Fake Shot (Boston Rebels Book 2)

I’m halfway through my appetizer when Colt walks into La Gallina with Zach Reid, one of the team’s new defensemen. Zach does not look pleased to be at this upscale tapas restaurant, and it makes me wonder where he’d rather be instead. Probably home with his new girlfriend.

My eyes follow them as they walk over to the bar, which isn’t as packed now with the dinner crowd as it’ll be later tonight when the bar fully fills in. Colt pulls out his seat and angles it so his side is to the bar and he’s facing Zach, with me right in his line of sight.

The way he sits there looking all broody with his eyes narrowed in on our table has me feeling quite flustered. It has nothing to do with the way his black shirt clings to his muscular chest beneath the open lapels of his tan tailored suit, or the way he’s styled his dark blonde hair, and how his beard is neatly trimmed close to his face. No, it’s the way his eyebrows form a straight line above each of those dark eyes as he scowls in my direction.

I don’t know why he’s bothered to come here and act all pissed off about it. It’s not like I want him to witness what’s sure to be an awkward dinner. In fact, as we headed into my house earlier, I specifically asked him not to come. There are at least thirty other restaurants on Newbury Street where he could have met Zach for a drink.

My eyes must have lingered on Colt for too long, because Jerome Waters casually glances over his shoulder.

“Oh, look,” he says as he turns back toward me. “The most overpaid player in professional hockey is here.”

I can’t hold back my laugh, both because it’s something I’d say myself, and because the disdain comes out sounding more like jealousy.

“Not a Rebels fan?” I ask.

“Lifelong Rebels fan, actually.” Taking his napkin off his lap, he dabs the corner of his mouth. And that’s when I realize he hasn’t done his homework, because if he had, he’d know I was related to Jameson Flynn, and every Rebels fan knows he’s a retired player and Colt’s best friend. “I just happen to think we could take the nine million dollars a year that’s currently going to pay that man’s salary and signing bonuses and spend it on newer players, instead of wasting it financing the end of his career.”

I don’t know where the overwhelming desire to defend Colt comes from, but it rears up in me, coursing through my blood like lava. I’m about to open my mouth and start spewing statistics about Colt’s save percentage (best in the league) and number of shutouts this season (second highest in the league).

He might be nearing the end of his career, I want to tell Jerome, but he’s performing better than almost any other goalie. I catch myself just in time.

“Well, now,” I say, my voice thick as I force myself to sound friendly and professional, even though I’m not feeling it. “Since we’re not here to talk hockey, tell me more about what interests you in our nonprofit.”

“I think you have this backward.” He gives me a sly smile, almost a smirk, as he rests his elbows on the table in front of him, steepling his fingertips as he peers over them at me, his dark eyes narrowed. “I think you’re supposed to be telling me why I should be interested in donating to your cause.”

There’s a teasing quality to his voice, but it feels disingenuous. I can’t shake the feeling that no matter what I say, he’ll want a harder sell. That he won’t be happy until I’m begging him to donate, which is the last thing in the world I’m likely to do. I’d eat my own vomit before I’d pander to a man like that.

“I told you when we met,” I say, “we have an amazing program for mentoring females who are entering the trades, but the need far outpaces what we can provide, and we require additional funds to grow the program.”

“I guess I still don’t understand why women need this special mentoring that men don’t get.”

“Workplace studies on underrepresented populations—which, in construction, women are—all show the same thing. Access to more experienced people who have had similar work experiences, and can answer questions and guide them, improves the way people feel about their jobs and increases the likelihood of them staying in the profession.”

I wish I could tell him the types of questions we’ve gotten, like, “How do I hide a used tampon in a portable toilet so every guy on the job site doesn’t know I’m on my period?” or “What do I say to a co-worker who says my ass looks cute in my jeans?” or “How do I handle it when the guys joke about me being a diversity hire because I’m the only woman?”

Maybe then he’d better understand how those small things, time and time again, make working in this field particularly challenging. It’s why women need the support and guidance of other women. Not because they’re less qualified or lesscapable, but because they’re an underrepresented population trying to carve out a spot without feeling marginalized.

Instead, I continue, “Men have plenty of opportunities for that type of unofficial mentorship in their field. Everywhere they look, they have role models, other people who have walked a similar path in their profession and can help guide them. It’s not the same for women. Since they make up roughly ten percent of the construction-related industry, it is very possible they may not even work with another woman. So, it’s much harder for them to find mentors who can help guide them through the unique experience of being a female in a male-dominated industry. Intentional mentorship will help attract and retain females in this profession, which is needed.”

He leans in, an eyebrow raised as his gaze slides from my blond hair in its loose bun on top of my head, down my face, and then down to my blazer. “Did you have female mentors like that when you went through trade school or first started in construction?”

“I didn’t go to trade school. I learned pretty much everything I know from my father, and then passed the test and got my license as soon as I was old enough. I was lucky that way, I guess.”

There was nothing lucky about working with my dad. He made sure I learned every lesson the hard way, so I’d always remember why things needed to be done a certain way. There were a lot of things in life Jimmy Flynn wasn’t good at—being a husband and a father chief among them. But if there was any area in his life where he gave nothing less than his best, it was his work. Until the alcoholism fully consumed him, anyway.

“But many of the women I work with,” I tell him, hoping he can understand that this isn’t about me at all; it’s about opening up opportunities for women in general and making sure there are enough qualified people in the trades, “really struggled to get to where they are now, and I want to help smooth that road out as much as I can for women who are just getting into the profession.”

“Here’s the thing. The real world,” Jerome says his voice harsh, “isn’t always woman-friendly, and I’m not sure we’re doing women any favors, especially in this industry, if we try to make the schooling or training process less rigorous⁠—”

“I didn’t say anything about making it less rigorous,” I interrupt him, my voice equally forceful and my words slow so he can absorb their meaning. “I said that we needed mentoring to make sure that women feel supported as they join this male-dominated industry.”

“When I was at MIT a few decades ago”—he leans forward again in what I can only describe as an antagonistic stance—“women said the same thing about being outnumbered by men. And you know what? They developed a thicker skin and they’re all extremely successful now.”

“Well, when I was at MIT a few years ago, that wasn’t my experience. Male and female enrollment is almost equal now, and I didn’t feel the need to develop a thicker skin because of . . . I don’t even know what you’re describing? Institutionalized sexism? And yet, I’ve still managed to be extremely successful in a male-dominated industry.”

My mom used to say, “You fight with a pig and you both get dirty, but the pig likes it.” And that’s exactly how this conversation feels. Like he’s baiting me into an argument I don’t even want to be part of, but I feel the need to fight anyway.

I watch as his eyes slide to my ringless right hand. “You went to MIT?”

“I graduated summa cum laude with a degree in structural engineering. And before you ask, I don’t wear my brass rat,” I say, referring to the custom class ring MIT students get at a ceremony in the spring of their sophomore year, “because I work with my hands all day.”

Not to mention, the ring is kind of gaudy and masculine, and I don’t have the insecurity that would make me feel the need to flaunt my degree to gain credibility.

He sits back in his chair, relaxing as a small smile plays on his lips. I feel like I just passed a test, but instead of feeling victorious, I feel dirty—because I just rolled around in the mud with a pig.

My gaze flicks over to Colt again, and though he’s talking to Zach, his eyes are still on me. I can feel the flush creeping back into my cheeks as he catches me looking at him for the third time in the past ten minutes, so I quickly look back at Jerome, who’s eyeing me with what I assume is newfound respect.

“So,” I say, giving him a broad smile. “Let’s talk a bit more about that donation.”

His eyes track from my face down my body, and I don’t miss how they linger on my breasts even while I’m wearing an oversized blazer with a full-coverage tank top beneath. Some people might bask in this kind of open admiration, but I hate every second of this man’s attention on me. I want people’s opinions of me to be based on my accomplishments, not on my looks. And Jerome Waters can’t seem to tell the difference.

He glances around the restaurant, where it’s getting more crowded. His lips curve up to one side as he leans closer. “How about we get our dinner to go, take it back to my place, and figure out how you’re going to”—he raises an eyebrow—“spend my money?”

I take a deep breath and focus on not throwing up the bile that’s traveling into my esophagus or delivering my fist straight into his jaw. Boston’s a small city where word travels fast, so I know I need to keep it professional.

“I’d say it was nice doing business with you, Jerome,” I say as I stand, my chair pushing back across the tile floor in a way that leads other nearby diners to glance over at the noise. I keep my voice as pleasant as possible when I say, “But we both know that isn’t true.”

“C’mon,” he says, his tone feigning friendliness as he quickly stands and steps toward me. He drops his voice low, his words come out like an angry growl. “You’re making a scene, and I don’t do scenes. So here’s what you’re going to do—fucking smile while I throw some money on the table to cover our bill, and we’ll walk out of here together so neither of us looks like an asshole.”

Tilting my chin up, I lock my eyes on his as I slide my tongue along the back of my teeth.

“I don’t think so.”

His hand grasps my wrist before I can step away, and his grip is so painfully tight it brings tears to my eyes. “Alright, bitch⁠—”

Colt’s voice is deadly, and not the least bit quiet, as he appears out of nowhere. “Take your hand off my fiancée, or I’ll remove it from your fucking body.”

We both spin toward him in surprise, and Jerome lets go of my wrist. Colt pulls me under his arm and into his side so he’s wrapped protectively around me.

“Let’s go, Tink.” And then he guides me out of the restaurant.

I’m fairly sure my mouth is hanging open in shock as we walk out that door together. What the fuck just happened?