Page 4 of Trick Shot (Miami Blazers #1)

But her? She’s new. And by the looks of her, she’s not a puck bunny. She’s not clinging, not loud, and not dressed like she wants to be seen from space.

She’s just there—beautiful, out of place, and completely unforgettable. And somehow, she’s the most captivating thing in the entire house.

Like the rest of the world is glitching in the background, and she’s the only thing rendered in 4K.

Is she someone’s date? Girlfriend? Because if she is, I need to kill the thought I just had about biting the inside of her thigh.

And if she’s not? She’s fair fucking game.

I blink, my brows furrowing as a thought slithers past my mind, slow and ugly.

Maybe I am my mother’s son after all.

I spent years trying to piece my father back together after she cheated and left us—swore I’d never turn into something that resembles her.

But how long can I fucking keep doing this? How long can I keep waiting for a girl who won’t even give me her name?

I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve had this conversation with myself. It all ends with the same conclusion—I can’t fucking let her go.

On the other hand, maybe this is what I need—a distraction. Something to finally rip Bunny out of my head and give me a reason to stop building furniture for a ghost.

I set the empty glass down with a little too much force and start moving across the room like I’ve already won and I’m just collecting the prize.

I get close enough to catch the scent of her—something sweet, maybe cherries, and definitely familiar.

She doesn’t look at me, which only makes it worse.

I stop beside her, lean one arm against the couch, and let my voice drop low.

“Pretty bold wearing an embroidered dress around this many men with mommy issues.”

She blinks and turns to face me, craning her neck.

Her dark eyes lock on mine, and even though she’s looking up at me, it feels like she’s staring me down.

“Pretty bold assuming I’m wearing it for any of you.” She raises a brow, unimpressed.

Oh. Fuck. Yah.

“I like bold,” I murmur, grinning instantly. “Especially when it comes with a mouth like yours.”

“Does that line usually work?” she asks, eyes scanning me. “Or are you just hoping I’m drunk enough not to notice how recycled it sounds?”

Goddamn.

Okay.

“All right. I deserved that one.” I let out a low chuckle, tilting my head slightly.

“You walked into it.” She shrugs one shoulder.

“You’ve got bite.” I glance down, taking her in now that I have her in front of me. She’s even more beautiful up close. Ridiculously so. “I like that,” I add, voice dropping just enough to hint at where my mind’s already gone.

“Most men do,” she says dryly. “Until it’s aimed at them.”

Jesus fucking Christ.

My teeth sink into my bottom lip, but it doesn’t stop the grin stretching across my face. I take in the soft curve of her jaw, the shape of her mouth, the way her lips pull tight before she hits a punchline.

Something about her… her energy and sharp tongue make me see Bunny in her.

My brain keeps trying to make it fit, but my mystery girl lives in Pennsylvania—far from Miami and far from me.

Still, something crawls up the back of my neck, like an odd itch. Familiarity.

I shift slightly, eyes narrowing, and she catches it.

“What?” she says.

“You remind me of someone,” I say truthfully, before I can think better of it.

Her lips twitch. “That’s what all guys say right before asking if we’ve matched on Tinder.”

I laugh again, surprised at how quick it comes.

“Do I look like I need Tinder?” I say, flashing her a grin.

“You look like you’re going to forget my name the moment you hear it.”

“Not unless you make me say it again and again,” I counter.

She rolls her eyes, but I catch the corner of her mouth pulling.

God, I want to see her smile.

“You need a refill?” I glance down at her drink.

“Mine’s good.” She holds up the glass.

“Mine will be better.”

She snorts. “I don’t drink with strangers.”

“I won’t be a stranger for long,” I say, plucking her drink from her hand.

There’s a beat, just long enough for her to tilt her head and aim those almond-shaped eyes right at me.

“I wouldn’t be making me drinks if I were you,” she murmurs, but her eyes gleam with something I can’t quite understand.

My brows furrow for half a second because what the fuck does that mean?

“Lucky for me, you’re not.” I give her one last smile and head toward the outdoor bar, slipping through the crowd, feeling the weight of her stare against the back of my neck.

It’s not until I reach the bottle that I realize my smile hasn’t faded—not even a little. But by the time I turn around with her glass in my hand, one of our rookies has already sidled up to her.

Her smile is polite and uninterested as he keeps talking to her, but it still hits wrong.

I don’t even know what I’m feeling.

Annoyed? Sure.

Possessive? Probably.

Unreasonably territorial over a girl I met ten minutes ago and flirted with like a fucking caveman?

Yeah. That too.

I hear Dom stepping up beside me with the driest sigh I’ve ever heard.

“Seems like he didn’t read my message in the team group chat.”

What?

I glance over, frowning.

Dom lifts his beer, nodding toward the rookie who’s still trying to win the girl over with whatever weak-ass line he’s throwing.

“Luckily, she can take care of herself,” he chuckles. “But if someone touches my sister, I’ll break their fucking hands.”

I blink.

Once.

Twice.

“That’s your…” I glance toward her again, hoping there’s another girl in her place and we’re not talking about the same person.

But no. She’s still standing there—thighs and curls and fire in a dress that’s too fucking short for my self-control.

“You said your sister’s younger.” I look back at him.

“She is younger,” Dom says slowly, giving me a weird look. “I told you she’ll be staying with me for a while.”

“Yeah, I know, but…” My brain refuses to accept what it’s being told.

“What’s the matter with you?” Dom asks, looking at me like I’ve lost it.

And maybe I fucking have, because when he said baby sister, I pictured braces and pigtails.

Some teenager with a curfew and a Pinterest board titled Study Motivation.

Not someone I just mentally pictured in at least eighteen different positions—including one that probably defies the laws of physics.

I drag a hand down my face. A part of me wants to laugh at the absurdity; the other part still has her pinned underneath me in my mind.

Fuck. Me.

I glance back at her like I’m seeing her for the first time.

She catches my eye, reads my expression instantly, and gives me a look full of amusement.

I stare at her, drink in hand, wondering if Dom would make it look like an accident, or simply murder me in front of everyone once he finds out how I’m imagining his little sister.

And in that exact moment, two truths slam into me.

One—I should walk away and try to get my best friend’s sister out of my fantasies.

Two—I’m not fucking going to.

Because that look she’s giving me right now? That told you so little smirk?

It’s one of the hottest things I’ve ever seen.

And I am so, so fucked.