Page 11 of Trick Shot (Miami Blazers #1)

I grip the strap of my bag a little tighter as I move around to the backseat. I swing the door open and climb in, sliding into leather that’s already warm from the sun.

The second the door shuts, I’m wrapped in it.

Him.

The scent is everywhere—on the seats and in the air. It’s all him. That dark, clean, masculine scent.

I shift slightly, legs crossing as Dom gets in the front seat with a sigh like this entire trip is already testing his patience.

“We’re meeting the guys at the arena first. They’re carpooling from there.” Dom adjusts the mirror, pulling his seatbelt over his shoulder.

Jace’s hand casually reaches forward to mess with the playlist, scrolling until something heavy and rhythmic starts vibrating through the speakers.

“Perfect road trip music,” he mutters, leaning back into his seat. One arm draped over the window, the other lazily tapping his thigh in time with the beat.

God, even the way he sits is cocky.

The car pulls out of the driveway, smooth and powerful, and I watch the house disappear in the side mirror, my stomach tight and fluttering.

I just got locked in a very fast, very expensive cage with a man who’s going to undo me.

And we haven’t even hit the highway yet.

I look away, out the window. Anywhere but at the ink and muscle sitting in front of me.

Twenty minutes later, we pull into the arena lot. Most of the guys are already there—duffle bags slung over shoulders, coffees in hand, leaned against various high-end vehicles.

Dom kills the engine and hops out first.

Jace doesn’t move immediately.

Instead, he takes a slow drag of the air outside, one arm hooked casually over the open window. Then he throws me a look over his shoulder, smirk in place, before he follows Dom.

I take a second longer to gather myself. I smooth my hands over my shorts and pretend like I haven’t been staring at the back of Jace’s neck for the past twenty minutes wondering what it’d taste like.

I’m no better than a man.

I finally decide to stay in the car, since most guys are already hopping back into theirs. But I do roll down the window, letting in some of the suffocating heat from outside and the low growling purr of a car—mechanical and mean.

Heads turn, conversations falter, even Jace stops mid-laugh. Crawling into view like a threat made of metal and malice is a black McLaren, polished and gleaming. The engine throbs under the hood, and the windows are tinted dark enough to be illegal.

It pulls into a spot near the edge of the lot, away from the other cars like it doesn’t want to be touched, seen, or acknowledged. It doesn’t shut off. Nobody gets out.

Through the dark windshield, I can barely make out the silhouette behind the wheel—one hand draped lazily over the top of it. Two fingers lift. That’s it. A slight, effortless flick off the steering wheel meant to be a greeting.

“Jesus.” Jace exhales slowly beside Dom.

“Still not used to this new version.” Dom rubs the back of his neck.

“Who is that?” I glance at them through my open window.

“The reason for our trip.” Dom says, still watching the McLaren.

Ah. The new goalie.

“He’s not getting out?” I squint toward the car.

“Zed doesn’t do social anymore,” Dom says simply. “He’ll follow us there.”

The SUV rolls to a stop in front of a massive store in Ozona. It’s somewhere between a mega gas station, a grocery store, and a place that sells coolers big enough to hide a body.

Dom shifts the gear into park and twists in his seat. “Supply run. Grab what you want. Food, drinks. Last pit stop before the house.”

Jace stretches with a groan, his massive forearm almost hitting me in the face, before he opens his door and hops out. It’s fascinating to see how well he can act like he didn’t corner me against the kitchen counter while my brother wasn’t looking.

“Aren’t we staying in Ozona?” I look out the window as all the doors swing open almost at once like a synchronized exhale.

“The house is thirty minutes out,” Dom says, popping his door open.

“I thought you said we were staying in Ozona.” I frown.

“I said it’s around Ozona,” he corrects me.

“Now you sound like Jace.” I narrow my eyes.

“Don’t insult me this early in the trip,” he deadpans over the slam of his door.

I grumble and follow him out, squinting under the blazing Florida sun. The parking lot starts to flood with players—loud, sweat-slicked men who move like it’s spring break.

“Go get what you need.” I know Dom meant it as a suggestion, but he makes everything sound like an order. “You’ve got twenty minutes before Jace starts filling the cart with nothing but jerky and Red Bull.”

Dom heads toward the store, and I follow.

I grab a basket and trail in behind him, the AC blasting me in the face as soon as the automatic doors open. The store is massive, yet old-school and weirdly charming. Shelves are packed tight with everything you could think of—and a few things you probably shouldn’t.

I begin filling my basket with things I might need while stranded in Jace’s frat house. I look down at the contents of my basket—razors, magazines, a couple of books, travel-size toiletries, and a hat with cherries on it. I’d do great in a zombie apocalypse.

I need some snacks and drinks.

I round the corner toward the refrigerated drinks, where two of Dom’s teammates are getting circled by a cluster of women.

I look around, noticing more of them coming into the store, phones in hand, looking around.

They’d look like normal women on a girl trip if it weren’t for the way they light up as soon as they see the team.

All long legs and shiny hair, crop tops and smiles way too big for this time of morning. Like moths to flame—or sharks to blood.

I’ve heard Dom talk about “puck bunnies” on several occasions.

The term flashes through my brain—a joke I’ve heard tossed around a thousand times.

The girls who hang out near the arena, know practice schedules, who the single players are, and somehow a few of the players’ addresses.

According to Lennie, they’ll sniff out a jersey faster than a bloodhound on meth.

I’d never really seen one in the wild until now.

My gaze moves instinctively, scanning for Jace. Why? I’ll ask myself that same question once I find him. Because all I can think of right now is one of them around him.

My legs start moving through the aisles, my eyes absently scanning the shelves, not focusing on anything. That’s until I spot a large silhouette from the corner of my eye and turn toward it.

Jace.

He’s standing near the energy drinks, leaning against the fridge, his head slightly tilted to the side.

And there’s a woman in front of him—short blonde hair, a belt for a skirt, and a scarf for a crop top.

She’s laughing at something he said, acting like it’s absolutely revolutionary.

Her hand rests lightly on Jace’s forearm as she talks, head tilted, lips glossy.

Jace isn’t really entertaining her, but he is letting her talk to him.

It’s enough to make something ugly curl inside my chest. My fingers tighten around the plastic handle of the basket just as the girl squeezes Jace’s bicep with awe. And I hate that I’m wondering how it feels under her hand. I hate that I’m still watching, feeling something I’ve never felt before.

I try to tear my eyes away, telling myself I don’t care. I shouldn’t care. But my eyes stay glued on him.

Just as the girl starts to say something else, Jace turns his head.

His gaze cuts through the space between us and lands right on me.

Everything inside me stills as his grin starts to grow—slow and knowing.

Without breaking eye contact, he winks at me.

It’s the kind of wink that makes your knees forget they’re supposed to hold your weight.

And then he turns away from her mid-sentence. No hesitation, just a polite nod, and a deliberate step around her. His shoulder brushes past hers, and he walks straight toward me.

I should turn and head the other way. I should move. Instead, I feel something wicked crawl up my spine—hot and satisfied.

He pauses at the end of the aisle to grab something before causally making his way over to me while I pretend to look at a bag of Turkish delight that I don’t even like.

He stops beside me, and my pulse kicks. I look up, and he’s already looking down at me. His eyes shine with amusement, the corner of his mouth tugged up in a smirk.

“You need something?” I say, raising my chin.

“Only if you provide it,” he murmurs.

I open my mouth to respond, my stomach suddenly full of butterflies.

But I still manage a flat, “Only in your dreams.”

“For now.” He grins before glancing down at my basket and casually tossing the item he grabbed from the shelf inside.

I frown and look down.

Sunscreen.

“You didn’t have any,” he says simply, like this is a conversation we’ve had a hundred times.

“You don’t know what’s in my bag.”

“I know what’s not in your basket,” he counters, voice lower.

“This”—I hold up my basket, waving it slightly—“isn’t my entire luggage.”

“You want me to put it on you myself?” he asks playfully, but still manages to make it sound like a threat.

“You’re not touching me,” I scoff weakly, shaking my head.

He gives me no warning before he leans in, causing me to press my back against the shelves. He lowers his head, his lips a breath from my ear.

“Not until you beg for it,” he murmurs, fingers gently sliding up my arm.

My heart misses a beat, my brain short-circuits, and the throbbing between my legs comes back.

I’m so aware of every single movement he’s making, the way his eyes switch between my left and right one, drinking in my reaction.

He’s affected just like I am, but I have a feeling I’m the only one falling apart right now.

He pulls back, eyes skimming over me with all the patience of a man who knows he’s already in my head. Then he turns, saunters down the aisle, and disappears.