I get inside.

“Claire,” Pete’s deep voice calls, but I ignore it.

I ignore him. He calls my name again and latent manners kick in, so I stop.

It takes him two steps to catch up to me, and when he does, he’s smiling.

I’m beginning to wonder if there’s something wrong with him.

I am not nice to him. I’m not even civil, but he’s still pleasant as fuck.

“That’s not your dorm,” he says, shaking his head and pointing at the building I was about to walk into.

“How do you know?” I ask. “I didn’t realize assistant duties came with the fringe benefit of stalking.”

He just rolls his eyes. “I have no clue what dorm you’re actually in, but I can pretty much guarantee you’re not staying in there.”

“Oh, really?” I challenge, cocking my head to the side and letting my hand settle on my hip.

“Yeah,” he confirms, annoyingly unaffected by my attitude. “That’s the dolphin enclosure. No one sleeps there. Except, you know, dolphins.”

I was never the kind of kid who played pretend.

I never wanted to live in a fantasy world, or be a princess, or anything like that.

I’m a journalist. I deal in facts. But right now, I wish to the depths of my soul that I could press a charm on my necklace or blink furiously or utter magic words and turn into a damn dolphin right before Pete’s very eyes.

I can’t of course, because…facts and reality. But I want to.

Instead, I settle for lifting my chin a little higher and shooting an icy glare his way.

Because, you know, when you look like an asshole, it’s totally appropriate to take the high road and pretend you don’t look like an asshole.

This is, in fact, the opposite of the advice I’d dish out in my weekly column for The Howler , which is further proof that Pete Santos brings out the worst in me.

“Whose class are you in?” he asks, unearthing a tablet from underneath his bulging bicep.

“Dr. Navarro’s,” I answer. “I’m in Lambert. 413 B. I know that much. I just don’t know where Lambert is.”

“Does it hurt?” he asks, his voice full of concern.

My brow furrows. “Does what hurt?”

“Admitting that you don’t know something,” he answers, that infuriating smile back in place.

I take a breath and release it, scratching an imaginary itch on my temple with my middle finger.

The bastard laughs.

“Lambert’s right down there on the left,” he says, pointing to a path filled with a gaggle of sorority girls and twice as many suitcases. “Pro tip: go around back. There’s an elevator there that hardly anyone uses. You’ll be strolling the beach before the Sig Delts unpack their luggage.”

I step toward the path before turning back to Pete. “Thanks,” I tell him. “For the directions and the tip.”

He nods, another smile playing at his lips.

“And before you ask, yes,” I mutter .

“Yes?”

“Yes, it hurt to thank you,” I admit, clutching my chest for dramatic effect.

Pete guffaws. “In that case, the infirmary’s two buildings down from there. You might be making a few visits considering that Dr. Navarro’s classes are on reef duty for the first rotation. And that’s my territory.”

This time, he’s the one who turns and strides away, leaving me to stare at his retreating form. And his thick, delectable ass.

Stupid Pete Santos. If I didn’t hate him, there’s a decent chance I’d be one of his adoring fans.

Luckily, I’ve been holding this grudge for more than three years and there’s not a chance in hell I’m letting it go.

“Hand to god, this room is even smaller than the one we shared freshman year,” I say to my best friend, Holland, as I pan my camera across the tiny space.

“That’s not possible,” she states. “Unless they put you in an actual closet, that’s not—holy crap, Claire, you might be right.”

I’m gratified by the horror in her tone.

“It won’t be so bad,” I say, grimacing as I glance around the room I’ll be sharing with Mandi Seiler for the next two weeks.

I don’t know Mandi well, but we had class together sophomore year and she never made my shit list, so that’s promising.

There’s not a trace of her in our shared room yet, but for all I know, she could still be waiting on that elevator downstairs.

“I mean, sure, only one of us can get out of bed at a time,” I tell Claire, “and Mandi and I have to share a dresser because there’s no closet, but it could definitely be worse. ”

“Could it?” Holland asks, aghast. My best friend has a shoe collection that could fill my temporary dorm room, so her concern tracks.

“Well, yeah. I mean, I’m living in a dollhouse, which kinda sucks, but it’s a dollhouse at the beach, so I can’t really complain. How’s the weather where you are?”

“Um… it’s cold. So cold. And it’s snowing,” she says, her voice trailing off as I hear her boyfriend’s low, rumbling laugh in the background. “Apparently,” Holland amends, clearing her throat, “it hasn’t snowed for two days. But it is really cold.”

“Yeah? Have you been bundling up when you go out walking in this cold, formerly snowy weather?” I joke.

“Of course,” she lies.