Page 32 of Trick Shot (Bainbridge Hockey #4)

“Okay…” he drawls. “I’ll take the look on your face as a no. You aren’t coming to all the team’s games because you have a list of people to murder, and your schedule is hectic as hell. Do I have that right?”

I brush imaginary crumbs from my fuzzy sweater before chewing, swallowing, and wiping my mouth. Damn him for being funny. Damn him for looking so good and smelling so yummy. “Aren’t hockey players notorious for smelling like the inside of a gym locker? Why don’t you stink?”

My abrupt subject change doesn’t make him flinch. Instead of playing the part of a sugary sweet, adoring girlfriend, I’m doubling down on the attitude. Dammit. He throws me off my game. It’s hard enough for me to be fake about anything, but it’s impossible around Pete Santos.

“Our hockey bags are pretty foul,” he admits.

“But I like to go out in public, so I shower daily. Usually twice. I use soap every single time in every single place, and,” he says, his voice softening to a whisper like he’s telling me a secret, “I can’t take all the credit for smelling delicious. It’s mostly the beard oil.”

When he strokes his jaw and lets his fingers trail over his freshly trimmed beard, my inner thighs clench.

Damn. This. Man. He is the burly, cinnamon-roll woodsman in every holiday romance I’ve ever binged, and he’s right in front of me.

Practically mine for the taking. I mean, none of it would be real, but for the sake of the lie we’re telling, he’d probably let me feel him up.

“Anytime you want, Claire,” he says taking a sip of his coffee as I process the fact that I spoke those words out loud.

His smile is hungry, wolfish, and that makes the situation between my legs worse. He might be a flannel-covered golden retriever hero, but he’s not so sweet underneath. There’s an edge to Pete. It’s one I had a glimpse of back in Florida, and one I want more of.

“I’ll be at all your home games, and I’ll travel with the team some, too.” I tell him, proud of myself for sticking to the facts instead of leaping over this table and crawling into his lap to see if he’s half as affected by me as I am by him.

Judging from the heavy look in his eyes, I’d say yes.

I’m not sure if our mutual lust-fueled attraction makes this fake dating thing that much harder or that much easier, but I can’t ignore it. I can’t pretend like it’s not obvious.

“Good,” he says, clearing his throat and shifting in his seat.

He pushes his empty plate aside and reaches for his laptop.

“Since we need to be visible, we should do more stuff like this. What time do youeat lunch and dinner at the dining hall? I eat with the guys, but we can make it work. And once Van’s off his crutches, he and I are moving out of Gramma’s and into the Brain Trust.”

I blink in surprise. “You’re moving into my dorm?”

“Technically, it’s my dorm, too,” he says, and he’s right.

The honors dorm, or the Brain Trust, as somebody coined it back in the day, is reserved for students in the honors track, many of whom are Legacy Scholars.

“I could have lived there freshman year,” he explains, “but I chose the athletic dorm so I could room with Van. We met at training that summer and hit it off. Plus, if guys bond off the ice, they’ll gel better on it. ”

“You all gel so well that your house got condemned,” I quip.

“Sad, but true. When I started looking for places for all of us to go, I found out a couple guys graduated in December and vacated a first-floor suite at the Brain Trust. I snagged it right away, and I got Van cleared to live there. I know he’s not part of the program,” Pete says, “but because of his recent surgery, he’s got to have accessible housing. ”

He’s a little defensive, and I bristle in return.

“Relax. Do you think I’m going to write a scathing article about that?

I’m a sucker for fairness, but I’m not an asshole.

Van needs a first-floor room, so I’m glad there was one free for him.

That’s not cheating the system. It’s not injustice.

I can tell the difference between accommodations and unwarranted privilege. ”

“Sorry,” he says, his cheeks turning rosy. “I get a little protective when it comes to Van. He’s my best friend.”

“I get that,” I say, thinking of Holland and how I’ll knock the teeth out of anyone who looks at her funny. Maybe Pete and I have more in common than I thought.

“So, we’ll be living in the same place soon. That will be convenient,” he says, causing his cheeks to bloom again. I mean, we’re both busy, so living in the same dorm will make it easier to be seen together.”

“Right,” I agree, forcing my mind not to think about living two floors away from Pete and how tempting that will be.

“Should we lay down some ground rules?” he asks, turning his attention back to his screen.

My phone chimes, reminding me that it’s time to go, so I drop some money on the table and gather up my bag. “Sorry, I need to go. I have a…thing.”

“A ‘thing’? Yeah, that doesn’t sound suspicious at all. ”

Shrugging on my coat, I relent. “Have you ever read ‘Taryn Tries It’ in The Howler ?”

Pete shakes his head. “I only read one thing in the paper, and that’s not it.”

I have no doubt he’s a sports page junkie, but I keep going. “Well Taryn tried snowboarding and broke her ass.”

“Speaking as a bio major, I’m concerned.”

“Fine. Her tailbone. Anyway, that means I have to cover her ass at the paper while her literal ass heels.”

He can’t keep the smile off his face. “I can now look forward to reading ‘Claire Tries It’?”

“I’m still negotiating the title. “I think ‘Claire Conquers It’ has a much better ring.”

Pete looks me up and down as I stand up and sling my bag over my shoulder. “Yeah, I can’t think of a better title.”

I leave the coffee shop having realized a few things.

The first is that I’m not immune to Pete Santos, his yummy pheromones, or his playful smile.

The second is that we never made any rules.

Two days later, I’m buckling myself into Holland’s car on my way to our double date.

Rosco and Pete are meeting us at a new bar that just opened up right outside of town.

We spent the afternoon in spa mode and we both look pretty damn hot.

Holland is effortlessly gorgeous with her honey blonde hair and peaches-and-cream skin.

Her curvy body looks sexy in everything, but especially in the hip-hugging jeans and low-cut top she’s wearing.

I don’t have the same bangin’ body to showcase, but my wide-leg jeans and off-the-shoulder sweater look pretty good, if I do say so myself.

The best part of my outfit is my platform suede slides.

They’re where comfort meets fashion, but they also make me two inches taller.

I never mind being the tallest person in the room, but it bothers a lot of guys.

That’s not a problem with the mountain of a man I’m going out with tonight.

“This is so perfect,” she squeals, drumming her hands on the steering wheel at a red light. Can you believe we’re both dating hockey players?”

“Uh, no,” I answer honestly. “Because we’re not. You know that my thing with Pete is fake.”

“Is it?” she asks, her brow arched.

“Yes,” I answer. “All the yes.”

“Does it have to be?” She says, sailing through a green light.

“Yes,” I repeat. “No question.”

Holl pins me with a look only a bestie can give, then turns her eyes back on the road.

“Come on. I have frosted the man out. I verbally pelt him with insults every time we’re in the same vicinity,” I remind her, though Pete’s comment during our breakfast at the diner keeps rattling around in my head.

Anytime you want, Claire . That’s what he said when I blurted out how much I’d like to feel him up.

Was he serious? Or just teasing? Would he really be open to picking up where we left off in Florida?

He seemed to want to start things up after we got back to campus, but that was before he read my article.

“It’s true, you do,” she says. “But I was frosty to Ryan for most of our childhood and look at us now. Besides, Pete seems pretty into this fake dating thing. When I saw him at Drip yesterday and told him about the double date with Rosco and me, he didn’t even blink. He just asked when and where.”

“You’re mistaking obligation for enthusiasm,” I say, unsure if I’m trying to convince her or myself. “He’s fake dating me because Ollie set it in motion, and he’s worried about me.

“Right, right. The goodness of his heart and all that,” Holland says, and without even looking, I can tell she’s rolling her eyes.

“Claire, this is the same guy who banged your brains out a couple weeks ago. He gave you orgasms, something no other man on this campus has done, and now you need to convince the world you’re a couple. Indulge a little.”

I glance at my phone to check the time. We’re almost there. “It’s not a good idea. I don’t need a dick.” Again, I’m not sure whom I’m trying to convince.

Holland’s unbothered. “I don’t need ice cream, but when the frosty freeze is open, there’s nothing wrong with going in to have a lick.”

I laugh. “That doesn’t even make sense.”

“It’s a metaphor,” she tells me. “You’re a writer. You should know this.”

“A metaphor for what? A blowjob parlor?”

She ignores me as she parallel parks like a champ. My bestie is the shit. “We are getting off track,” she says, turning off the car and reaching for her crossbody. “I’m just saying that if you decide to ditch the fake part of dating, I’ll support you.”

I pull up the parking app and start our session before exiting the car.

“That’s crazy. It’s a distraction I don’t need.

” I repeat the words I’ve been telling myself since breakfast yesterday.

“We’re only in school a few more…” My words trail off because my mouth dries up.

That’ll happen when you walk down the street and stumble across the hottest man to ever exist.