Fake Shot (Boston Rebels Book 2)

“Let’s just start by clearing the air,” Gabriel says the minute we sit on the couch across from him and his parents, and Colt’s grip tightens around my fingers to the point that it’s nearly painful. I have the feeling that this is the only thing preventing him from losing his shit, even though I don’t know why, so I just squeeze back, hoping he knows I’ll back him up however he needs me to. “I apologize. What Cheri and I did was wrong . . .”

In the pregnant pause that follows, Colt grits out, “There better not be a but following that statement.”

“There is, and you know why,” Gabriel says. “You two hadn’t been happy since before you got drafted.”

I’m trying to put the pieces of this puzzle together, and my best guess is something happened between Gabriel and the girl Colt was dating before he went pro.

“She was planning to move to Boston to be with me once her freshman year was over. You were supposed to keep an eye out for her at college, not sleep with her.”

Ohhh. So his brother slept with his high school girlfriend when, it sounds like, they went to the same college and Colt came to Boston for hockey? But Gabriel is four years older, so the math doesn’t quite add up. Why would he have been at college when Colt’s girlfriend was a freshman?

“We didn’t mean for it to happen, and you know it.”

“Do I?” He drops my hand, leaning forward so both his elbows rest on his knees. “Because it sure seems like the minute I was out of the country, you were falling into her bed when you were supposed to be focusing on medical school.”

“Guys.” Mr. Coltier says this the way I imagine he must have a hundred times a week while they were growing up, like they’re fighting over the last cupcake or something equally trivial. Mrs. Coltier glances at the glass door to the hallway like she wants to make sure no one is standing beyond it and potentially hearing this conversation.

I rest my free hand on Colt’s back, gently pressing against his spine so he knows I’m here for him.

“Dad, he went after her while she was still dating me.” Colt’s voice rises a little with anger, but he’s not yelling. He’s just clearly pissed off. “While she was still coming down to Boston every weekend that I wasn’t traveling. He was sleeping with her at the same time I was. We had to have a fucking paternity test to figure out who the father was, and you just want me to forgive him for that?”

I focus on breathing in and out through my nose in an attempt not to react to this piece of information. Cheri was pregnant and, at least for a little while, Colt wasn’t sure if that child was his. The fact that he’s never had a serious relationship in all the time I’ve known him makes so much more sense now. How do you ever trust after a betrayal of that magnitude?

“You don’t have to forgive him,” Mrs. Coltier says. “We just need you to accept that it happened, and move on.”

“Maybe it’s good that we had this conversation,” Colt says, as his hand slides over to my knee, cupping my leg in his huge hand. His voice is calm, but from where I sit, it’s impossible not to notice how he’s practically vibrating with rage. “It allowed us to establish that Gabriel and Cheri are both cheaters who are obviously suited to each other. And besides”—he glances at me—“I think everything turned out exactly like it was supposed to.”

He stands, holding his hand out to me, and I take it, letting him pull me up from the couch. And as we walk from the room, I don’t turn to say goodbye. We’ll be seeing them again soon enough, and right now, Colt needs me more than they need my good manners.

We don’t say anything as he swipes the key from the tray it’s sitting on at the front desk, or as we climb the stairs to the second floor, or as we walk down the hallway hand in hand. And when I follow him through the door into the bedroom, he turns quickly, reaching out and closing it behind me. I’m stuck between him and the door, watching his ragged breathing as he looks down at me like he’s at war with himself.

Reaching out, I rest both my hands on his chest and then slide them up to his shoulders. “I’m sorry that happened to you,” I tell him, and he sucks in a breath before slowly exhaling, the scent of cinnamon gliding over my skin.

“I’m not.”

That’s the last thing I expected him to say. “Really? Why not?”

He leans down, resting his forehead against mine. “Because if it hadn’t been him, it would have been someone else.”

“Are you sure?” I ask. Because it sounded like Gabriel and Cheri might still be together, which leads me to think she’s not cheating on him.

“We weren’t in love. We were holding on to a relationship from our childhood even though we should have said goodbye when I left for Boston. Besides,” he says, as his hand smooths along the side of my neck and into my hair, his thumb caressing the space behind my ear, “I don’t want to think about what my life could have been like. I wasn’t lying when I said that everything turned out exactly as it should have.”

His breathing is still ragged, like he’s losing his grip on his control, and his lips are closer to mine than they were a moment ago. I want him to kiss me with every fiber of my being, but I don’t want it to be because of Gabriel and Cheri.

“Yeah,” I say, with a teasing little laugh, “because having a fake fiancée is really how you pictured things ending up.”

“Tink.” He says my nickname like he’s chiding me. “You’re not a consolation prize.”

“I didn’t say I was.” I glance around the honeymoon suite, with its white shiplap walls and frilly white bedding, so I don’t have to look at him. But he takes my chin and guides my head back so I have no choice but to lock eyes with him.

“You’re acting like you wouldn’t be my first choice, in any situation, every single time.”

Now it’s me who’s struggling to breathe. What is he talking about? My eyes search his, trying to determine his meaning.

“If you weren’t Jameson’s little sister . . .”

It’s the sucker punch I wasn’t expecting, but should have been. His relationship with my brother will always be more important to him than whatever is growing between us.

“I’m going to take a shower,” I say, slipping under his arm and grabbing my bag where it sits on the bed. I don’t stop to get my toiletries out; I just take the entire bag into the bathroom with me. And then I stand under the spray of the shower, turning the water as hot as I can possibly tolerate it, and wonder why I keep letting him lead me on like this when I already know how it’s going to end.

Even though there’s clearly something between us, he’s never going to choose me.