Page 43 of Trick Shot (Bainbridge Hockey #4)

Claire

“ Q uesadillas or pancakes?” I ask as I unpack another bag of groceries. I know people say that teenage boys eat a lot, and apparently, the Santos boys are on a mission to prove that theory.

“Yeah, sounds great,” Henry answers as he sets a case of sports drinks in the pantry.

“Uh, which one sounds great? Quesadillas or pancakes?” I repeat, turning to face him because I’m positive he’s got his earbuds in.

“Oh, I have to choose? Uh…quesadillas, I guess.”

The kid looks disillusioned, and I almost feel bad. But then I remember the bag of chips he housed while we were driving back from picking up groceries.

“We could make pancakes for dessert, I guess, if you’re still hungry.”

The look Henry gives me is patronizing. “If I’m still hungry,” he says, chuckling as he finishes putting away the groceries.

I get to work opening all the containers we’ll need, and I’m glad we threw in that extra tub of guac.

We’ll definitely eat it. Henry may just take it for himself.

I’m slicing a bell pepper when I hear the garage door go up, telling me that Pete and Leo are home.

I’m glad because I miss my fake boyfriend, but also because that means he can shred the rotisserie chicken so I don’t have to.

It’s only been two days since Pete’s mom’s diagnosis, but I’ve been trying to help out as much as possible.

It was no trouble to do a grocery run after driving Henry to his guitar lesson, and I don’t mind cooking, if that’s even the word for what I’m doing in the kitchen.

All I’m really doing is assembling, anyway.

I’m not a great chef, but I haven’t given anyone food poisoning yet, so that’s a plus.

It takes the four of us a few minutes to get everything ready, and to open a few bags of chips and a container of salsa. Just as we’re sitting down, there’s a knock at the door.

“Gramma canceled Bunco, didn’t she?” Leo asks.

“Yeah,” Pete confirms, pushing his seat back so he can answer the door.

As soon as he does, I wish he hadn’t. Okay, that’s bad, I know, but don’t judge me. Kaden Kersey seems like a good guy, but his girlfriend, Sophie, is a lot. They’re standing on Pete’s doorstep and Kersey’s arms are loaded down with what looks to be a giant salad bowl.

“Oh, good, you’re home,” Sophie says, striding right past Pete and into the kitchen.

“Sophie made dinner,” Kaden says unnecessarily, because he’s still holding it.

Pete takes the oversized bowl out of his friend’s arms and sets it down on the counter.

“Put those snacks away, boys,” Sophie says to Leo and Henry, like they’re little kids and she’s their babysitter.

Henry’s unfazed as he loads a tortilla with guac and sour cream before hoisting it in the air like a trophy. “This isn’t a snack,” he corrects Sophie. “It’s dinner. Well, dinner number one. We’re still in negotiations about pancakes.”

If Sophie wore pearls, she’d be clutching them.

“Nope, nope, and nope,” she says, sorting through the collection of condiments on the table.

“This is glorified junk food. I made a salad with baked chicken breast. It’s Kaden’s fave, and since you’re all hockey players, too, I figured it’d be perfect.

Well, you’re not a hockey player, Claire,” she says with a laugh, “but as a girl, you know the value of a salad for dinner.”

She shoots me a wink like we’re co-conspirators or something. We’re definitely not.

“As a human with taste buds, I know the value of guacamole,” I say in the same patronizing tone she used on me. Henry holds up another quesadilla and I bump it with mine in a silent toast.

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Pete smiling at us. But of course, he’s also the most diplomatic guy around, so he turns that smile on our uninvited guests.

“Thanks for bringing this over,” he says congenially. “It’ll make a great lunch over the next few days.

Sophie looks offended, but Pete just flashes her a smile as he takes his seat next to me and begins filling his plate.

“If you two want to stick around, there’s plenty,” he offers.

I’m fairly certain Henry’s about to protest, so I look at him and mouth the words chocolate chip pancakes . He smiles broadly and scoots down to make room for Kaden who’s already started helping himself.

“This looks awesome, thanks,” he says, plopping a spoonful of sour cream onto his tortilla before inhaling it in two bites. The poor guy probably hasn’t tasted seasoned food in years.

Sophie’s pouting in the doorway, but when no one fusses over her or even pays any attention to her, she squeezes her tiny little butt onto the chair next to Kersey’s.

The conversation inevitably turns to hockey, and though I have to admit I’m beginning to understand the appeal of the sport—mostly because of my very own personal D-man—I check my phone when I hear it ping with a notification.

Sophie makes a tsking sound. “No phones at the table,” she chides, as though she thinks she’s my mother. I get the feeling Sophie has a lot of rules for people—including Kersey—but I’m a grown ass adult and I can look at my phone if I want to. Before I can tell her as much, my phone chimes again.

“Is that Prentiss ?” Pete asks, unable to disguise his enthusiasm.

“No,” I answer, my eyes skimming the email from the color analysis place I’m doing a story on. “Oh, shit,” I mutter after I’ve read the message a second time.

“What’s up?” Pete asks, concern shadowing his face. “Did you get another nasty message?”

I look up to see twin expressions of doom on his brothers’ faces. They’re just as unhappy as he is.

“No,” I say quickly, because a lot of the hate has died down. Sure, I still get nasty looks and I’m sure if I tried to attend a baseball game, they’d tell me all the bleachers were full, but for the most part things are improving. “Remember that color analysis story I’m doing?”

Pete smiles, no doubt remembering how helpful he was when I needed to submit my photos.

“Well, Taryn never uploaded her photos.”

“That stinks. Can you do it alone?”

“No,” I answer. “We booked two sessions, and they’re already paid for.”

Pete offers the plate of quesadillas to me before taking another for himself. “You could ask Holland,” he suggests. “Or Maggie. She might like a little pampering.”

“Yeah, that would be nice, but I can’t,” I say. “Your face was in a few of the photos, so they assumed you were the other client. What do you say? Want to get your colors done?”

Pete’s such a good sport that I know he’ll cave, but I feel bad asking. He has such a hectic schedule right now that squeezing in an hour-long session is inconvenient, to say the least.

“I don’t need my colors done,” he says. “I already know they’re burgundy and silver.” He lets out a mini howl that puts a smile on my face, but his next words warm my cold, dead heart. “But yeah, I’m game. It sounds like fun.”

“You are the best,” I say, leaning over to smack a kiss on his cheek.

“I’ll go with you,” Sophie says on a sigh, like she hasn’t heard a word of our conversation.

“Thanks,” I say as politely as possible. “but Pete already has an appointment and you two look nothing alike.”

She doesn’t laugh at my joke and neither does Kersey, but he has an excuse. He’s too busy gobbling up another quesadilla.

“Are you really making Pete go along to get his colors done?” she asks, like it’s the most ridiculous thing in the world.

“I’m not making him do anything.” I reach for my glass of water, and she pats my hand like I’m an unruly child.

“You can probably call and get it all sorted out. I would never drag Kaden to something like that.”

Again, I have to wonder if she’s actually heard anything we’ve said. She’s much more worked up about this than we are .

Kaden’s finally finished eating—for now—and he just smiles at her. “I wouldn’t mind,” he says. “You started taking me to art shows a couple years ago, and we always have a good time.”

“That’s because art exhibits have culture,” she says, folding her arms over her chest.

I’m about to tell her to take her salad bowl and go home, but the alarm on Henry’s phone dings, which means it’s time for me to take him to practice.

Sophie’s been saved by the bell.

“Maggie, you’re up,” Mel’s voice calls over the din of the noisy kitchen.

We’re doing Girls’ Night at Josie’s as Mel is in charge.

She’s got her Cricut, and she’s not afraid to use it to make us each custom jerseys with our guy’s name on the back.

She even found something called a Dazzle It online and she’s making these shirts sparkly as hell.

This is pretty far out of my comfort zone, but I have to admit, it’s a lot of fun and I’m looking forward to showing Pete my outfit later tonight.

Maggie looks like she’s finally found a comfortable position to sit in, so I pluck her shirt off the table and hand it to Mel.

“Ooh, we need to make a jersey for the baby,” Josie says, her face lighting up. “How cute would that be? Put it on the list, Mel.”

Maggie smiles and rubs her belly. “I’m not due for another six weeks, and besides, I think this little nugget will wear sleepers and onesies most of the time. You don’t need to go to any trouble.”

Mel just laughs. “Trouble is my favorite place to go. And I’m making some custom clothes for Iris’s dolls, so a onesie jersey for the baby goalie will be no trouble at all.”

“What kind of doll clothes are you making?” Holland asks, her face lighting up. My best friend is a tea party princess all the way. Sometimes I wonder how we’re best friends, but then I remember we’re two of the coolest bitches around, and it all makes sense.

“Prison uniforms,” Mel answers. “We’re trying to decide if we should go with accuracy and do orange jumpsuits or if we prefer the old-timey charm of black and white stripes.”

When no one laughs and I realize Mel’s serious, I decide Iris is my type of gal.

“Maggie’s done,” Mel announces. “Who’s left? I have a size small and an extra small. Oh, the tiny one’s got to be yours, Josie,” she says nodding to her petite bestie.

“Actually, I think I ordered that size,” Sophie says.

Mel holds the two shirts up and looks between the two women. Sophie’s average height, but she’s still four or five inches taller than Josie. “I think it works better if you take the Small, Sophie. It’s too long for Jos.”

I wait for the pushback and Sophie brings it, as expected.

“I specifically ordered the Extra Small so it would be fitted. Here, let me try it on and show you. Sophie lifts the hem of her sweater and pulls it off. I’m not sure if we’re more surprised that Sophie’s stripping in Josie’s kitchen or that she’s pitching a fit about a novelty t-shirt.

Or maybe the bra she’s wearing has us all stunned silent.

“Holy fuckballs,” Mel says, borrowing Mickey’s favorite phrase. “Is that a Cordova set? They only made like five hundred of them or something. And I consider myself a lingerie connoisseur, but even I have never dropped that much on a bra and panty set.”

“It is,” Sophie confirms. “I got it as a gift, but I feel so pretty in it that I wear it every chance I get.”

I’m a basic bitch who buys two kinds of lingerie: black lace and white cotton.

Between the two, I’ve got all my bases covered.

It’s safe to say I know very little of high fashion, but the pale blue bra Sophie’s wearing really is gorgeous.

It’s silk and lace and looks every bit as pricey as it apparently is, so I’m not quite sure how a college student like Kersey could afford it.

Although, she didn’t specify who gave it to her.

Maybe she’s got a rich aunt who gives great wedding shower gifts.

It's really none of my business, and I don’t feel like having story time with Sophie just to find out. I’m looking forward to hanging with my girl crew and then heading back to my room for some quality time with Pete before he leaves for Regionals tomorrow morning.

Yep, that sounds like a much better plan than listening to Sophie yap about fancy underwear.