Page 22 of Trick Shot (Miami Blazers #1)

Chapter eleven

~JACE~

Coffee. That’s what I’m doing. Making coffee for Melody like a sane, decent man. Which is hilarious, considering I spent last night jacking off in the dark like a deranged fuck, listening to the girl I can’t have fall apart on the other side of the wall.

At first, I thought it was just one of the girls the guys dragged in.

But it only took two moans for me to recognize the voice.

Her voice—sweet, unsteady, and unmistakable.

I know exactly what she sounded like when I kissed her in the ocean.

Only, this sounded like she was trying to keep quiet but couldn’t help it.

And I listened. With my hand around my cock and my jaw clenched, I listened to her come.

The question is, who did she come to? Ghost?

Me? Which is hilarious because it’s all me.

Maybe hilarious isn’t the right word for it—maybe it’s ridiculous, torturous, and downright unhinged.

But I’m so far beyond coming up to her and saying, Hey, you know that guy you’ve been texting?

Yeah, let me hold your hand while I tell you this…

She’d chop my balls off. Hell, I’m sure she’d do it now without needing any extra reason to. I’m not sure if she kissed me because, in some ways, I remind her of him… of myself. Shit, this is a mess.

I pour the coffee into a glass half full of ice and add almond milk, which I specifically bought for her.

I got some weird stares from my teammates and had to lie that Zed is lactose intolerant.

No one would dare ask him if it’s true anyway, so it was the quickest and safest lie I could come up with.

I scoop up the bacon and add it to the eggs.

I know why she ran away from me last night. And it sure as fuck wasn’t because I’m her brother’s best friend. No. It was because Ghost fucking cockblocked me. I cockblocked myself.

One second she was kissing me back with her legs around me, the next her face changed. She looked at me like she’d crossed some invisible line and realized she was kissing the wrong man. But there is no wrong man. There’s just me.

And then she texted me. Texted him. Who are you? I stared at that message so long I see it behind my damn eyelids when I blink.

All this time, I’ve been the one begging for scraps. Trying to pull something—anything—out of her. Her name. A clue. A fucking hint. And she’d laugh. Say anonymity’s fun, and shut me out again. But now? Now the tables have turned, and I’m the one withholding it from her.

And if she wants Ghost that badly—if she wants to know who he is, if she’s finally ready to play the game she created—then she’s gonna have to try a little harder. I’m done handing myself over.

I’m still going to make her breakfast, though. So, I grab the tray and head upstairs. My heart’s steady, but my cock’s not. Every step reminds me of how she looked when she stepped out of the ocean—hair wet, body glistening from the water.

And then the moaning. How hard would she dropkick me if she knew I jacked off to her on the other side of the wall?

I reach the door to my old room on autopilot and knock. Seconds pass, feeling like minutes, before the door slowly opens.

I take a deep breath and plaster on my best smile. Wild, untamed hair is what I see first, then the sleepy eyes, flushed cheeks, and lips still swollen with sleep. Her shirt’s hanging off one shoulder and her legs are bare, making my grip tighten around the tray.

She freezes as soon as she sees me, her big, dark eyes rounding at the corners when they meet mine.

Say something, dipshit.

“Breakfast?” I offer, voice low.

“You… brought me breakfast?” She blinks at the tray like I brought her a bomb, her voice sleepy.

“Figured you’d rather not sip your coffee downstairs surrounded by sweaty men and someone else’s thong on the counter.”

The house is actually spotless, but any excuse I can get is good enough.

“Can I leave it inside?” I ask, pointing my chin at the room behind her.

Her eyes drag up to meet mine again, slow and suspicious. She’s clearly not expecting this. But then she moves, stepping aside to let me in.

Wow, that was easy.

I take a step in and set the tray on the dresser, glancing over at the unmade bed, imagining her with her hand between her legs, holding back her moans as she came with me last night. Even though she doesn’t know it yet, the thought is enough to send blood rushing to my cock.

“Almond milk, two sugars,” I announce, turning to face her.

“How do you know I drink almond milk?” she asks halfway through a yawn.

I use the opportunity and drag my eyes down her body. Deliberate. My gaze snags on the curve of her boobs through the shirt and the hem barely brushing those thighs I’m dying to part with my hands.

“Dom told me,” I lie, hating giving him any credit for it. I hand her the glass, and she takes it from me, careful not to touch me. She brings it to her lips and sips, throat bobbing as she swallows. I follow her reactions like a hawk, waiting for something to indicate that she likes it.

“If you think this excuses you for last night,” she says sharply, “you’re wrong.”

I raise a brow at her comment.

“Excuse me?” I echo, voice mock-confused. “For what, exactly?”

“You know what,” she fires back, yet still takes a sip of the coffee I made her.

“Was it the part where you wrapped your legs around me?” I tilt my head. “Or you moaning into my mouth? Or—”

“Shh.” She hushes me, putting her finger in front of her lips. “Are you crazy? Someone might hear!” she whisper-shouts, her cheeks turning red.

I lower my head and suck on the straw, taking a sip of the coffee she’s holding.

Tastes like watered-down breastmilk. How the fuck can she drink this shit?

“Someone meaning your brother?” I ask, looking up at her through my brows.

“Anyone,” she breathes, dazed and staring. And then, because I’m a bastard, I lean in, lips brushing the shell of her ear.

“Tell me something,” I murmur. “Was your hand as good as my mouth would’ve been?”

“What are you tal—” Her eyes widen, her lips part even more, and I watch the realization painting her face even redder.

“Thin walls,” I throw, straightening back to my full height. “Speaking of moaning…” I add casually. “Next time, maybe come to my room instead of dry-humping my pillows.”

Her eyes go even wider before she throws a pillow at me.

“You’re sick,” she says, coffee spilling on the hardwood from the force of her throw.

I block the pillow with my forearm, unable to stop the chuckle that escapes me.

“Better wipe that down.” I point at the coffee splash on the floor, still chuckling. “Paid a lot for the flooring.”

“Get out!” This time she sets the glass down on the tray and physically pushes me out of the room. I let her, laughing the whole way to the door. As soon as she shoves me out of my own room, I turn. And she’s already slamming the door.

It’s not even noon yet, and I’m already sweating.

Group workout, beach, sand, sun, and wind cutting across the ocean.

I’ve got sweat dripping down my back, arms pumped from resistance sprints, lungs burning like I’ve been chain-smoking.

Around me, the guys are all cracking jokes, tossing around water bottles, talking about who got lucky last night.

Someone’s talking about a brunette with a tongue piercing, another about two girls who pulled him into the upstairs bathroom.

I don’t say shit. I don’t even remember the faces of the girls I said no to. Not even sure I looked them in the eye. It was all just a blur of fake lashes and baby-voice desperation that felt like a fucking zoo.

“You okay?” Dominic jogs up beside me, chest heaving and glistening.

“Just resting. You really need to learn the definition of a vacation,” I scoff, wiping the sweat from my brow.

“Not talking about that.” He tosses me a sideways look. “We’ve been here for two days, and you already passed up a half-dozen girls throwing themselves at you.”

“Wasn’t feelin’ it,” I shrug, flicking off some sand from my chest, which only makes it stick to my sweaty palm.

“What?” he says, brows raised.

“None of them were my type.”

“Since when do you have a type?” That makes him slow his stride. “If it’s got a pulse and lip gloss, you’re usually upstairs by midnight.”

I shrug again, glancing at the waves, watching them roll in, violent and restless.

Since I met your little sister.

And suddenly, I’m not on the beach anymore. I’m back in a memory I never asked for. My mother, standing by the door with her suitcase, lipstick perfect, eyes colder than hell.

He makes me happy. I deserve to be happy, Bryan.

Then she walked out on us and didn’t look back. Not when my father cried, not when I did too. I was thirteen. My dad crumbled.

I learned right then and there that love doesn’t just leave—it destroys. I took a shot at it during my senior year. It was my first relationship, and boy, did I fall hard.

She cheated too—said I was “too busy” with hockey, that I was already married to the game, that I didn’t make her feel like a priority. I was seventeen, playing for a shot at the NHL. I thought I was doing everything right. Turns out I was just setting myself up to lose again.

So yeah, since then, I stopped fucking trying.

The girls that followed the team around became easier and safer.

They didn’t want my soul—just my body and a few pretty lies—and I gave it to them every damn time.

I built a reputation on it. The hotshot winger with the stamina of a god and the emotional availability of a brick wall.

I’m so fucking sick of it. Sick of fucking girls whose names I forget the moment they say it. Sick of being touched by hands that only want the jersey, not the man beneath it. Sick of feeling like a circus act.

I didn’t even want it in the first place. I was just young, dumb, and trying to fill a hole no one saw.