Page 27 of Trick Shot (Bainbridge Hockey #4)

Claire

W hen I walked into the Campus Life Office this morning, there was a knife on my desk.

It was a teeny tiny one made of fondant, and it was sticking out of the top of a cupcake frosted with blood red icing. This creepy treat was accompanied by a note that instructed me, in perfect penmanship, to Slay the Day.

As soon as I’d looked up from my desk, I could see Barb and Linda’s eyes on me. They were so proud of their hip lingo, and the cupcake was delicious.

I’m grateful the office ladies are firmly in my cheering section, but it’s not a popular place to be.

I don’t feel like walking through the Student Union right now, since every look I’m getting is a frosty glare, but part of this week’s task list is to take pictures for a charity calendar, so I’m here, camera bag in hand, following the signs that lead me to SU-231.

It’s easy enough to find, but the door is locked, so I settle myself onto a bench and scroll through my phone for a bit.

I’m about fifteen minutes ahead of schedule, but I’d like to start setting up so I’m not here all night.

Claire : Please tell me there’s something delicious in our fridge that I can eat for dinner. This day will not end, and I have a charity calendar shoot that’s supposed to start in a few minutes, but no one’s here yet, so I’ll probably be late.

Holland : You have a charity calendar shoot?

Claire : Yeah. It was on my task list for Campus Life. Please tell me my sweet and sour chicken is still in the fridge…you can’t see it, but I’m crossing my fingers.

Holland : What’s the charity?

Claire : It wasn’t listed.

Claire : Can I get an update on my leftovers?

Holland : You know what…I’m placing a brand-new order right now. You deserve fresh sweet and sour chicken (I’m also pretty sure Rosco ate yours for breakfast…just for that, he’s footing the bill and we’re getting spring rolls.)

Holland : And I’m making cookies.

Claire : Is there something you’re not telling me?

Holland : What? Of course not. Whatever do you mean?

Before I can interrogate my roommate, I hear footsteps on the stairs.

Tossing my phone in my bag, I stand and gather my camera equipment.

I’m banking on the hope that whoever’s trooping down the steps is the person I’m waiting for, and they’ve got the key.

Since there was no description of the organization, I can’t say I have any expectations, but when I see Ollie Jablonski and Bran Mikalski strut across the room in medieval garb, it’s safe to say that was not on my BINGO card.

“Claire, you made it,” Ollie says, like I’m the one who’s three minutes late. “Jenksy’s got the key, but he’s right behind us.”

“You’re not a charity,” I blurt.

Ollie flashes a dazzling smile. “Damn right, I’m not. But our housing fund is. Jenksy, you get lost?” he calls, turning toward the staircase.

Justin Jenkins slowly makes his way down the steps and across the room.

This guy’s so chill it’s like he’s moving in reverse.

Maybe he saves all his energy for the ice.

When he sees that I’m the photographer, he starts moving at an even slower pace.

Just when I’m about to pluck the damn key out of his hand, he twists it in the lock and the door swings open.

The space is sparse, but clean, and there’s plenty of room for me to set up my tripod and lights.

I’m just not sure I should. “Did you get approval for this?” I ask Ollie.

He shrugs noncommittally in response. “It’s better to ask forgiveness than permission, right?”

I sigh and begin unloading my gear. It’s probably a waste of time because I doubt the hockey team’s housing fund counts as a charity, but that’s not my call to make. This gig was on my task list, so I’ll snap some photos and be on my way.

Ollie, Mickey, and Jensky stroll back in and dump another load of boxes. How many photos do they think I’ll need to take? Is this a five year calendar or something?

“Okay,” Ollie says, “I think we’re just about ready to start. We just need to change our clothes, and Jenksy, can you bring in the fish tank?”

The taller man looks nervous. “The fishtank? I thought you said we didn’t need it?”

“I said we did need it,” he says, sighing as he turns to me. “We’ll be back in five, I swear.”

I don’t even argue. I just sit back down on my bench to wait. I’m halfway through an article in The Prentiss Report when I notice an imposing figure standing by the door.

And it’s not just any old figure. It’s a sexy-as-hell one I remember all too well.

“Your teammates went to get a fish tank, so the shoot’s going to start late,” I tell Pete, barely looking up from my phone. That man is just too damn tempting so instead of drooling on myself, I’m doing my best not to look at him.

“I’m not on the schedule for pictures tonight,” he says, folding his muscular arms across his chest.

“Then what the hell are you doing here?” I ran out of patience hours ago, not that I had much to begin with, so I don’t even try to censor the words before they leave my mouth. “I’m entirely capable of doing my job without you mansplaining photography to me.”

He smiles, and I swear I see a dimple peeking out from beneath his beard. “I know fuckall about photography. But I’d be happy to fill you in on what mansplaining is. I’ll simplify it for you, obviously.”

Damn him and his stupid charm. I roll my eyes to keep from grinning. “Thanks. So back to what the hell are you here for? Wait. Are you, like, my bodyguard?”

Instead of answering me, he puffs out his chest. “You think I couldn’t be a bodyguard?”

“You know you could,” I answer. “Your picture comes up under a google search of hot bouncer porn . Also sexy lumbersnack porn .” I’m not flirting with the man. I just don’t see any sense in lying.

“Good to know,” he says, like he’s filing this info away.

I unwind my long hair from its sloppy ponytail just to thread the strands through the elastic one more time.

“Seriously, if you’re here to protect me, kindly fuck off.

I can take care of myself. And for what it’s worth, if you think your teammates need a supervisor, then you’re leading a team of assholes. ”

Pete’s unfazed. “Oh, they one hundred percent need a supervisor. And they’re not assholes.

They’re good people. Still, that doesn’t mean someone won’t get their head caught in a stair rail or manage to light the place on fire.

And yes, both of those things have happened in the last year.

Besides, it’s not my guys I’m worried about. ”

Double damn him for being sweet. “Is this about what I said the other night? About how I deal with nasty glares and offhand comments daily? It’s not your concern. Like I said, I can handle my own shit.”

As if the universe has finally decided to take my side, a couple guys from the baseball team walk by. They glare at me, and I glare right back.

“No fucking doubt,” Pete agrees. “You could take Watkins and Goshorn in a fight if I’m being honest. But why should you have to? If I’m offering help, why turn it down?”

“Because I don’t play well with others, Pete,” I tell him honestly, hoping he can read between the lines.

“Because I’ve been handling my business by myself for twenty-two years and I’ve been doing just fine.

Because assholes are everywhere and unless you’re going to handcuff yourself to me, I’m going to have to deal with them eventually. Why delay the inevitable?”

Pete’s grin turns wolfish. “You had me at handcuff.”

I resist the urge to roll my eyes again.

“Look,” he says, “Everything you said the other day at Drip was a mindfuck, okay? It sent me reeling and I’ve already got shit going on at home and with the team, so my brain put two and two together and got nineteen.

” He leans against the wall and the action emphasizes his broad chest. I realize now that he’s dressed in a hoodie and basketball shorts.

I shouldn’t be surprised, that’s what he usually wears, but the temperature has dipped below freezing this week.

I blink and force my brain to abandon thoughts of his muscular chest and toned thighs. He’s talking and I should pay attention .

“For what it’s worth, I’m sorry. You were right. They never should have let me sit for that test. I’d like to say they knew my family was going through shit and I needed a way to go to school locally.”

I stare at him blankly because my brain is still in ogling mode when it needs to be locked in on what he’s telling me. He mistakes my vapid expression for misunderstanding, so he starts filling in the blanks.

“My mom got sick when I was in high school. It’s why we moved here, actually.

About a month or two after her breast cancer diagnosis, my dad split.

He used the excuse of traveling for work, but the truth is, he just couldn’t hack it as an actual husband and father.

As soon as things got rough, he was out.

My brothers are in high school now, but they were younger then, obviously, and Ma and I could only do so much.

Anyway, it made sense to move down here and stay with Gramma Dottie while Ma went through her treatments.

The plan was that we’d go back to Syracuse once chemo was over, and she kicked cancer’s ass.

She did, by the way. Twice now. She’s a total warrior, my mom. ”

He gets a sappy look on his face when he mentions his mother and I have the sudden and ridiculous urge to know if he resembles her or if he looks more like his dickbag of a father.