Page 7 of Trick Shot (Bainbridge Hockey #4)

Pete

“ D ude, you cannot set up cameras inside the hockey house. Do you know how creepy and probably illegal that is?” Pinching the bridge of my nose, I brace myself for Ollie’s counter argument as I make my way toward Claire’s dorm.

“It’s not illegal,” my fellow defenseman insists.

“At least, I don’t think it is. Maybe we’ll just get some facial recognition software.

And anyway, it’s for a good reason. I’m telling you, Norris has his girl here.

I’d bet money on it. No one has actually seen her, but there are definite sex noises coming from his room and the bathroom smelled like strawberries this morning. ”

“To be fair,” I say, scanning my badge to get into Claire’s building, “there are sex noises coming from a lot of the guys’ rooms. Jacking off is nothing new, Olls.”

“No shit, Cap,” he drawls. “But tell me this, when you jerk it, do you moan in your regular voice and then moan again in a high-pitched, breathy voice?”

“Ok, so he’s probably not alone. But that doesn’t mean you can mount nanny cams throughout the house. ”

“I wouldn’t have to resort to these measures if our boy would just come clean. And why is he being so secretive? Why won’t he just introduce us to his girl?”

“Because he wants to keep dating her?” I ask. “We’re a good time, Ollie, but you’ve gotta admit, our crew takes some getting used to. If he’s really into this girl, he might want to lock things down with her before he introduces her to his crazy family, aka us.”

“Errrr,” Ollie imitates a buzzer on a gameshow. “Incorrect. The reason he doesn’t want us to know who he’s with is because we already know her.”

“Uh…we do?”

“Yep. And he definitely should not be dating her.”

“Why’s that?” I ask, taking the stairs two at a time until I reach the fourth floor.

“Because it’s Fallon.”

It takes a minute for Ollie’s words to register, not only because I’m scanning room numbers, but also because what he just said is batshit. “Fallon?”

“Yes, Fallon Zabek. Beloved sister of our other captain and the girl who is totally off-limits to all of us. It has to be her. It has to. The bathroom smelled like strawberries. And one time when I went to The Chapel for dinner, Fallon was there, and Whit made cheesecake for dessert…with strawberries.”

“You would make a terrible detective,” I tell Ollie as I stop in front of room 413B. “I gotta go, Olls. Have a good night, and don’t install any cameras. Fallon will punch you and no one would blame her.”

“So you do think it’s Fallon!” he crows, delighted.

“Not at all. But if she finds out you installed cameras, she’ll punch you.”

“Fine,” he grumbles. “I don’t even need a camera. The strawberries are proof enough. ”

Hanging up, I shake my head. My teammates are nuts.

But I’d almost rather be back in Maryland dealing with Ollie’s bullshit than standing here at Claire’s door, about to knock.

I messaged her earlier, but she didn’t answer.

I have no doubt I’m the last person she wants to see—when am I not—but she left one of her camera lenses down at the dolphin enclosure, so I’m here to return it.

I know fuck-all about camera equipment, but I do know it’s expensive.

Before my knuckles meet the wood, her door swings open to reveal a blonde with a pissed off look on her face.

“Oh, good,” she says, eyeing me up. “She can be your problem now. I’m spending the night at Kinsey’s,” the blonde calls over her shoulder, presumably to Claire.

“I’d say I’ll be back when you’ve stopped being a bitch, but we both know that will never happen, and my stuff’s here, so I have to come back eventually. ”

Looking right over the blonde’s head, I see an arm lift, a hand balled into a fist, and an extended middle finger.

Yep, I’m definitely at the right room.

The woman who must be Claire’s roommate ducks out, and I step inside, letting the door close behind me.

“What a bitch,” Claire murmurs.

“No kidding,” I agree, realizing my mistake as Claire lets out a spine-tingling scream.

“Holy fuck! Who are—oh, my god. Of course you’re here. Of fucking course.”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you. I thought you heard me and I?—”

“Now is not a good time,” she says. “Can you just?—”

Her room is so small that after taking two steps inside, I’m basically in the middle of it.

I’d intended to drop off the piece she left behind and then be on my way.

Okay, that’s a lie. I was kind of hoping to stick around for a bit, maybe talk her into sharing more fries with me at Smitty’s.

Yes, she hates my guts, but that doesn’t bother me nearly as much as it should.

And ok, two days ago it drove me crazy. But now, my brain is much more intrigued by the knowledge that Claire Fowler thinks I’m hot.

Her admittance has been running on a loop in my mind for the past forty-odd hours.

But now there’s only one thought in my brain: Holy shit, that’s a nasty sunburn.

“Ouch,” I say, letting out a low whistle. “Do you have any aloe?”

“No,” she practically growls. The woman is like a feral cat on the best of days, so with a burn like that, I shouldn’t be shocked that she’s extra angry.

“I’ve got some,” I say, shrugging off my backpack and opening one of the pouches.

“I’m fine,” she says, barely turning her head toward me. I’m not sure if that’s because she doesn’t want to look at me or if it hurts to twist her neck. Probably both.

“You are obviously not fine,” I say. “Jesus, Claire, you look like a damn lobster.”

“Oh, my god. Do I really?” she asks in a monotone voice. “I had no idea.”

Plucking the after-sun lotion from my bag, I wave it at her. “Found it. You can keep it in the fridge so it feels nice and cool on your skin, but you don’t have to.”

“Thanks. You can set it on my nightstand.”

My brain should be pouncing on the fact that she just thanked me, but instead, it’s fixating on something else. “You want me to leave it on your nightstand? How the hell are you going to get it on your back?”

She looks at me, her eyes defiant, despite the fact that she’s clearly in need of help. “I’ll figure it out.”

“How? Oh, wait. Let me guess. Your sweetheart of a roommate is going to come to your rescue? ”

I didn’t think it was possible, but her eyes bore into me with even more intensity. “Something like that.”

“You’re unfuckingbelievable, you know that, right?

” I ask. It’s not like me to lose my temper, but Claire Fowler is the most frustrating person I have ever met.

And given the hockey roster, that’s really saying something.

“You hate me so much that you’d rather lie here in pain and end up with fucking blisters than let me slather a little lotion on you?

Damn, that’s a lot of anger. And you’re suffering for no reason.

” If I thought my irritation or my logic would have any effect whatsoever, I was wrong.

“What’s it to you, anyway?” she asks. “Why does it matter to you that I’m lying here in agony? It’s my own damn fault.”

“Then let me help you.”

For a moment, she’s silent and I think I might finally be getting somewhere.

“I’m good, but it’s nice of you to offer,” she says, resting her head back down on her pillow.

“You are so far from good,” I say, annoyance getting the better of me.

“Wow. If your opinion mattered at all to me, that would really hurt.”

Running my hands through my hair, I try to get a grip on the frustration that courses through me. I fail. “Jesus. Effing. Christ. What did I ever do to make you hate me this much?”

“Don’t pretend like you don’t know,” she says, clearly just as irked with me as I am with her.

“I’m not pretending, Claire. I have no clue. Neither do Van and Rosco. We’ve gone round and round about the first few weeks of freshman year, but none of us can figure out what the hell I ever did to you.”

She purses her lips together and I definitely should not be thinking about how damn kissable those lips appear to be. “You’re part of a hive mind…hmmm…that really shouldn’t surprise me. And yet, your little brain trust couldn’t crack the code. What a pity.”

The bottle of aloe is cold in my hands, because yes, I keep it in a little refrigerated pack.

It feels better when it’s cool, dammit. And it lasts longer.

But that is not the point. The point is that I have no clue why I’m still standing here.

I should have left five minutes ago. No one would blame me.

I should have just set the damn lotion down and left Claire to her misery.

After all, she’s right. It’s certainly not my fault she’s burnt to a crisp.

But for some reason I don’t want to inspect too deeply, I can’t stay away.

“Do you ever get tired of hating me? Exhausted by taking shots at me? Do you ever just want to give it a damn rest?”

“No,” she answers plainly, offering no further explanation.

I can feel my face heat up, irritation rolling off me in waves.

“It really bothers you, doesn’t it?” Claire asks, her face devoid of hatred, for once. In its place is…fascination?

“That I don’t know why you hate me?” I prompt.

“That, too, I guess,” she admits. “But I was referring specifically to the fact that I don’t like you. It’s like you think not being adored is the worst thing in the world.”

All I can do is stand here in front of her, my mouth hanging open. I can’t even form words.

“I mean, statistically speaking,” she continues, “I can’t actually be the first person who doesn’t worship the ground you walk on. Am I? Or am I the first person who’s honest about it? Didn’t anyone ever tell you it’s okay not to like someone? Because it really is. I promise.”

“Jesus,” I mutter, rubbing at my temple. “I came here to return your lens, your presumably expensive lens. I didn’t come here to get my ass roasted.”

“Lucky for you, that’s a service I offer free of charge.”

“Yeah,” I say, rolling my eyes. “Lucky me.” After setting the lotion on her nightstand, I reach into my backpack and grab a bottle of water. It’s not ice-cold, but it’ll keep her hydrated.

I’m about to turn and get the hell out of here, but out of the corner of my eyes, I watch as she reaches for the lotion and winces. “Are you sure you don’t need help?”

Her eyes cut through me again, so I turn and go. If she’s too stubborn to accept help, it’s not my fault. My hand is on the doorknob when I hear her muffled voice. “What was that?” I ask, wondering if I really did hear her, or if it was just the rustling of her sheets.

“Isaidfine,” she mumbles.

“Did you just sneeze? Bless you.” I’m not sure why our little pissing contests are so much damn fun, but they are.

“I said fine,” she repeats, her volume one degree louder, her pace one degree slower.

“Fine?” I ask, knowing I’m pissing her off, but unable to resist.

“Yes. Fine. You can put lotion on my back.”

I can’t help but bark out a laugh as I take two steps and land back in the center of her room. “Wow. I’m allowed to do you a favor? Oh, the fucking honor. How ever shall I repay you for the privilege of helping you out?”

“You know what, never?—”

“Simmer down, tiger,” I say, halting the words that come out of her mouth. “Lie still, okay. I’m just gonna wash my hands with some sanitizer and then rub some lotion on you.”

She winces again, and I can see her knuckles turning white as she grips the mattress. “How cold is it? Will it hurt?” she asks.

This time, I hold back a laugh. Okay, I hold back most of my laugh. “Are you seriously scared? You’ve got balls of steel, Fowler. How does refrigerated lotion make you panic?”

“I don’t like cold things. Just do it, okay?”

“I promise, I’ve got gentle hands,” I tell her, squirting a dollop of lotion into one of my palms and then rubbing my palms together. Her bed is narrow, but there’s enough room for me to wedge my knee onto the mattress for a little more leverage.

“You don’t have hands,” she says. “You have paws. Like a polar bear. Or a grizzly.”

I have nothing to say to that, so I prove her wrong with my actions, not my words.

My touch is light, but not timid. At first, I focus all my attention on covering her angry red skin with a layer of soothing cream.

But that only takes about thirty seconds.

The heat radiating off her back, shoulders, and arms practically melts the lotion as I apply it.

“That actually feels really good. Thank you.” Her words are soft, but sincere. They should be gratifying, and in a way, they are. But now that I’ve had my hands on Claire, I can’t think about anything else. And that’s bad. So bad.

“Can you put some more on?” she asks, turning her head so that her eyes meet mine. “My skin is so hot, and that lotion is clearly magic in a bottle.”

“Oh, yeah, sure,” I say, willing my voice to sound as neutral as possible.

I squeeze more lotion into my hand and begin gently massaging it in.

To keep myself from thinking about how soft and smooth her skin is, I begin counting backward from five hundred.

It works like a charm for about thirty seconds.

Right when I hit four-hundred-and-sixty-nine, she lets out a soft moan.

It’s all I can do not to answer back in kind.

Or cover my body with hers. Or stare at the way the thin white sheet pools just above her ass cheeks.

Instead, I just rub in another layer of lotion while her body relaxes under my touch.

Then I practically leap off the bed and head for the door, my hands still sticky.

“You can, uh, hang onto that,” I say in a rush.

“I’ve got more in my room, and I never really burn, so… yeah. Hang onto it. Good night.”

And then, like the coward I apparently am, I haul my big ass back to my dorm.