Page 4 of Faking the Shot
“Michelangelo,” I mutter under my breath, writing it down.
But KC, of course, can’t leave it there. “Bet you didn’t know he hated painting,” he says, leaning in closer. I can feel the heat radiating off him, the space between us shrinking. “Wanted to stick to sculpting. But the Pope? He had other plans.”
I glance up, narrowing my eyes. “Did the Pope also ask you to be this annoying?”
His laugh—low, warm, and way too distracting—sends a ripple of irritation through me. Why does it have to sound so good?
“Touché,” he says, holding his hands up in mock surrender, his smirk somehow managing to widen. “I’ll back off. For now.”
Rolling my eyes, I focus on the next question, pretending his chuckle didn’t hit me somewhere it absolutely shouldn’t. Thehost’s voice fills the air again, but my mind is stuck replaying the sound of his laugh.
“If you’re ready for the next one,” the host says, drawing out the suspense, “what is the smallest planet in the solar system?”
“Pluto,” I write confidently, only to see KC shaking his head beside me.
“Mercury,” he says smugly, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Pluto doesn’t even make the cut anymore.”
I grit my teeth and cross out Pluto, probably harder than I need to. “Do you ever get tired of being right?”
“Not really,” he says with a shrug. “But I don’t mind sharing the spotlight. You’re holding your own, Trivia Queen.”
The nickname catches me off guard, and I pause, my pen hovering over the page. I swallow against the warmth rising in my chest, trying to ignore the flutter it sends through me.
I didn’t come here for this. Not to spar with a stranger, or to feel the subtle pull of his stupid smile. But somehow, he’s managed to turn Trivia Night into something more than just a game, and I’m not sure I hate it.
The next question booms through the shop: “Who holds the record for the most goals in a single NHL game?”
“Mathieu Scott Laferty,” KC fires back without hesitation, not even giving me a chance to pick up my pen. He says it so quickly and with such conviction, you’d think his entire existence hinged on this one answer. “If you don’t know that, what’s the point of living?”
I blink at him, my pen hovering midair. The truth? I don’t know a thing about hockey—or sports in general. I probably should, considering my brother-in-law is a sports agent and I work at a PR company that handles some of his clients. But my role leans more toward crisis management—coming up with ideas to clean up someone’s image, writing press releases, andcrafting PR campaigns—than memorizing stats about their on-field or on-ice accomplishments.
“Wow. That’s . . . an impressive level of passion for hockey trivia,” I say finally, opting for diplomacy over the more tempting, Is your job to collect every random fact like a walking encyclopedia? His smirk tells me he wouldn’t take the hint, anyway.
KC shifts closer, his gaze so intense it almost makes me squirm. “It’s not trivia,” he says, his voice low and unwavering, his steely eyes locking onto mine. “It’s essential knowledge. Like knowing how to breathe.”
I stare at him for a beat, unsure whether to laugh or run. “Well, good to know you’ve got your priorities straight.”
“Damn right I do,” he states. “Dad would disown me if I didn’t know that answer. It’s basically a family creed.”
That’s so ridiculous, I huff out a laugh despite myself. And for the first time tonight, I wonder if I might actually enjoy this stupid game and his company.
That thought feels dangerous, though—like stepping out onto thin ice, testing if it’ll hold. I remind myself why I came here in the first place. Solitude feels safe. Being alone means no one gets close enough to hurt you. No one gets the chance to walk away.
But then KC shifts in his chair, tossing out another fact with a casual ease that’s both maddening and, somehow, unexpectedly magnetic. For reasons I don’t entirely understand, the space between us suddenly doesn’t feel so bad.
The host announces the final question: “In Greek mythology, who is the goddess of victory?”
The answer comes to me instantly. Nike. I write it down and glance at KC. He’s already done, his pen spinning lazily between his fingers like this is all just a warm-up for him.
“Victory,” he says, his voice softer now, almost reflective. “She’s got a hell of a name, doesn’t she? Nike. Just do it. No, scratch that—she’d probably say, ‘Get it fucking done.’”
I arch a brow, unable to stop the smirk tugging at my lips. “What, you think she moonlights as a motivational speaker? ‘Don’t try, just fucking do it’?”
He grins, confident and self-assured. “If she does, I’d take notes. Winning isn’t a burden—it’s the whole point. Guess you could say it’s in my blood.”
Of course it is. Somehow, I can’t decide if I want to roll my eyes at his ego or let him teach me how to channel that kind of unshakable confidence. Maybe both.
“What?” His tone shifts slightly, catching me off guard, and I glance up at him.
