Page 17 of Trick Shot (Miami Blazers #1)

Chapter nine

~JACE~

The sun’s high, the water’s warm, and half the team is already trying to kill each other with a football that’s seen better days.

Tanner’s bleeding from the knee, Dom’s barking out plays like we’re prepping for the Super Bowl, Matt and Nate are close to passing out, and Zed’s standing ankle-deep in the water like an Olympic god watching over everyone.

The rest of the guys are slung over the sunbeds, snoring, sunbathing, and day-drinking.

Me? I can’t stop watching her.

Melody’s parked on a lounge chair under one of the big-ass umbrellas I had set up this morning.

Her arms are stretched, sunglasses on, one leg crossed over the other.

Her curly hair is piled on top of her head in a messy twist, a few strands stuck to her neck from the heat.

She hasn’t moved in over an hour. Just flipping pages of a magazine like the rest of us don’t exist.

She hasn’t looked at me once. Not once. Which is impressive considering I’ve walked by her four times. With my shirt off. Dripping.

That moment in the hallway yesterday? She nearly gave in. She wanted me to kiss her.

So what the fuck is this?

Silent treatment? Revenge for making her confront what she feels? Or maybe she’s punishing me for not kissing her. For stopping myself.

I rake a hand through my hair, sweat still clinging to my neck, arms sore from the so-called light workout Dom made us suffer through at 7 a.m. sharp.

He had us doing sprints down the beach while the sun was still rising. I thought I was hallucinating a crab that gave me the finger halfway through our last set of burpees.

I look back at his little sister. She hasn’t gone in the water and hasn’t taken off her beach dress. And as much as I hate that she’s withholding me from seeing her in a bikini, I’m also glad. Because the second she strips in front of the guys, I’m going to be doing push-ups on someone’s face.

I walk toward the bar, passing her chair for what might be the fifth time. My eyes flick down as I pass.

Oh. Now this is interesting.

She’s got the magazine open on her lap. It’s one of those glossy, overpriced ones that smells like department store cologne and thinks calling an athlete “enigmatic” is journalism.

I’d bet a hundred bucks they used that exact word for their article on Zed.

And what’s she looking at? A full spread on us—the Miami Blazers. It’s a double-page feature with a photo of the full team and a column titled “The New Dynasty of the South?”

I grin.

Gotcha.

I stop walking, double back a step, and lean down slightly, letting my shadow fall right over her page.

“You could’ve just asked for a signed copy,” I murmur, voice low.

She startles—just a tiny flinch. Then she exhales slowly, not even glancing up.

“I wasn’t even reading that one.” She flips the page and taps on it. “I was reading this one,” she says coolly. “About some tennis player’s DUI and his emotional support parrot.”

“Right.” I glance down at the article again.

“Yours just happens to be bleeding onto his story.” She shrugs.

I chuckle, because the only thing on that page other than the article about our team is a sidebar that says Meet the Blazers’ Hardest Hitters with a quote from me that literally reads: I don’t play nice. I play to win.

So yeah, baby. You were reading me.

“Damn,” I say, squinting like I’m pretending to try to find this parrot. “Crazy guy. I’m pretty sure he’s not on our spread though.”

“You’re sure about a lot of things,” she mutters, still not looking at me.

“I’m sure you looked at the photo too.”

“Nope.”

“You didn’t see the arms?” I flex slightly. “Or the abs? They convinced me to wax for that shoot. That’s dedication.”

That earns me a barely-there twitch of her lips. I lean down slightly, close enough that I catch the scent of her sunscreen and something floral.

“You’re bad at lying, Melody.” I whisper, voice low enough that it hits just behind her ear.

She turns her head to look up at me over her sunglasses.

“I’m just selective about who deserves the truth,” she says, sweet and slow.

“Selective, huh?” I murmur, straightening up. “Guess I’ll have to work for it.”

She slides her sunglasses back up her nose, flipping the magazine shut like I don’t exist.

“I doubt you’ve ever worked for anything in your life.”

Couldn’t be further from the truth.

“Guess I’m about to start.” I grin.

The sun’s starting to turn golden, but it’s still hot enough to fry my skin as I walk toward the house, needing a cold beer.

The house is mostly quiet when I step inside, the music muffled. I walk through the open-concept living room as if this house hasn’t witnessed the slow unraveling of my self-control for the last twenty-four hours.

I head to the kitchen, yank the fridge open, and lean into the cold, hoping it can fix what’s wrong with me.

There’s a lineup of beers stacked neatly on the middle shelf.

Dom’s brand, my brand, someone’s shitty brand.

I’m standing there, debating between basic and alcoholic depression, when something red flashes in my peripheral vision.

Not a normal red, either. It’s a fuck-me red.

And before I even turn my head, I know whom it belongs to.

Melody’s beach dress is gone, and in its place is a red bikini that looks like it was painted onto her body.

Thin straps, tied tight at her hips, a top that barely contains anything, and her body... It’s pure punishment. It’s her saying, Look at me and suffer.

And I am.

My throat goes dry, and my cock jumps to full alert. All I can do is stand there and stare for the two seconds I have before she closes the distance and—fuck—

She brushes past me.

No. She doesn’t brush. She presses past me.

Her ass drags right against my dick as she leans into the fridge in front of me, reaching for a bottle of water. My hips jerk forward on instinct, and my hands go to the edge of the fridge door. I need something to hold so I don’t fucking lose it.

“Excuse me,” she says, soft, sweet, and absolutely evil.

Her voice is dripping with innocence, but her body is shouting “I fucking dare you” in neon signs.

My jaw flexes, and so does my cock, straining against my swim shorts.

She straightens, water bottle in one hand, then grabs an apple from the bowl on the counter. She turns her head toward me and gives me a small smile that’s nothing but sweet poison.

So this is what we’re doing now, huh?

She places the water bottle on the counter and, with that same sweet smile and an apple in one hand, turns to walk towards the glass cabinet.

Oh no. No fucking way you’re leaving, Bunny.

I let the fridge slam shut and move before I can even think. One arm wraps around her waist, yanking her back hard. A gasp escapes her lips as I spin her in one fluid motion until her back hits the fridge door. I’m towering over her, one hand still on her hip, the other braced beside her head.

She blinks up at me, lips parted, pulse racing in her throat.

“Was that on purpose?” I growl, voice so low it vibrates through my chest. “Or are you just naturally cruel?”

“You were in my way.” She tilts her head, playing coy.

“I’d like to be in something else right now.”

Vulgar, I know. Fucking sue me for being a little more than affected by this woman.

There’s heat in her eyes, a little panic, a little challenge. A cocktail of touch me but also don’t you fucking dare.

“Red,” I say, eyes dragging down her body.

“Something wrong with red?” She blinks innocently, but her breathing gives her away—and so does the flush in her cheeks.

Nothing wrong with red, Bunny. I simply want to rip every fucking inch of it off.

“You’ve been ignoring me all day.” My eyes flick up to hers.

“I’ve been busy enjoying myself,” she throws, yet it has no bite.

“Right. Busy reading articles about me.”

“I wasn’t reading about you,” she says, breathless. “I was reading about the parrot.”

“You rub your ass on every guy you’re not reading about?” I ask, holding her gaze.

Her eyes narrow and her mouth parts like she wants to snap something back. But that’s as far as she gets. Because she knows what she did.

I press in closer, our bodies almost touching now.

“You think I won’t do something about this?” I whisper, fingers flexing on her hip.

Her hand lifts to press against my chest, but it’s not pushing. It’s clinging. Her fingers curl into my skin.

“I think,” she starts slowly, “that you have no idea what to do with me.”

My head drops to her ear, the scent of her getting stronger.

“I know exactly what to do with you,” I murmur, drawing out each word.

She sucks in a breath just as I lower my mouth to her neck.

“Do you know what to do with me?” I whisper.

She doesn’t speak, but her other hand joins the one on my chest. She’s still clutching onto the apple.

“Tell me to stop,” I murmur, lips grazing the edge of her ear now.

Still nothing. Her chest rises and falls fast, her lips are parted, her eyes on my shoulder.

I bring my left arm down and tighten it around her waist. Then I reach between us and wrap my fingers around her wrist. Her hand is still clutching that shiny red apple, and her eyes widen as I bring it to my mouth.

Our gazes stay locked the whole time as I open my mouth and use her hand to guide the apple to it.

I take a clean bite, slow and deep, lips brushing the edge of her knuckles as I sink my teeth in. Juice runs down the curve of the apple, and I watch her swallow like she’s the one who bit into it.

“Mm.” I hum, licking a drop off my bottom lip.

She exhales sharp, eyes wide, stunned silent. Her pulse is erratic under my fingertips, her hand’s still frozen mid-air, and her mouth’s parted like she wants to say something but forgot every word she’s ever known.

We’re so deep in it that we don’t hear the footsteps until it’s too late.

The ice machine hums to life beside us.