Page 14 of Trick Shot (Bainbridge Hockey #4)

Claire

A n hour later, I’m surrounded by drunk, half-naked college students. It’s nothing new, but the location has definitely changed. Instead of the cinderblock walls of the dormitory, I’m looking at framed artwork, overstuffed couches, and wall-to-ceiling windows.

It only took about ten minutes to walk here, but it feels like we are a world away from the brick buildings and campus atmosphere of Marine Academy.

The house we’re in sits in the middle of a row of beachfront homes.

Although, honestly, I think mansions might be a more applicable term.

The houses are as huge as they are opulent.

I grew up on the shore in New Jersey, and though there was definitely a rich section of town, nothing compared to the house I’m standing in right now.

Mandi and Reagan are hanging all over two guys from the baseball team.

Watching them grope each other is not my idea of fun, so I’m entertaining myself by looking at artwork on display.

My curious side is urging me to wander around the house, but I know I’ll just find people having sex in different positions and different rooms, so doing a gallery walk feels like the safest bet for passing the time.

I’m staring at a sculpture that appears to be a random tangle of lines and spheres, except for the fact that some of the spheres have spaces and some of the lines have hands and is that?—

“Yep, that’s exactly what you think it is,” a deep voice says from behind me.

“Is this also a sculpted dick?” I ask, pointing to another protruding piece of metal, this one smaller, but also a little wider.

Deep Voice Guy shrugs. “We’ve never figured out if that’s his dick,” he says, pointing to one of the faces, “or that other guy’s foot.”

“Given it a lot of thought?” I tease.

“Absolutely,” he says with a smile. “It’s actually a pretty divisive topic. Half my family is Team Foot, and the other half is Team Dick.”

I quirk my brow at him, tripped up by his words. “You live here?”

He laughs. “Nah, it belongs to my aunt and uncle. My folks have a place down on Marco Island, but since I’m doing the marine bio thing, I’m crashing here. I’m Kent, by the way.”

“I’m Claire.”

“Where’s your drink, Clara?” he asks. I don’t bother correcting him. I have no plans to become besties with Kent, so I really don’t care if he knows my name or not.

“I don’t drink from plastic cups at parties given to me by people I don’t know,” I say honestly. “I’m exactly as smart as I look.”

He laughs, but I’m not joking.

“Okay, okay,” he says, still chuckling as he holds his hands up. “Come into the kitchen. You can pour your own drink. We might even have individual bottles. Is that good news or is it bad for the environment?”

I roll my eyes. “Depends on the bottle.”

Kent looks at me like he’s not sure what to make of me, but since I get those kinds of looks a lot, it barely registers.

The kitchen is every bit as high-end as the rest of the house. It’s all white marble and stainless steel. It’s cleaner than I expect it to be, but then again, there’s probably a cleaning service that comes by daily. Or hell, maybe there’s a live-in maid.

Kent opens the fridge and pulls out a bottle of beer like it’s a trophy and sets it on the pristine counter.

“Here, I can?—”

Kent doesn’t need to finish his sentence. I’ve already opened my beer using the handy-dandy little beer-top thingy on the side of the island.

“A woman who can take care of her own needs,” he says, nodding his head. “I like that.”

I have the distinct feeling he doesn’t actually like that at all, but he’s not wrong. I can take care of all my own needs. Or at least, I could, until this afternoon. Until Pete Fucking Santos.

So, Clara,” he says, drawing out the name he thinks is mine and letting his eyes roam slowly over my body. My cut-off shorts and navy tank don’t scream seduction, but that’s not stopping Kent from going for the pitch. “What’s your major?”

I want to say Women’s Studies so bad just to see his reaction, but the truth flies off my tongue before I can stop it. “Journalism, with a minor in photography.”

His smile reveals gleaming white teeth. His orthodontist should be pleased. It doesn’t measure up to a certain person’s smile, but that’s not important right now .

“That’s really cool. Have you read our school’s paper? There’s actually some good stuff in it.”

He’s leaning against the counter now, and I suspect that he’s going for cool and casual.

His broad chest fills out his fitted white tee-shirt.

He’s not overly muscled, but it’s clear he knows his way around the gym.

I wonder if insulting a girl’s major usually works as a pick-up line.

I mean, really. Did he think that conceding that The Howler manages to crank out some “good stuff” was going to have me swooning?

And if I’m majoring in Journalism, isn’t it pretty much a given that I’ve read our school’s newspaper?

He mistakes my silence for an invitation to keep talking. “I actually have a buddy who works at the paper. He’s a junior like I am. His name’s Mitch Silvis. I can put in a good word for you.”

Puzzle pieces are falling into place. Mitch the Bitch Silvis is by far the most annoying junior staffer.

And since he writes editorials, he’s in my section and under my supervision.

It’s on the tip of my tongue to put Kent in his place and tell him Bitchy Mitchy is the reason I sometimes hate my job, but my mind is quick enough to stop my mouth this time.

One of the things that writing for a newspaper has taught me is the value of staying quiet.

I’ve found that the less I say, the more people talk.

“When we get back to campus, I could take you over to the newspaper office and introduce you to Mitch. Just a thought.”

“I would love that,” I answer, because good lord, is it the truth.

“I’m a Finance major. I’ll probably get an internship with my uncle’s firm this summer. It’s in Manhattan.”

“The uncle who collects dick sculptures?” I can’t keep the smile off my face .

“My aunt’s the art collector, but yeah. Have you ever been to New York City?”

“I went on a school trip to see the Statue of Liberty once,” I say, the half-truth rolling off my tongue. I really did take a trip to Staten Island in seventh grade. Granted, it only took an hour from my house in White Plains to get there, but Kent never asked where I’m from.

Kent starts droning on about all the places in the city he’d love to take me to, half of which are total tourist traps, so I zone out for a minute, absently running my fingers across the cool marble of the kitchen island.

“It’s nice, huh?” he asks, smoothing his palm over the surface I just touched. “My folks’ place is even nicer. It’s a little more modern than this place.”

“You’re not exactly slumming it here, Kent,” I joke. “How are you allowed to stay here, anyway? I thought all the marine bio students had to stay in the dorms at the academy.”

Kent’s patronizing smile makes me think he’s about to let me down gently and tell me Santa isn’t real. “If you know the right people, the rules can bend a little. You know what I mean?”

“No, what do you mean?” I ask, proud of myself for keeping a straight face.

“Let’s just say that there are gray areas.”

“What else is a gray area?” I ask, leaning in and picking up my beer.

“It might be too late to give you this tip, but there are certain professors you want for marine bio and certain professors to avoid.”

“Which ones? I have Navarro, and she’s pretty nice.”

He winces. “Rookie mistake. Navarro and Azarian are on the no-go list. Lipman and Trostle are the ones you want. ”

I nod, like I’m mentally taking notes. Which, I guess I am. “Are their lectures really good?”

Kent finishes his beer and sets it down on the counter. “Yeah, they’re phenomenal. You know why? They’re basically optional. I’ve barely been to class all week.”

I shake my head. “That might be fun now, but how are you going to get credit for the course?”

The only word I can think of to describe his smile is slimy .

He’s giving off lizard vibes when he looks at me and says, “The portfolio. You know that binder they’re making us log all our data into?

There are a couple old copies from previous semesters floating around.

People just copy those and turn them in for credit.

The profs never know. They change some stuff, but it’s easy to find the answers.

But there’s an even better way. You know Mandi, right?

” he asks, pointing at my roommate. God, this guy is clueless. I literally walked in with her tonight.

“Yeah, we’ve met,” I say.

His voice gets quieter, like he’s letting me in on a little secret. “Her roommate’s a real bitch, I guess, but she’s also a straight-A student. So, Mandi just copies her stuff over. We’re all gonna pass with flying colors this year.”

I have nothing to say to that. My jaw is literally hanging open.

“I know, right? Fuckin’ brilliant. “

“You’re a genius,” I say, masking the sarcasm in my voice. “So, if I was able to skip one of Navarro’s classes, all I’d have to do is ask Mandi for her binder so I could get the answers?”

Kent looks me up and down and the way his eyes linger at my breasts makes me want to puke, but I’ve come this far and I’m sure as shit not leaving without an answer to my question.

“We don’t pass the binder to just anybody,” he says, his words dripping with lechery, “but Mandi doesn’t hang onto it. It’s too risky, and like I said, her roommate’s a total bitch. Shane’s got it now, I think, but if you want some of the answers, just ask me.”

“You wouldn’t mind sharing?” My eyes are wide with utter disbelief for what these fucknuggets are up to, but I’m hoping my look reads as hopeful and horny.

“I don’t share with just anyone, but I feel like I can trust you.”

“You can tell me anything,” I say, because even though I want to kick him in his balls, I also want him to spill all the details about this stupid scheme.

You want another beer?” he asks.

I’ve barely touched the one he gave me, but if it’ll keep him talking, I’ll let him open all the beers he wants.

Just as I say yes, though, there’s a burst of noise and we look behind us to see half a dozen people spill through the doorway.

A tall brunette looks hungrily at Kent and he returns the look before sparing a glance back at me.

“I should go say hello. Some of my frat brothers just got here. But if you want to meet up sometime about that binder, let me know. Mandi has my number.”

Fuck. I’m being dismissed and the last thing I want to do is attract attention. Kent might not know who I am, but I recognize a few faces here, and I’d rather they not notice me. “I totally will, thanks,” I say. “Oh, and is there a bathroom I can use?”

“Down the hall and to the left,” he says, pointing in that direction as he walks away from me and toward the brunette.

I take his directions and find the bathroom easily.

Locking the door behind me, I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and count to ten so I don’t lose my shit, punch the mirror, and break my hand.

That. Fucking. Bitch . And those assholes.

All of them. My body is vibrating with anger, so when my phone buzzes with a text, it takes a moment for my brain to catch on.

Reagan : These guys are so hot. And they have a hot tub. Double the hot. We’re going skinny dipping. You should come!

I can think of a dozen reasons I don’t want to go skinny dipping with Mandi and her crew right now, but instead of texting back that I don’t feel like going to prison for drowning anyone, I tell a little fib.

Claire : Met a hottie of my own! I’m heading back to the dorms with him.

Reagan: Get it!

I should probably feel guilty for lying, but then I remember Kent’s little revelation about how Mandi’s stealing my work and sharing it with half the students on this trip. Yeah, I’m not the asshole in this scenario.

A small part of me is tempted to go out to the hot tub and confront Mandi right now.

The look of shock on her face would be pretty satisfying.

But it would also be fleeting. And if I reveal my hand too soon, there could be details I’m missing.

What if I’m not the only student whose work is being swiped and distributed?

And are the other professors choosing to be blind?

Are they even aware of anything that happens here?

There’s more to the story, and I’m not stopping until I have the answers.