The Hot Shot: Prologue

I told you about the Brighthaven app a month or so ago, and I’m SO excited to announce that the app has been rebuilt and works amazingly well now. I just tested it out this week! You can filter and search for exactly what you want (content level, tropes, etc.).

This is the app for anyone who wants closed-door reads without having to search. Everything on the app is closed-door and you can filter for swearing, genre, tropes, etc.

Here’s the link for a free trial subscription (my audiobooks are on there!).

And now for my next book!

You can learn a lot about someone when you watch them wait. Some people pace. Some scroll. Some hover as if they might bolt if the wrong person looks at them.

The kid by the front desk does none of that. He stands perfectly still. Small, zipped into a hoodie that’s a size too big, hands buried deep. Just watching the courts.

His dad, on the other hand, is the opposite of still.

He shifts his weight from one boot to the other, his eyes roaming back to the exit as he blows out what looks like an annoyed breath. He’s in a navy blue T-shirt with suspenders holding up black turnout pants with hazard strips around the ankles.

Firefighter. I want to look outside for his truck since I can’t see anything through the coated front windows. Why is it that at twenty-seven, my eyes still light up when I see an emergency vehicle? Probably the pancake breakfasts. Or the slip and slide the firefighters always did for our neighborhood on the Fourth of July.

I slow my jog and walk up to him. “Hi, there. I’m Rachel. I run our juniors program.” I offer my hand, and as he steps forward to take it, I realize how tall he is. It’s not often I have to crane my neck to look at a man’s face. I’m 5’10, so he must be at least 6’3”? Maybe 6’4”?

His hand engulfs mine. Warm and calloused. He squeezes, but not too much, gives one firm shake, then lets me go slowly, like he’s releasing a fish back into water.

As if realizing the timing is off, he pulls his hand back and loops his thumb in the pocket of his pants. “Jake,” he says, then nods toward the kid who still hasn’t moved an inch. “This is Colton.”

Colton looks over at the sound of his name, then locks back in on the point being played on court four.

Jake clears his throat. “We moved up here at the beginning of the year. He used to play a lot of pickleball down south.”

“Oh yeah, where were you before?”

Jake has a nice jaw. A nice everything, actually. There’s a little bit of grey in the scruff on his face, and he has full lips. Which I’m definitely not distracted by when he wets them and says, “Castle Rock.”

I yank my eyes back to his and force them to stay put. This is a dad. A parent of a child who’s interested in my junior program.

Still, warmth floods through me at the realization of what just happened in my body. Since my breakup a couple of years ago, it’s rare that I notice a man, let alone feel a flutter of interest. Usually, I hear a clang of warning bells the second I see a nice set of arms. Maybe it’s the fireman gear or the obvious disinterest, but Jake isn’t making my hackles rise.

“Nice,” I say. “Did you have a club there?”

Jake shakes his head. “Just played through the city. They had a Saturday youth rec league.”

My eyes light up. “No way, that’s amazing. I’ve been wanting to try an outdoor league like that here, but there aren’t many courts available for booking on the weekends.”

Colton turns around and looks up at me. “Outdoors is okay, but the courts here are way nicer. And there isn’t any wind.”

I laugh. He was right about that. I step closer to him and crouch a little to talk to him at his level. “What are you hoping for? Classes or more league play?”

He considers this. “I want to get really good. So probably both.”

My smile widens. “Well, then I think you’re in the right place. We have workshops and open plays, plus leagues that start up every few months.”

Colton’s eyes jump to his dad’s. He doesn’t ask in words, but the pleading look on his face is obvious enough.

Jake nods. “What does it look like schedule-wise?”

I rise from my crouch. “Our junior workshops run in five-week sessions. Same day, same time each week. It helps the kids build on skills and get comfortable with the group.”

His jaw twitches. “Five weeks. Do you pay per workshop? Just the ones you can attend?”

I shake my head. “No, we run it as a sequence of classes, so it’s important the kids attend each one if possible. We’ve found consistency is the key to improvement.” His brow furrows, and I’m not sure if he’s thinking or if he doesn’t like my answer.

Before it can get awkward, I go on, “The sessions are only five weeks, so people can hopefully commit when they don’t have other sports or extracurricular demands. Some of our kids come in mostly over the summer, some during the school year when their families aren’t traveling. It’s a great group. We usually have eight to twelve kids signed up for each session.”

“Are the kids good?” Colton asks.

I nod. “Yep. We have some beginners, too, though, so there’s a spot for everyone.”

“I’m not a beginner,” he says, and his dad gives him a look. “I mean, I’ve had a lot of experience.”

I grin. “Hey, you can own your skill. If you get in there and crush everyone, we’ll make sure we move you up.”

Colton’s mouth and nose twitch, but it’s his eyes that give away how he feels about this information. They get wide and shiny, like he just spotted a five-dollar bill in the parking lot.

“Okay.” As he turns back to watch the game, his dad motions for her to take a few steps away from his son.

Jake lowers his voice. “The thing is . . .” He exhales through his nose. “My schedule’s not consistent.”

Right. Firefighter.

“Twenty-four on, forty-eight off,” he continues. “Days change every week.”

I nod. Growing up, my next-door neighbor was a firefighter. I remembered being surprised when I saw him working in the yard in the middle of the week when my dad only ever got home at dinnertime.

“Do you have someone who could bring him on the days you’re on shift?” I ask. “Partner, family, neighbor—”

“No.” He purses his lips. “It’s just us.”

Colton’s sneaker scuffs against the floor as he moves a half-step closer to his dad.

My curiosity sparks, but I resist the urge to ask what happened to Colton’s mom. If they just moved here, it wasn’t a surprise that they didn’t have a great network yet. Guys are notoriously bad at making friends unless they’re forced to. Plus, if he’s a single dad, he’s probably maxed out, and—

I internally shake my head. What was I doing? I didn’t need to get an entire life history to enroll this kid in juniors, but the drop of Colton’s shoulders and the furrow in Jake’s brow leave a hollowed-out pit in my gut.

I clear my throat. “Got it. Well, we can be flexible within reason. If he misses a week, we’ll catch him up, but you’ll have to pay for the whole session.” I glance at the front desk. Mark and Elana, the owners of Smash Point, aren’t there. Not that it would help. They’re kind people, but we’ve had enough issues here with people trying to get reimbursed for missed classes that they had to draw a hard line.

Jake runs a hand over the stubble on his jaw. “Let me think on that. I don’t want to sign him up for something I can’t follow through on.”

“But dad—” Colton looks up and stops when he sees his dad’s face.

“Totally understand,” I say, even though a part of me wants to start rearranging the entire program to make it work. “We’ve got sessions starting all the time, so if this one doesn’t line up, maybe the next will.” I turn my attention to Colton. “Even if it’s not perfect, I’m sure you’ll find a way to practice. You seem motivated. It’s great to see. Most kids get dragged in here by their parents, not the other way around.”

Jake’s mouth tightens again. “We’ll figure it out.” He reaches for his son, and seeing Jake’s large fingers wrap around Colton’s tiny hand makes something inside of me wobble.

What happened to them? Had Jake or Colton smiled once during that entire interaction?

They head for the door, and right before they push out, Colton glances back.

I lift a hand. “See you soon?”

He gives a small nod, and—there. Right there. The tiniest curve of his lips.

My heart swells, and it takes me a second to remember what I was doing before I ran up to the front. Right. I was in the middle of a game with my friends.

I jog back to the courts, all eyes on me before I even get to the gate

“What?” I give Brooke a wary look.

She smirks. “How was that conversation?”

Ah. So they’d all noticed Jake’s physique, even from this distance. “Seriously?” I grab my paddle, rolling my shoulders. “He’s just a dad looking for a program for his kid.”

“What about something for him?” Brooke shoots back. “He’s probably tired after a long day—”

Alecia snorts. I ignore both of them, but it isn’t easy. I feel unsettled. My brain still stuck on whatever haunted Jake’s eyes.

“Get your ass on the court, partner,” I say, pointing at Brooke. “I’m ready to play.”

We step onto the court, the noise snapping back into reality. Balls popping, sneakers squeaking, Justin saying something to Drew that makes him laugh.

Normal.

Totally normal.

I set my feet and serve. Overshooting the baseline by an inch.

Preorder the book