Page 34 of Trick Shot (Bainbridge Hockey #4)

Pete

D on’t they say a blank screen is a writer’s worst enemy? Well, if they do, they’re correct. The empty text message on my phone is maddening enough to make me want to drink. Huh. Maybe this is why half the great writers of the last century succumbed to alcoholism.

I have no idea what to text Claire, but I know I have to write something because my whole family is expecting her at Gramma Dottie’s for dinner tomorrow night, which means I need to invite her.

I’d rather re-take my Organic Chem final than type out a few words, send them off into the cybersphere, and hope they land the way I want them to.

In all fairness, I aced the O Chem test, but still.

This text is harder to write than my final paper for Renaissance Lit.

That shit took hours, but I pulled it together and earned an “A”. That’s the energy I need right now.

I’ve got to get this just right. Dating Claire might be a ruse, but spending time with her isn’t something I’m going to take for granted.

It’s not that I expect this to go anywhere, but if she decides she wants to level up, I’m sure as hell gonna be ready.

That’s why I’ve got to nail the wording of this text.

Something tells me I’ve got one shot with Claire— if that —and if I blow it, there’s no takesy-backsies.

Running my hand through my unruly hair, I tug at the strands as though that will get my creative juices flowing. It’s not working, and I’m gripping my phone so damn tightly I’m in danger of cracking the screen.

“Have no fear, the love doctor is here.”

I look up to see Ollie settling into the seat next to me as though I invited him. I didn’t.

We won both games against Mountville this weekend, but our return bus trip feels like it’s taking forever.

Or maybe that’s just because I’m tweaking over a stupid text.

I’m about to tell him that he’s “helped” enough.

But…maybe I shouldn’t be so quick to judge.

I definitely wasn’t going to seek him out for advice, but hell, maybe I need some of his charisma to help me tap out this message.

“You texting Claire Bear?” he asks, and I have to bite my cheek to keep from cracking up. If Ollie ever called her that to her face, I’m fairly certain she’d rearrange his.

I shrug noncommittally. Maybe I should just ask Van for help. My best friend has charm to spare. But he’s sleeping and I don’t want to wake him. Plus, Ollie got me into this mess, so the least he can do is help me tap out a measly question.

“Hand over the phone, big guy,” my fellow defenseman says, gesturing with his fingers. “Let me see what you’ve got so far. Also, are we texting or sexting?”

Jesus.

“ We aren’t doing anything. I need to send a specific message to Claire, and you have appointed yourself as my secretary.”

He nods decisively. “Got it. We’re sexting. ”

“No, the fuck we aren’t. I’m not sexting Claire, and you’re sure as hell not, either. We’re just sending a regular message.”

“Dude, why didn’t you just say so?” His fingers fly across the keyboard of my phone and when he hands it back to me, I roll my eyes.

Pete : wyd?

Ollie immediately goes on the defensive as I snag my phone out of his grip. “What? How is it my fault your fingers are broken, or you don’t know how to tell that gorgeous woman to get naked and into your bed, ASAP. We’ll be back in Bainbridge within the hour.”

“It’s not that kind of message, Ollie,” I say, summoning all the patience that is usually reserved for middle schoolers.

“My brothers saw all the pics I’ve been tagged in, and they were curious as hell.

So, instead of minding their business, they showed Ma and Gramma Dottie that carousel of photos you posted on the team’s account. ”

“So? You looked good. And Claire’s hot,” he says, opening a bag of almonds and popping a few in his mouth. “No hate to our favorite reporter and her photographic prowess, but any dumbass with a decent phone can take a good enough shot for social media. Filters are our friends.”

I hold back a sigh, even though explaining my dilemma to Ollie is almost as time consuming as explaining Punnett Squares to a group of eighth graders.

“They were great pics. So great, in fact, that my family can’t wait to meet my new girlfriend at dinner tomorrow night.

Gramma’s making stuffed shells. It’s a whole thing.

The problem is, I haven’t found the balls to ask Claire yet and since she’s the guest of honor, it’ll look pretty bad if she doesn’t show. ”

Ollie leans his head against the back of his seat and considers what I’ve said.

He must also be stumped about what to write because he tilts his chin up, brings the edge of the bag to his lips, and pours the remaining almonds into his mouth.

The man looks like a squirrel right now, his cheeks full as he chomps happily.

After a full two minutes of chewing, and another minute to down a bottle of water, Ollie’s up to the challenge. “Gimme,” he says, reaching for the phone.

Out of sheer desperation, I place it in his outstretched palm. He starts typing, then deletes a few words, then starts again. After reading over it half a dozen times, he’s satisfied with his masterpiece.

So satisfied, in fact, that he hits the little send arrow before I can read it and give the okay. I’m annoyed, but it’s my own dumb fault for letting him have my phone. He tosses the phone to me, then reaches under the seat for the backpack I stowed there. “You got any snacks? I’m starving.”

Just as I’m about to tell him he can help himself to the beef jerky I have in the front pouch, I read what he sent to Claire on my behalf, and reconsider. “Dude, seriously?” I ask, waving my phone at him.

Unzipping the large pouch of the backpack that my teammates jokingly refer to as my ‘mom bag,’ Ollie unearths a protein bar and a package of roasted chickpeas.

They’ve both probably been crushed to dust, so I don’t protest. After all the ‘help’ he’s given me, the least I can do is feed the man, right?

Pete : My family wants to meet you, so they invited us to dinner tomorrow night. Gramma Dottie’s making stuffed shells because she knows you don’t eat meat.

Dammit. I could have typed that myself. I’m about to shoulder check him when my phone dings.

Claire : That’s really sweet. What time? And what can I bring?

Agreeing to a fake relationship with Claire is the dumbest thing I’ve ever done.

It’s not that I regret my decision. Some of the people at Bainbridge—at any school, really—can be total dicks when they want to be, and whoever keyed Claire’s car fits that description.

The harassment she was dealing with was uncalled for and it’s died down since she and I went public with our relationship.

Or, more accurately, since Ollie told everyone that we were a couple.

Campus Security miraculously found some camera footage for the section of the parking lot they previously said was uncovered. What a coincidence that they made that discovery the day after Rosco and I told Coach what happened to my girlfriend’s car.

So, yeah, I like to think I’m helping Claire, and I’d do it again without question if she needed me to.

But it’s still the dumbest thing I’ve ever done because I’m falling harder for her every day, even though the chance of something real starting between us is a longshot.

Take right now, for instance. I’m finishing up the salad while Gramma puts a loaf of garlic bread in the oven. Cooking is something we’re used to doing together, and we make a good team. But every time laughter erupts from the living room, Gramma shoots me a look.

Like the rest of my family, Gramma Dottie thinks Claire is perfect, and that she’s perfect for me.

We’d only been here for about five minutes when I knew she’d fit in seamlessly.

On Gramma’s orders, I told Claire not to bring anything.

There’s always more than enough food on the nights Gramma cooks.

But my bossy, practical grandmother made a freaking fuss when Claire walked in with a vase of wildflowers and a bottle of wine .

She kicked Leo’s ass and then Henry’s at Night Raid, and now she’s talking music with my mom as they make a playlist for after dinner.

“Food will be ready in five,” I tell everyone as I set the salad bowl on the table. Leo and Henry are putting out the plates and silverware, and when Claire leaps up to help, they both wave her off.

“We got this,” Henry tells her, a goofy grin on his face. “You and Ma keep talkin’ about old people music from the nineteen hundreds.”

I linger long enough to see Claire smile politely at my brother before itching her nose with her middle finger. I’m not sure if she realizes it, but that sealed her fate: Henry is officially in love with my fake girlfriend.

I know the feeling.

Okay, I’m definitely not in love with Claire, but seeing her with my family makes me like her even more.

My mom hasn’t looked this relaxed or laughed this much in weeks.

They’re deep in conversation about Grunge music and the summer Ma spent in Seattle in the early nineties.

Claire’s soaking up every detail, her attention genuine.

“She’s good for you,” Gramma says without preamble when I walk back into the kitchen.

“Who?” I ask, playing dumb. She smacks me with the towel that’s perpetually draped over her shoulder, and I laugh.

A minute before the timer dings, I open the oven door and lift out the tray of stuffed shells and the pan of garlic bread.

“When you know, you know,” she says, and I stifle a laugh because that’s what Claire said a few weeks ago. Of course, she was joking.

“I’m serious,” Gramma insists, swatting me with the towel again. “I knew Grampa was the one for me the first day I met him, god rest his soul. And I knew your father wasn’t worth a damn the day I met him. I’m a smart lady, Peter. Where do you think you get all those brains of yours?”