Page 37 of Trick Shot (Miami Blazers #1)

Chapter nineteen

~JACE~

The truck rumbles to a stop in front of Dom’s mansion, tires crunching over the gravel.

We’re home.

And I already fucking hate it.

The second I put the car in park, Dom unbuckles and pushes his door open like he’s got a Red Bull drip running through his veins. I follow him, walking around my black Shelby Super Snake.

“We seriously need to tighten up this week,” he says, yanking his bag from the trunk with one arm. “I watched that footage of our last practice again. Our forecheck was fucking embarrassing.”

I grunt, stepping up to grab Melody’s suitcase. “Fuck, Dom. Can we breathe for five seconds before you start running drills in your head?”

“No,” he cuts, slamming the trunk shut. “Vacation’s over. Tomorrow. Nine a.m. sharp.”

“Yeah, yeah,” I mutter, dragging the suitcase around, my entire body humming like I’m wired to blow.

Because Melody’s right there, standing on the sidewalk, arms folded, hair messy, lip between her teeth like she’s trying to pretend we’re not both remembering how I face-fucked her this morning.

“Here, Mel.” I hand her the suitcase, and our fingers brush. It’s nothing, just a blink of contact, but my whole fucking system reacts like I’ve been electrocuted.

“Thanks, Jace,” she murmurs, trying her best to act like she can’t still taste me on her tongue.

“Don’t be late tomorrow.” Dom claps a hand on my shoulder. “Coach is on one lately.”

“I’m not late,” I mutter, still staring straight ahead.

“You’re the one always rolling in with one skate laced.” He raises a brow.

“Bullshit,” I scoff.

Melody chuckles quietly behind us, and my heart goes straight to my dick.

Fuck me.

I risk a glance. She’s wheeling her suitcase next to Dom’s duffel bag, smiling to herself.

I don’t want her to go home. I don’t want to go back home without her either. I want to ditch Dom, take his sister, and go back to the beach house where I get to look at that smile forever.

Now that I’ve touched her, tasted her, talked to her, had her… letting her go feels impossible.

Dom slings his bag over his shoulder and heads toward the front door.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he calls. “Don’t be late.”

“Go stretch or something,” I shout back.

Dom’s halfway up the front steps, jangling his keys like a dad coming home from work.

“Don’t forget, Matthews—nine sharp. Not nine-ish. And don’t be hungover either.”

“I’m never late,” I mutter.

Melody walks past me, suitcase in hand, dressed in a loose oversized tee that should not be allowed to make my cock twitch, but here we fucking are.

I flash her my usual grin, the one Dom’s seen a thousand times.

“See you around, Melody,” I say casually with a lazy tilt of my head. No heat, no evidence.

Just two people who definitely don’t know what the other’s mouth tastes like.

“Later, Jace,” she replies, her voice just a notch too soft.

I give her one last wink, tongue in cheek, still wearing the mask. And then I turn back toward the car, tossing Dom a quick, “See you tomorrow,” over my shoulder.

“Don’t be late.”

The second the door closes behind them, my smile drops.

Gone.

Erased.

My hands fist the steering wheel the second I sit down, knuckles white. My jaw locks, and my chest is tight, coiled, and aching. Because all I wanted to do was kiss her goodbye. Just one.

And now that we’re not under the same roof? Now that I don’t get to see her every day, the ache in my chest says it louder than I ever will.

This is not where it ends.

The door shuts behind me with a hollow click. There’s no laughter, no music, no Melody.

Just fucking silence.

I drop my duffel in the hallway and stand there for a second, staring at the clean, polished floors like they’re mocking me. I’ve gotten used to Melody in my house, so now this feels like an empty cave.

I run a hand through my hair and make my way to the kitchen, open the fridge, close it again.

I’m not hungry.

I’m restless.

Fucking haunted.

One week surrounded by noise, chaos, guys yelling, beer cans popping, music blaring—and her. Always her. Her laugh, her smartass comments, her quiet smiles when she thought no one was looking. And now I’ve got nothing but the hum of the AC.

I pace. I sit. I stand up again.

My phone’s still in my hand, so I open our chat and my thumb hovers. I think about texting her, but I don’t get the chance. Her message comes in first.

Bunny: I already miss you.

Her message rips the air from my lungs and stitches me back together all at once. Because it means we’re still in it.

I stare at her message for a second, a slow grin curling my mouth. I type fast, without hesitation.

Me: Say the word and I’m coming to get you.

“Let’s run it again,” Coach barks.

I’m already bent over, gloves on my knees, lungs burning. But my blood’s still electric. My head’s clear and my body’s sharp.

“One more. Let’s bury this shit.” Dom skates past me, tapping my stick with his.

“You’re not burying anything with that freak in net,” I grunt, nodding toward Zed, who’s standing tall in the crease like he’s been summoned from hell itself.

He hasn’t let a single puck past him this whole fucking drill. Not even in warmups. And we’ve been throwing rockets.

He’s 6’7, 260 pounds, fully padded like a tank with reflexes like a cat.

And he looks bored.

“Yo, Tanner,” I call as we line up. “Don’t even bother with a slapshot. Try telekinesis.”

Dom drops the puck, and the drill explodes. The forward line cuts up the ice. Dom takes the zone like a heat-seeking missile, stick-handling between two cones before threading a no-look pass right to Tanner on the wing. Tanner winds up and fires, top shelf.

Zed moves—just the tiniest movement.

Glove save.

He snatches the puck out of the fucking air like a fruit fly.

“Told you,” I mutter, skating up behind Tanner. “Should’ve tried black magic.”

Zed flips the puck lazily out of his glove and tosses it back.

That’s what makes him so fucking terrifying.

“Let’s go again.” Dom circles back.

“We’ll break him,” I mutter.

“Will we though?” Tanner mutters back. “I think he’s not human.”

We line up for another run.

Dom wins the faceoff clean, flicks the puck back to me. I corral it, fake a slapshot, then send a stretch pass to Dom flying down the slot.

He dangles one of our defenders, cuts hard left, and fires it low glove side.

Zed drops like a guillotine.

Pad save. Puck kicks to the corner.

“Fucking hell,” I whisper.

The mood on the ice has shifted.

The vets are dialed in, we’re pushing, sweating, chirping like always. But the rookies? They’re dying.

One by one, their shoulders start sagging, their passes go soft, their shots become aimless. They’re not even skating hard anymore—not because they’re tired, but because they’re fucking defeated.

No matter how fast they cut through the zone, no matter how clean the play or how pretty the assist, nothing touches that net.

Zed doesn’t just block shots—he erases hope.

The kid from Michigan, Rylan, misses wide for the third time in a row and actually mutters, “What’s the point,” before circling back to the line.

Even Tanner, cocky little shit that he is, is quieter than usual.

I watch him skate up beside me for the next rush. His jaw’s clenched, his shoulders tight, and his confidence—the spark he had this morning—it’s cracking.

He’s breathing hard beside me. Kid’s got hands and speed, but his confidence is tanking with every goddamn save Zed makes.

“Tanner,” I mutter low. “Next one is yours.”

He nods, barely hearing me.

Coach calls the play, we take our positions, and the puck drops.

Rylan wins it again and flicks it back to me. I catch and send it wide to Tanner, who takes off like a shot, blades carving deep, eyes locked on Zed like he’s chasing a phantom.

He goes wide, cuts hard, and winds up. But I already know there’s no way it’s going in with Zed in the crease. Not unless the fucker dies mid-save.

Tanner fires. It’s a good shot—fast, tight, chest-high. Zed’s glove is already waiting for the puck, but then, almost unnoticeable, he moves it away just a hair. Not slow enough to make it obvious, but slow enough to let it through on purpose.

What?

The puck hits the back of the net and Tanner loses his mind.

“Yes!” he shouts, fist punching the air. “Wooo!”

He skates a wild victory lap, stick held high like he just won the Stanley Cup.

The other rookies erupt, sticks pounding and gloves slapping backs. The energy floods back into their bodies like a revival—their joy pure and infectious.

But all I can do is stare with my brows furrowed. Because I know the truth.

Zed let it happen on purpose.

I watch him, still as a statue in his net, but his eyes are on the cheering rookies. His lips twitch—just a flicker—as he keeps watching them.

A smile.

And suddenly, I realize what he just did. That wasn’t a mistake. That was an act of mercy.

I skate back, still staring at him like I’m seeing him for the first time.

“Did you see that shit?” I ask Dom, who glides next to me.

“Told you,” he says, his eyes on Zed. “He’s not all bad.”

There’s a ghost of something in his expression. Gratitude, maybe even respect.

“Well,” I look back toward the net. “Thank fuck he’s on our team.”

The next drill starts, and the shift is immediate. Zed’s done playing nice.

Whatever mercy he offered Tanner, it was a one-time thing. Now he’s a wall again, snapping pucks out of the air and diving for rebounds that shouldn’t even be possible.

Rookies try to recreate Tanner’s shot. No dice. Zed devours every one. You can feel it in the rink—the rise of frustration again. But this time, it doesn’t break them. Now, they’ve seen it is possible. And I know this is exactly why Zed did it.

They chase that glimpse like it’s salvation.

And me? I’m everywhere. I block a breakout pass with my shin and launch it back over the red line. I drop low and hook my stick around Matt’s ankle just to rattle him. Dom calls for a D-to-D switch, and I hit him with a crisp tape-to-tape pass without looking.