Page 33 of Trick Shot (Bainbridge Hockey #4)

Pete Santos is hot in his requisite hoodie and shorts.

He’s on fucking fire when he’s shirtless .

But in dark jeans and a button down? Holy. Fuck. I love him messy, but the man cleans up good.

“You’re drooling. You know that, right?” Holland asks as we cross the street.

I swipe at my lip and then shoot her a glare when I get nothing but my lip gloss.

“The fact that you had to check,” she says with a laugh.

I use my middle finger to smear my gloss back into place, but that only makes her laugh harder. And when she looks up to see the name emblazoned on the side of the building we’re going into, she bursts out into uncontrollable giggles.

The guys can’t hide their laughter either.

“How did you hear about this place?” I ask, staring openly at the sign that says

Putt Stuff in giant letters. Sure, there are mini golf clubs adorning the sign, but there are also two golfers who both have considerable junk in their respective trunks.

“Ollie suggested it,” Rosco says, folding Holland into a hug before debauching her with an indecent kiss. I live with her, and Rosco stays over enough that I’m confident this kiss is the first of many pornographic delights of the night.

Pete and I stare at each other for a minute before realizing we should probably be doing the same thing, though sadly without the X-rating.

I step forward, sure our embrace will be awkward and clumsy, but it’s not.

It’s so damn natural that I have to remind myself this connection between us isn’t real.

He’s doing me a favor. It’s a favor I’m not entirely convinced I need, but I’m too smart to pass it up.

A car horn honks on the street below, jolting the four of us back to reality. We pay at the entrance and pick up our clubs and balls. Okay, the name tracks. If I were to open a minigolf-themed bar, I’d probably go for the low-hanging fruit, too.

We don’t get a golf cart, but we do get a drink cart that’s all decked out. There are custom cut cup holders for the guys’ drinks, even though they’re both sticking with water tonight, and specialized ones for our martinis. They might be in season, but we’re not.

The first few holes are fun. Holland played actual golf in high school, and her skills definitely transfer.

There’s no doubt Rosco and Pete play a sport where the point is getting a small object into a specific spot, but hockey nets are a lot wider than the holes on minigolf courses, so there’s a bit of a learning curve.

As for me, the only special skill I bring to the party is my competitive nature.

If I’m not here to win, what’s the point of playing?

It’s a character trait that sends a lot of guys running.

It took me about ten minutes to figure out my date had ditched me mid-game at a pool hall last spring.

At least he settled the tab before he split.

Strangely enough, Pete seems to like it. When I knock Rosco’s ball wide, he gives me a high-five. And when I do the same to his ball at the next hole, he lets out a tamed-down version of his signature howl.

There’s a bit of a bottleneck at hole number four, so we chill with our cart and drink up.

Admittedly, the concept is clever. Holland’s helping Rosco with his swing, but really, she’s just touching her man’s ass.

He seems pretty happy with the lesson, though, so I take a sip of my drink and brainstorm conversations to start with Pete.

I could ask him about the season, but I know they’re doing well.

I should ask about his mom, but if tonight is a distraction for him, I don’t want to bring him down.

I finally settle on Van’s recovery as a safe topic, but when I turn toward Pete, he’s no longer standing beside me.

I’m not sure when he slid into position behind me, but when I hear his whispered, “This okay?” in my ear, I nod. We are in public, after all. He wraps his arms around me and though it’s only the second time he’s wrapped me up in one of his reverse bear hugs, and I’m already addicted to it.

“Are you having fun kicking our asses?” he asks, and I can hear the smile in his voice.

“Putting men in their place is one of my favorite things to do.”

“You’re really fucking good at it,” he says, and when I turn to see his face, I’m gratified to find no trace of animosity there.

Pete Santos is a guy who’s secure enough in himself that he’s not threatened by me.

It’s refreshing and I’m beginning to think the grudge I nursed for years might have cheated me out of having a really good friend.

One who happens to be built like a damn grizzly bear, which I find so damn hot.

One who’s funny as hell but doesn’t always need to be the center of attention.

One who seems to get me in a way few people do.

Before I fall down a rabbit hole of self-recrimination, Pete’s got his hands on my shoulders and he’s turning me to face him.

“I love your shoes,” he says, and I smile in response.

“Most guys don’t, if you can believe it,” I tell him.

Bless his heart, he looks genuinely confused. “Do the guys you date generally have opinions on your shoes? Because what I love about these is that they add to your already perfect height. They make it even easier for me to kiss you, if that’s something you’d be interested in. ”

“If that’s what you want to do, then I think you should do it.”

He tastes the last words on my lips as his mouth devours mine.

Our bodies are pressed together and while I may not have a distinct memory of flattening myself to his broad chest like he’s a pancake and I’m the gooey syrup whose sole purpose in life is to cover him, I’m not mad about it.

When he tilts his hips up just enough for me to feel the bulge in his jeans, my mouth opens on a gasp, granting him even better access.

Our kiss is interrupted when we hear hoots and hollers from a few holes back. Pete breaks our connection long enough for both of us to turn and see Toad and a bunch of guys from the baseball team.

My first inclination is to make a crude gesture, but I am in public and though there aren’t any kids around, I’m still a fucking lady.

Kinda. Instead of sending the batboys the universal signal to mind their own damn business, I get right back to what I was doing because I like kissing Pete.

I like it way too much, but while the pretense exists, I’d be a fool not to take advantage of it.

Rosco clears his hypocritical throat, and Pete and I loosen our hold on one another so we can play the next hole.

“Has campus security done anything to find the dickbags who vandalized your car?” Rosco asks.

I shake my head in response. “Not much. They told me that they’re working on it, but that they’re really backed up right now, so I need to be patient.”

Pete and Rosco share a look and though I can decipher it, there’s no doubt they’ve come to some conclusion.

“Well, that’s both infuriating and depressing,” Holland announces, adjusting her stance before shimmying her hips and striking the ball.

We all watch as it sails over the bridge, drops into a little cup on the back of a windmill, and races toward the flag at the back of the hole, marking Holl’s third hole-in-one.

Rosco kisses her in celebration and when their lips have been locked long enough that I’m about to clear my throat, Holland steps back so we can finish the round.

“I think someone in our group has some good news, though, right?” she prompts with an exaggerated wink and a jiggle of her elbow.

Ugh. I do have really good news, but it’s not exactly the kind of information that will have the guys jumping for joy.

All eyes turn to me, so I have no choice but to share with the class. “ The Prentiss Report liked my article,” I say.

I know Holland’s clapping and I’m sure Rosco offers his congratulations, but I’m looking right at Pete. “ The Prentiss Report ?” he asks.

“Yeah. It’s an online publication that?—”

“I know what it is, Claire. Everybody here knows what it is. They liked the article you wrote about the minimester program? That’s amazing.”

Once again, I search for a trace of anger or an edge of any kind, but I don’t find it. “One of their writers, Leslie Wheeler, gave it a like yesterday. That was pretty wild. I’ve read all of her stuff, and getting a thumbs up from her felt like a stamp of approval, or something.”

“But it doesn’t stop there,” Holland chimes in because she’s appointed herself my permanent cheerleader. This is what happens when an extrovert finds an introvert and selects them as a bestie.

‘There’s more?” Pete asks, sounding genuinely excited.

“They reached out to me. Well, Leslie’s assistant, Garrett, did. I guess she liked what she read, and she wants to see more of my work. ”

“Claire, that’s huge,” Pete tells me as he wraps me in a hug that doesn’t feel like it’s for show. “Why didn’t you lead with that? We should be celebrating.”

“There’s nothing to celebrate quite yet,” I tell him. “She could hate everything I’ve sent over.”

“Not a chance,” he assures me. “I read ‘Am I the Dumbass’ when it drops every week, and I know more than half the campus does the same.”

For a moment, I’m stunned silent. “When did you start reading my column?”

“The week after you started writing it. I never had time to look at the paper, but when everyone was talking about it a couple years ago, I got a hold of it before I even knew you were the author. Two lines in, and I recognized your snark. The byline confirmed what I already suspected, and that was it. I was hooked.”

“I treated you like my enemy. Why would you read my column?”

“Because it’s good,” he says simply. “Because I didn’t know what I’d done that was so wrong, but I knew I wanted to fix it.”

Before I can dwell on Pete’s words, Holland’s ordered shots for the two of us because she thinks we need to celebrate the fact that I’m on Prentiss’s radar.

Talk turns to the hockey team, and there’s a lot to discuss.

The guys are making a run for the championship, Kaden and Sophie are getting married, and JT and Maggie are going to be parents.

I’m sucked into the conversation and that’s fine by me because the alternative is thinking about what Pete said, and that’s a dangerous place to go.

Pete’s a guy I know. He’s my fake boyfriend.

He’s a hockey player who’s doing me a favor.

If I think of him as anything else, I might risk losing my heart to him, and that’s a chance I can’t take.