Page 21 of Trick Shot (Bainbridge Hockey #4)

I hear Andy sigh as I end the call. It’s a great title. He’ll warm up to it. Before I start my walk up to the third floor of the library, I tap out a quick text because I need something good to look forward to.

Claire : Are we still on for tonight?

Russ : Looking forward to it. The Gatehouse at 7? You sure you don’t want me to pick you up ?

Claire : I don’t need a ride, but thanks. See you tonight.

If Andy’s right and half of campus is about to turn on me, I might as well enjoy a relaxing evening out before the shit hits the fan.

I’ve been on my fair share of bad dates. At senior prom, I caught my then-boyfriend with his pants down behind a trophy case in the school lobby. A girl he told me he was “just friends” with was on her knees in front of him sucking on his lollipop-sized dick. That wasn’t a great night.

I got food poisoning after meeting a date for sushi at the mall freshman year, but I can’t blame Owen entirely. I chose to eat seafood at a strip mall, so I’ll take half the blame. The coma-inducing conversation is all his fault, though.

Last fall, I went to a football game in DC with a guy from one of my classes.

He was cute and it was fun to watch a pro game, but he got sort of twitchy by half time.

Then he started ignoring me and spent the rest of the game glued to his phone.

After I came out of the restroom to find him gone, I figured out he had a decent amount of money riding on the outcome of the game and when his team lost in spectacular fashion, he bolted so he wouldn’t have to pay up.

So, I know a thing or two about bad dates.

But the one I’m on right now is the worst.

Russ looks nothing like his profile pic.

Granted, mine is outdated, too, but the only thing that’s changed about me in the last six months is the color of my hair.

I went through a red phase, and while it was fun, I don’t have time for that kind of maintenance, so I switched back to blonde.

But Russ? Either he’s had a rough few years or he bought that pic on a stock photo website.

He must have poured cologne on himself, and he keeps reaching into his jacket pocket and taking hits off his vape like I won’t notice.

And if that man thinks he’s coming anywhere near my lips with that fuzzy caterpillar of a mustache, he’s got another think coming.

The worst part is, we’ve only been here for fifteen minutes.

Our server brings the drinks we ordered, and I take a sip.

Andy was right that the majority of campus did not take kindly to my article.

When I went home to change for my date, I could feel angry eyes on me for every step of the walk.

Holland and I have the requisite whiteboard hanging on the door of our suite, and she routinely decorates it with little drawings of us alongside our names.

In a nod to the January weather, she had us bundled up in scarves and hats, sipping hot cocoa while standing next to a snowman. It was adorable.

Some asshole added their own stamp to it—with permanent marker—and now Holland and the snowman are sipping on cocoa while I’m being hanged on a nearby tree branch. Nice.

This date is not making my day any better, but at least I get a lavender martini out of it.

If things continue to go south, I’ll test my code word to Holland, and she’ll call with an “emergency” a few minutes later.

I doubt I’ll make it all the way to the entrée, so I ask for the brie crostini appetizer.

Russ arches his eyebrows, so I arch mine right back.

He goes for another “secretive” hit of his vape as I smile at the waiter and ask for a drink refill when he gets a chance.

The guy gives me a knowing look that says he has my back.

“Rough day for the market, huh?” I ask. I have no clue what kind of day the market had, but Russ advertised himself as a finance bro and I’m calling his bluff. He straightens in his seat and his eyes widen a bit.

“Yeah, it was a tough one, but we’ll recover,” he says, like Wall Street is a football team who went up against a tough opponent.

“How do you like Bainbridge so far?” he asks. “I did my undergrad at Pembroke, but I had some friends at BU.”

If Russ’s profile is accurate, which I highly doubt, he’s only two years older than I am, so it’s weird that he’s tossing around a word like “undergrad,” but in the grand scheme of this date, that’s the least of his offenses.

“I love Bainbridge,” I tell him, taking another swallow of my drink. “I graduate this spring and though I’m ready for the next step, I’m sure I’ll miss it in a lot of ways.”

“I feel that,” he says, running a hand through his overly-long hair.

It’s not long the way Pete’s is, either.

Pete has unruly curls that just can’t be contained and his hair and beard and barrel chest all work together for a lumberjack effect.

Not that I’m thinking about Pete right now.

I’m just comparing hairstyles. Russ needs a trim, that’s all there is too.

And someone needs to wax that pathetic mustache off his upper lip, too.

Our server is back a minute later with my order and I don’t hesitate to take a bite. While Russ drones on about his glory days at Pembroke, I drown out his exaggerated escapades with gooey cheese and crunchy bread.

“Hey, I wanted to ask you something,” he says, and I’m momentarily surprised the man has the capacity to think. About other people long enough to brainstorm a question, but I blink back my surprise, and nod for him to continue.

“Didn’t you say you write for the school paper?

My buddy’s brother is on the baseball team, and he sent me this article,” he says, setting his phone on the table so I can read it.

I don’t even glance at his phone, though, because I can guess what’s on it.

Instead, I just take another sip of my drink.

“I can’t believe they’d print this shit,” he says, nodding to his phone. “Do you know this bitch? Is she crazy?”

“You want to know if I know this bitch?” I ask, wiping the edges of my mouth with my linen napkin before setting it back on the table.

“Yeah,” he answers, reaching for his beer. His eyes glisten like he’s about to get the scoop and he can’t wait to tell his buddy.

“I am that bitch,” I say, scooting out of the booth.

It takes him a minute to process what’s happening, so I decide to help him out.

“You know my name’s Claire, right? Well, I’m the same Claire Fowler who wrote the expose on the corrupt practices of Bainbridge Athletics.

It’s been a terrible date, Russ, and I hope you have the life you deserve. ”

Without a backward glance, I walk out of the dining room and stop at the reservation desk long enough to grab my coat and drop off a tip for my server.

It doesn’t take long to walk back to campus, but that might be because my anger is fueling every step. I texted Holland to tell her I was coming home early and when I open the door to our suite, I’m unsurprised to see Ryan Roscowitz sprawled on our couch.

Holland’s five feet away, in our little kitchenette.

She reaches into the fridge to hand me a spiked raspberry lemonade and then nods to our air fryer.

“The cookies will be ready in three minutes, my love,” she says, looking at me and not Rosco.

“I’m sorry your date sucked, but you look hot, for what it’s worth. ”

Dammit, I do look hot. It’s fucking freezing out there, but this skirt makes my legs look a mile long, so I paired it with low-heeled boots and an off-the-shoulder sweater.

I shrug off my coat before popping open the drink she gave me.

“My day sucked whale balls. That was the worst date anyone has ever been on, and everyone on campus hates me,” I say, setting the drink down on the coffee table without even bothering to take a sip.

I’m so frustrated right now that I’m afraid I’d crush the can if I hold onto it any longer.

“Everyone does not hate you,” Holland says, opening the air fryer door to check on the cookies. She might technically be right, but that’s only because the article’s only been live for a few hours.

I let my gaze drift to her hockey player boyfriend who’s been silent since I got home. “Settle the argument, Rosco. Is Holl right and only a few people are pissed at me, or am I right that everyone on campus is contributing to a please-fund-me so I can transfer out of here?”

The big blonde center doesn’t hesitate. “Holl’s always right, and she’s right this time, too. Not everyone hates you.”

His words should be comforting, but I don’t buy them. And I’m not one for coddling. I’m a rip-the-bandage-off kinda gal. “And what about you? Do you hate me?” I ask him.

To his credit, Rosco doesn’t back down or slink off to his own room.

He looks me right in the eye. “Why would I hate you, Claire? Because your article opened a can of worms that’s gonna have the dean scrutinizing every athletic program down to the finest detail?

Or because one of my best friends fell ass over blades for you and you were out on a date with some asshole instead of the best guy we know? ”

His questions leave me speechless, which is rare. “Wait, Pete doesn’t?—”

Rosco shakes his head. “Your article and your personal life are your business, Claire. I don’t hate you, but I sure as shit don’t like your choices. Christ, now I sound like my mom.”

I crack a smile as Holland brings over a plate of cookies. I take one, and so does Rosco.

“You know what I am pissed about?” he asks, his eyes focused on mine again. “You ate all the gummy fish. Dammit, Claire, I’m an athlete. I need protein. Those fish were mine.”

I can’t help it. For the first time since Andy called about my article, I laugh.