Page 68 of Faking the Shot
“The hottest,” I reply, shaking my head and laughing despite myself.
“You want the three-pack or the twelve?”
I don’t even hesitate. “Twelve.”
The clerk chuckles as he grabs the box. “Way to get it, my man.”
I bounce on my feet, waiting for him to ring it up. “Twenty twenty-seven,” he says.
I reach for my back pocket . . . and my stomach drops. I’m not wearing jeans. I don’t have a back pocket. I don’t have my wallet.
“No.” I groan, dragging a hand down my face.
“Damn, man. You didn’t.”
I close my eyes, willing myself not to lose it. Desperation takes over, and I glance around the store until my gaze lands on a magazine rack. I grab the first one with my face on it and slap it on the counter.
“Look, this is me,” I say, pointing at the cover. I hate using my fame, but this is an emergency. “I’m good for it. Let me take the condoms now, and I’ll come back with the money. I swear.”
The clerk raises his hands to stop me mid-ramble. “Relax, dude. I’m the owner. How about a trade?”
“Yeah, what do you want?”
“Ice level tickets for a Saturday game to take my kids, a selfie and an autograph,” he says, grinning like he’s won the lottery.
“You’re a lifesaver,” I tell the clerk before darting out the door, the box of condoms clutched in my hand like it’s the Holy Grail.
The sprint back to my house feels faster than the trip to the store. My heart pounds—not from exertion, but from the thought of Valentina waiting for me. The image of her on my couch, her bare skin flushed, is all I can see as I jog up the steps and fumble with my keys.
I push the door open, a triumphant grin on my face. “I’m back, baby.”
The living room is empty.
No Valentina sprawled on the couch. No teasing smile. Just silence.
Instead, my brother Killion is standing there, holding a slice of cold pizza and looking entirely too pleased with himself.
“Hope you weren’t expecting me to swoon,” he says, biting into the slice with exaggerated drama.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” I snap, slamming the door behind me. The condoms in my hand feel glaringly obvious, so I shove them into my pocket.
Killion raises an eyebrow, clearly clocking my move. “You tell me, lover boy. Came by to borrow your hockey bag, but I find pizza boxes everywhere, the TV still on, and Valentina storming out like her ass was on fire.”
My heart sinks. “She left?”
“Oh yeah,” Killion says, leaning against the back of the couch, his smirk growing. “And judging by the look on her face, you really outdid yourself this time. What did you do? Forget her birthday? Tell her you don’t like rom-coms? Or, oh wait—go running out of here for condoms like a horny teenager?”
“Fuck off, Killion,” I mutter.
“Seriously, man,” he continues, ignoring my glare. “She looked pissed. You might want to check your phone, see if she left a scorched-earth text on her way out.”
I grab my phone from the counter, hoping against hope that there’s some explanation waiting for me. But the screen is blank. No messages. No missed calls.
“She didn’t say anything?” I ask, turning back to him.
“Not a word. Just grabbed her bag and left. You want my advice?”
“No,” I snap.
