Page 2 of Trick Shot (Miami Blazers #1)

Chapter two

~MELODY~

There’s a sock on the lamp, three bras on the floor, and exactly one heel on my foot as I stand in front of the mirror questioning my life choices.

“Screw this,” I mutter, yanking off the shoe and tossing it onto the bed, where it joins the pile of chaos that is every single outfit I’ve owned since high school.

The bed looks like a boutique exploded. I cross the room, digging through the mess for the skirt I thought I wanted to wear, only to remember I threw it at the wall twenty minutes ago in a fit of indecision.

My hair’s done, my makeup’s decent. But my soul is considering sweatpants and lying in bed for the rest of the night.

A knock sounds at the door.

“Mel?” my brother calls. “You good in there?”

I sigh and fling open the door. Dominic’s already dressed in black slacks, white button-down rolled up at the sleeves, jaw set like always. He looks like someone important. Because he is.

“Do I look good?” I ask, motioning toward the chaos behind me. “Because this”—I gesture vaguely to the disaster zone—“is what a breakdown in real time looks like.”

Dom leans on the door-frame, eyes flicking over the room, then back to me. “The guys will be here any second.”

“You’re not even gonna help me pick something?”

“You always look nice.” He shrugs.

“Wow,” I deadpan. “That felt deeply brotherly and not at all like you’re trying to make me shut up faster.”

His mouth quirks. “Ten minutes,” he repeats, and turns to leave.

“Thanks, Dom,” I call after him. “Really feeling the support system here.”

When the door clicks shut, I exhale slowly and press my hands to my face. I need to calm down. It’s just a welcome party.

No, not for me.

God forbid anyone rolls out a red carpet for the girl who moved across the damn country to start her life over.

This one’s for a goalie—a new teammate transferring onto my brother’s team. A guy I’ve never met. A whole house of guys I’ve never met, actually.

Because apparently, the best way to break in your new city is to be the girl hovering in the corner while a pack of NHL players drink, shout, and chest bump like it’s the playoffs. Love that for me.

I moved here two days ago from our hometown in Pennsylvania. Graduated with a public administration degree I didn’t even want, packed up my life, and left the polite, clean-cut, high-expectation life of a senator’s daughter behind to become a florist.

Now I’m in a Miami mansion, living with my pro athlete brother, surrounded by boxes I haven’t unpacked.

And tonight, I get to put on a smile and pretend I belong in a room full of multi-million-dollar athletes.

I glance at the bed again, anxiety pooling in my stomach.

I could stay up here, get under the covers, claim period cramps. I could blame an allergic reaction to testosterone. But eventually, I’ll need food. And water.

My phone buzzes from somewhere under the pile of clothes on the bed. It’s muffled but unmistakable.

I turn my head toward the sound, halfway through pulling my top off. I let it hang off my neck as I scramble, tossing clothes off the bed like I’m digging for treasure.

“Oh my god, where…” I mutter, shoving aside a hoodie, and a bra I haven’t worn in three months.

There.

I dive for it like it’s the last slice of cake on earth. My fingers finally wrap around it before I pull it out and unlock it instantly. It’s him.

Ghost: How’s dress-up going, Bunny?

I stare at the message, sucking my bottom lip between my teeth to keep from smiling.

Bunny. He’s been calling me that since the night we met—last year’s Halloween party. Where I drunkenly gave my number to a man in a Ghostface mask with a voice like gravel and sin.

No names and no faces. Just me in a cursed bunny costume, and a forearm three times the size of mine that I wrote my number on with eyeliner. I wrote my actual number, not the number of a pizza place like he’d assumed.

I left that party, cursing myself for not bringing a waterproof eyeliner and wondering if the one I’d used instead would smudge and ruin any chances of him texting me.

It didn’t.

Later that night, I was lying in bed, still tipsy, still buzzing from the heat of his hand on my skin when he got too close, still thinking about the way he said things that made my knees go soft, when my phone lit up with a message from an unknown number.

I still remember every single word: “Large Alfredo pizza. Extra chicken. Buffalo wings. Garlic sauce on the side. Unless this actually is the killer bunny from the party. Then skip the garlic sauce.”

I remember sitting up so fast I nearly knocked over my lamp. I remember staring at the text for a full minute. But I replied. And I haven’t stopped since.

Ten months.

Ten whole months of texts, of jokes, of conversations that bled into 2AM confessions, of sharing playlists and dreams and late-night thoughts I wouldn’t even tell my therapist.

We don’t know each other’s names, we never show each other our faces, but we know everything there is to know about one another.

And what I do know is that he calls me Bunny. That he texts me first every morning. That he makes me laugh until I’m on the verge of tears, that he makes me blush, makes my thighs press together and…

I shake my head, feeling the familiar ache between my legs at the thought of our late-night conversations.

He’s never missed a single day. Not one. And every time my phone lights up with his name, I feel that same little flutter in my chest.

I stare at the new text, that dumb little smirk tugging at my lips before I can stop it. Ten months later and I still get butterflies over a guy I probably couldn’t pick out of a lineup.

Pathetic? Maybe. But also undeniably addictive.

I release my lip from my teeth and type out a reply.

Me: Send help.

His typing bubble pops up instantly.

Ghost: Show me the options.

I chew the inside of my cheek and glance at the clothes still strewn across my bed. Then my eyes land on the very short black skirt I tossed aside earlier for being too short.

I grab it, hold it up, and take a quick pic—just the skirt in my hand against the backdrop of my bed disaster.

Me: Should I wear this?

His reply comes back instantly.

Ghost: Absolutely not.

Ghost: Unless I’m around.

I drop my phone on the bed as I fight back the stupid smile stretching across my cheeks.

This is ridiculous. No one has made me giggle over texts. No one but him.

I reach for my phone again, fingers still tingling from his reply, when I hear the music downstairs crank up to house party level. There’s heavy bass, low thrum, and underneath it—male voices.

My stomach flips as I glance toward the mirror, still barefoot and half-dressed. I turn back to my phone and type out a reply.

Me: Try to stop me.

The music is already shaking the walls by the time I step out of my room.

Some heavy bass remix that makes the staircase vibrate under my feet as I walk down, each step louder in my ears than the last.

By the time I reach the first floor, it’s like I’ve been dropped into the middle of a war zone—one lined with men built like tanks, all shouting over one another about something sports-related and entirely unintelligible.

They’re everywhere—in the living room, near the kitchen, and dripping out onto the patio like they own the place. Which is hilarious, considering this is technically my new home.

But no one here looks like they just arrived. No one’s awkward. No one’s unsure. They’re laughing, tossing beers across the room, barking out greetings with the confidence of people who’ve been in this house a hundred times.

Meanwhile, I’ve been here for two days. Two days of cardboard boxes, conversations with Dominic, and overthinking every small choice like it’s going to ruin my reputation in a town where I know exactly zero people.

I tug at the hem of the summer dress I finally chose. It’s simple, soft yellow, fluttery at the bottom with tiny embroidered flowers that make me look less like a sad adult child and more like someone trying to embrace Miami sunshine.

I thought it looked sweet. Now it feels a little stupid.

Every man here looks like he was carved out of stone and dipped in tattoos.

Every woman looks like she walked off the cover of a summer swimsuit issue.

No one notices me at first. Faces blur past me, bodies pressed too close, conversations folding over each other like waves.

I scan for my brother, searching for something familiar, but he’s nowhere to be seen. I push further into the crowd, hoping I don’t look as lost as I feel, when a woman bumps into me near the kitchen.

She’s tall, legs for miles, wearing what I think used to be a shirt, now functioning as a dress with six inches to spare. Her blonde hair is glossy, lips over-lined, and her smile is anything but warm.

“Oh my God,” she drawls, pausing to give me a once-over. “I love your dress. It’s so... vintage.”

Her voice drips with that syrupy, manufactured sweetness that makes my skin crawl.

I blink with a smile and tilt my head.

“Thanks,” I say, cheerfully. “I love your dress. Very landfill couture.”

Her smile falters, and her veneers—too big for her mouth—slowly disappear behind pumped lips. Before she can recover, I brush past her like a breeze.

I disappear back into the noise, chin high, stomach tight.

A loud cheer erupts near the entryway, deeper voices overlapping like a ripple through the room.

“Yo, finally!”

“There he is!”

“Took you long enough, man!”

Something about the tone makes me glance over. Just a peek, to see what all the noise is about.

A man steps through the front door with the kind of confidence that says he belongs here.

He’s tall. Stupidly tall. Hair the color of burnt chestnut, pushed back in an effortlessly messy, windblown way that should look unkempt but somehow doesn’t.

His jaw is sharp and prominent, like it was hand-carved from stone.

Tattoos coil down both arms, dark ink against golden skin, stretching over a build so broad and solid, he could probably crush granite with his hands.

His eyes—hazel, I think—scan the men in front of him slowly. And then he smiles.

Holy. Shit.

Dimples. And a full, easy, dangerous smile. The kind that makes your stomach flip and your brain short-circuit.

I go completely still. Because in a room full of NHL stars, he’s the first man who’s made me stop and stare.

But before I can even process the electricity curling low in my stomach, the woman from earlier appears again.

She instantly throws herself at him, laughing way too loudly with her underboobs poking out from a hole in her “dress.” She places a hand on his bicep like she’s been waiting for this exact moment since birth.

And he grins, amused. It’s not flirty, but he doesn’t move away either.

“Of course,” I mutter under my breath, tearing my eyes away.

A sharp stab of something bitter twists in my chest before I can stop it.

Jealousy. Irrational jealousy.

I don’t even know him. He’s most probably one of Dominic’s teammates—another pro athlete who’s had women tripping over themselves since puberty.

Which means... I’ll probably be seeing him around.

Great.

I cross my arms and glance toward the back patio, willing my heartbeat to chill the hell out.

I need to find Dominic, grab a drink, do anything else but stare at a random man.

But my body doesn’t listen. Something about him—his size, his smile, the energy coming off him… it pulls.

So I turn. Just one last look.

He’s still standing near the entrance, the blonde woman still talking, still laughing like she’s the only one in the room.

Right when I’m about to turn back around, he casually reaches down and removes her hand from his arm.

No fanfare, no arrogance. Just a firm, polite brush-off that says “not interested.” And then he walks past her, right into the circle of guys calling for him with an ice-cold beer ready.

He takes the beer and takes a swig before his eyes sweep the area.

And they land right on mine.