Page 3 of Trick Shot (Miami Blazers #1)

Chapter three

~JACE~

I’m halfway through my second beer, perched against the edge of Dominic’s kitchen island, talking shit with the guys as if I haven’t been glancing at my phone every thirty seconds like a middle schooler with a crush.

It’s loud—the music is booming, bottles clinking, laughter echoing off marble and glass—but even with a full house and half the team acting like they’ve never seen alcohol before, my attention keeps dragging back to the last message on my screen.

Bunny: Try to stop me.

My thumb is hovering over the keyboard, thinking of at least four different replies, all filthier than they need to be.

It all started last Halloween, with a single text, which turned into an all-nighter, which in turn became ten months of non-stop talking—and somehow, the highlight of my days.

I still don’t know what she looks like under the bunny mask, still don’t know her real name—so I’m left with Bunny. It’s what I’ve called her since.

Someone’s arm locks around my neck and yanks me sideways. I don’t even need to look to know it’s Dom. No one else manhandles me like I’m still nineteen and crashing his couch after a bender.

“Get off your damn phone,” he says, his voice already hoarse from shouting over the music.

“Nah,” I scoff, shoving him off with a crooked smile. “Not until your mom texts back.”

That gets a laugh out of a coward of the guys and a hard shove to my ribs by my best friend. I pocket my phone and hand him the beer that might as well be piss water.

“Take it,” I mutter. “I need something stronger.”

He swipes the beer from me and takes a swig. I exhale, drag a hand down my face, and let my eyes wander the area.

Same shit, different zip code.

Puck bunnies in designer dresses, players already starting to take bets on who’s going to black out first, and a fully catered bar that looks like it belongs at a wedding.

“This all for the new guy, huh?” I ask, raising a brow as Dom reappears beside me with a glass of something dark, beer forgotten.

He follows my gaze and nods once, chin jerking toward the open patio doors.

I shift slightly to get a better look. Sure enough, standing at the edge of the patio like he’s sizing up every threat in a ten-mile radius, is a guy I’ve only met twice in person and heard about a million times as much.

Our new goalie, Zed.

The dude’s huge—and not just in a hockey-player way. I mean fucking huge. Built like a Goliath, tattooed from neck to knuckles and probably places I don’t want to imagine.

There are already four women orbiting around him, each one touching their hair, giggling, leaning in like they’re auditioning to be his next victim.

Yeah, judging by the looks of him, victim’s the right word.

“Christ. He’s been here ten minutes and they’re already trying to ride his face.”

“Heard he’s single,” Dom shrugs, sipping his new drink.

I still can’t fathom how he and Zed played hockey together when they were little kids. I think it’s mainly because I can’t picture Zed as anything little.

“Not the point,” I say, already turning toward the bar setup outside. “The point is I haven’t even made a proper drink yet and he’s got groupies forming a prayer circle around his dick.”

“Jealous?”

“Only of the quiet,” I mutter. “I’d kill for that kind of intimidation.”

Dom laughs as I head outside, dodging a drunk girl in heels and a drunk Nate arguing with Alexa about the music.

I reach the bar and grab the bourbon, pour a splash straight into the nearest glass, and toss in exactly one cube of ice so I can pretend I have class.

The music’s still thumping behind me, but my brain’s already drifting to what I actually want to be doing tonight—working on the rocking chair sitting almost finished in my workshop.

Because apparently, when I’m not skating and fucking, I carve furniture like a retired lumberjack with commitment issues.

It started as a hobby—therapy with sharp objects. Something about raw wood and a chisel makes me feel like I’m in control of my life.

But this one is not a project to kill time. It’s hers.

She once told me—somewhere in the middle of a midnight text spiral about rainy days and death by Chinese food—that she’s always wanted a proper rocking chair.

I laughed, called her an old lady.

I should’ve left it at that.

Instead, I picked up a slab of maple the next day and started building the damn thing for her.

She doesn’t know. Hell, she probably doesn’t even remember saying it. But I do.

And now here I am, at a party drinking bourbon with two blondes deepthroating me with their eyes from across the room. And I’m thinking about a woman I don’t even know the name of—and building her furniture like we’ve been married for forty years.

I need help. Or an exorcism.

I swirl the bourbon in my glass, watching the ice clink.

One sip in and I already know how a night like this used to end.

I’d probably pick the hottest one in the room—maybe a blonde with too much lip filler and dead eyes—and either take her home or fuck her in one of the guest rooms upstairs so I don’t have to deal with the awkward you can go now speech.

She’d make sure everyone heard it, and I’d pretend like I care. And the second it was over, I’d feel like someone scraped the inside of my chest out with a plastic spoon.

Again.

Sex used to work. It used to be fire and dopamine and blackout bliss.

Now I can’t get the job done unless I imagine Bunny underneath me.

Because none of them are her. None of them make me laugh like her. None of them put me in my place like her. None of them get under my skin the way she does with just a goddamn emoji and a comment about wanting a fucking rocking chair.

I tried. Fuck, I really tried.

When Bunny first laid down the rules ten months ago—no names, no faces, no meeting up—I told myself it was a game. Something fun and light. A late-night fantasy I could walk away from anytime.

But somewhere between our fourth week of texting and her tenth rant about Dune vs. Star Wars, I stopped just wanting her. I started needing her.

Like if she didn’t answer for a day, I’d lose my goddamn mind.

But the sex? At first, it kept happening—primal, mindless, just scratching the itch.

Then I stopped.

Because it was empty. Because every girl felt like a stand-in. Too shallow. Too wrong. Too… not Bunny.

Every night ended with me staring at my ceiling, wondering what the fuck was wrong with me.

I and hated feeling guilty as fuck every time I unzipped my jeans around someone that wasn’t her.

Not because she asked me to be hers. But because in my head, I was already starting to be.

I asked her for her name. Tried to play it cool the first few times, like I wasn’t dying to know. I slipped in jokes about meeting up in person, sending her a one-way ticket to Miami, maybe even kidnapping her.

She responded back with laughing emojis and deflection like she thought I was joking.

I wasn’t fucking joking.

I offered to come to her. I told her I’d fly out to Pennsylvania—no pressure, no expectations, just a cup of coffee and months’ worth of deep conversations and sexual tension to unpack. I needed to see her.

She said no and that it’d ruin things. Said this was supposed to stay anonymous and fun.

I tried to coax her out with whatever I could, to make her give me something that could point to who she is.

Anything—the first letter of her name, her last name, the university she graduated from.

She dodged it all. And I had no clue how to cope with that.

I kept wondering why the fuck I’m hooked on a girl who won’t even tell me her goddamn name.

But the truth? No one else could touch what she gave me with just a text. Nothing compared to her smart-ass comebacks at 2 a.m., her secrets, her feelings, her dreams and fears. Even if she didn’t want me in the way I wanted her—even if she wouldn’t let me find her.

And fuck, the theories I had in my head about why she was hiding from me—maybe she has a boyfriend, or she’s married—but none of it fit.

I look back at one of my teammates making out with a redhead near the fridge and scoff, suddenly remembering where I am.

If this party goes the way most of them do, I’ll need something strong. So, I down my whiskey and reach for the bottle again. But then something shifts.

It’s not a movement, not even a flash of color. Just this weird pull, like gravity has teeth and it just sank them into the side of my neck.

I lift my eyes straight ahead, and they immediately land on a girl. She’s standing near the couch like she’s never been to one of these parties before and doesn’t give a single shit about pretending she has.

Dark, long curls spill down her back, soft and wild, like they’d wrap around your fingers if you tried to tame them. Her skin is warm-toned and glowing under the gold lights, cheeks naturally flushed, mouth full and soft, nose small and buttoned, and dark almond-shaped eyes.

She’s gorgeous. Not in that over-glossed, perfectly contoured, silicone-shined way most girls here chase.

She looks real, wrapped in this fluttery yellow summer dress that moves with the air like it’s dancing just for her. There are little embroideries near her hem, and the way it hits just above her knees, showing off her bare thighs, makes me grip my glass tighter.

She’s swaying gently, like the beat is a private thing only she can hear. And she’s not trying to be noticed.

Which is exactly why I can’t stop looking.

And right there, I hate myself a little more. I just spent the last five minutes spiraling over Bunny, thinking no one else could do this to me. And this girl is blowing all that shit to hell just by existing.

And for just one breathless, bone-still second, I forget what the fuck I’m doing.

I’ve been in this house a hundred times. I know all the faces of the regulars. The teammates’ girls and the girls who want to be one.