Page 41 of Trick Shot (Miami Blazers #1)

Chapter twenty-one

~JACE~

The puck smashes against the glass and ricochets.

“Brooks!” Coach Bennett yells. “You trying to break the damn boards today?”

I raise a hand in apology but don’t speak.

It’s been a week. One whole week since Dominic walked in and saw me with Melody. One week since she was ripped out of my house. One week since I’ve seen her. And I’m going insane.

We’ve been texting, calling, talking. But it’s not enough. Not even close. She told me how the fight with Dom went, keeps giving me updates on how her brother’s handling it—that they’re good now, but he straight-up refused to discuss any topic regarding me.

I keep skating.

The drills are brutal before the first pre-season game. Which is good. I need brutal. I need something to punish my body, because I sure as fuck can’t punish my thoughts.

I fly past the blue line, cut hard, and drop the shoulder. Someone skates in too close, and I slam into him.

“Jesus, Jace!” he gasps, scrambling back up. “Take it easy, man. It’s just practice.”

Shit. It’s Tanner.

“Get up,” I grunt, pulling him off the floor. “This is the fucking NHL. You want hugs, go back to junior league.”

Coach blows the whistle. “Brooks! Ease up and save that for the actual game.”

I don’t ease up. Because when I slow down, I feel. And I don’t want to feel.

We’re doing breakouts next. I line up, Zed in net, glaring like Satan.

Dom skates up beside me, but we don’t speak. Haven’t since that night. On the ice, he passes clean, talks when needed, syncs with me—a total professional.

But off the ice? Cold as death.

We have a ritual—we tap sticks before each game.

Now the only thing my stick is tapping is the fucking ice as I stare at him.

Every inch of me wants to get up, grab him by the collar, and force the conversation.

I’ve tried to talk to him more than once, tried to get him to at least hear me out, but he can’t even look at me once we step off the rink.

It’s not his anger that gets me—it’s the damn silence.

We’ve never been like this. And I miss my fucking best friend.

I fly down the ice, stick-handling, sharp turns, body moving on muscle memory while my brain replays Melody’s voice from last night, telling me she misses me.

I almost drove to Dom’s house and demanded to have this out. But I promised Melody I wouldn’t. We talked about it. She asked me to give Dom space and time to process it and, hopefully, accept it.

I reluctantly agreed. Because I know Dom. I know he needs time to cool off before his brain starts working properly again. Because right now, it’s fueled by fury.

But I’ve been fucking drowning every second I don’t spend with her. And the only thing keeping me afloat right now is the thought of her in the crowd at our first game in a couple days. She promised me she’d come, that she wouldn’t miss it, that it would be my opportunity to finally talk to Dom.

And fuck, I need him to listen.

The lights of the arena are a thousand volts against my pupils.

The roar of the crowd swells around me, thick and pulsing—bodies slamming into seats, bass vibrating through the floor, EDM pounding from the speakers as fog cannons blast white smoke across the ice.

Cameras swing and fans scream as the anthem fades. The announcer's voice is a war drum.

“And starting on defense… number 18, JACE brOOKS!”

The second I step onto the ice and my blades bite the surface, adrenaline crackles in my bloodstream. I breathe for this—for that muscle memory, the packed arena, and that deep, familiar buzz in my bones.

I do a warm-up lap, fast and sharp, feeling the blades carve into the ice. The other team’s stretching out on their side. One of their wingers is already eyeing me like he wants to make a name for himself tonight.

Good. I hope he tries.

We run through the usual drills—passing, shots on net, quick sprints—and then it’s time. The refs step out. The players clear the ice except for the starting lines.

The lights lower slightly, the music fades to a hum, and the puck gets carried to center ice.

We line up. I drop into position, crouched low.

Tanner’s to my right. Dom’s on my left. He hasn’t spoken to me outside of what’s necessary for the team.

But as the ref skates over, puck in hand, Dom glances sideways, straight at me…

and taps his stick against mine. Once. Clean and sharp.

My throat tightens, and I look at him, but he’s already facing straight ahead as if nothing happened. I press my lips together to suppress the smile.

We’re getting somewhere.

The ref’s about to drop the puck, but I’m not looking at him anymore. I’m scanning the stands, heart in my throat, wondering where on earth—

There.

First row, slightly off-center. My girl. She’s leaned forward against the railing, eyes locked on the ice, and then they find mine. For a second, everything else vanishes as she smiles at me. And not some little half-smirk or polite nod—no, she lights up, and so do I.

I haven’t seen her in ten fucking days, and right now, every part of me is screaming to drop my stick, jump the glass, and go straight to her.

But I can’t.

Not yet. I have two games to win—one against the Tampa Phantoms, and one against her brother.

I’m drenched in sweat, everything clinging to my chest like a second skin, mouth dry as fuck, legs on fire.

Coach calls the final shift.

“Brooks, you’re up again. Moreal, go with him. Hold the goddamn line.”

My lungs burn and everything hurts in that perfect way where pain becomes background noise. But I jump the boards like I’m fresh.

Zed doesn’t need a reminder. He’s already standing tall in the crease like a gargoyle. He’s been waiting for someone to really try him all night, but they’ve only got a minute left. One minute to try and break through him.

And it’s not gonna fucking happen. That man hasn’t let a single puck past him all night. Not one. He’s a fucking monster back there.

I skate out for the final shift. My legs ache, my ribs feel bruised from the last hit, and my knuckles are raw from a mid-game scrap that got me two minutes in the box.

Dom takes his spot beside me and doesn’t say anything. Just cracks his neck and exhales. The other team’s coach is screaming across the rink. Their goalie’s already halfway to the bench.

They’re pulling him.

Extra attacker. Six on five.

But we’re up 1–0. I could lie down on the ice and take a goddamn nap, and Zed would still have us covered.

I look up at Melody again, who’s still watching me with furrowed brows. And I feel every ounce of energy I’ve got tunnel straight into focus. I nod once at her, and she presses her hand against her chest.

Fuck.

I’m gonna spend my life with this girl. But first, I’ve got a fucking game to win.

Puck drops.

They come in hot—pass, pass, shoot. The crowd goes feral. Opposing forwards swarm over the boards, skating hard, passing tape-to-tape like they’re trying to stitch a hole into our defense. My legs scream at me to slow down, but I dig in harder and square up.

Their left wing gets the puck and drives the corner. I crash into him before he can cut inside. Shoulder to chest. Boards thunder. He tries to fight through it, but I grind him down, keep him pinned just long enough for Dom to strip the puck.

Fifty seconds.

They regroup and come at us again. Dom sends the puck my way. I absorb the hit, keep the puck on my stick, pivot hard, and kill five more seconds just skating along the back wall like a dick before passing it back to Dom.

Coach is screaming something from the bench, but I can’t hear him over the crowd.

The other team floods forward, slick and vicious, desperation in their stride. They’re hungry and they’re fast.

But we’re faster.

Dom and I break into motion. He catches my glance mid-stride, just a flick of his eyes, but I know exactly what he’s about to do. He charges the puck carrier, and I hang back, shadowing the trailer.

Dom hits a guy full-body into the boards, legal but nasty. The puck pops free again. Their winger grabs it, tries to pivot left, but sees me too late. I knock his stick clean out of his hands and rip the puck.

Dom’s already circling behind me like a wolf, and without even looking, I fire it backward off the boards, right into his path. Dom scoops it up, cuts hard across the blue line. Two of their guys lunge for him, not knowing he’s just baiting them like flies to meat.

He drops the puck back. It’s a perfect pass, right on my tape. And I know exactly what he’s done—he’s pulled their D out of position, and now the right lane is open.

I fly in, cut inside one man, slam on the brakes just before the net, and whip it cross-ice again to Dom, who’s already there, stick down, ready.

He doesn’t even stop to aim—just blasts it top shelf.

Bar down. GOAL.

The red light flares behind the net. The arena goes thermonuclear.

I don’t even get the chance to react before Dom fucking slams into me, shoulder to shoulder, gloves still on, adrenaline crackling off him like lightning.

“Nice fucking feed,” he growls in my ear.

“Nice fucking finish.” I grin.

The crowd’s still roaring, waiting for the horn to sound—five seconds left on the clock.

We line back up at center ice. The ref drops the puck. I win the draw, snapping it back to our D. They chip it off the boards, eating the clock. The other team makes one last desperate rush, but we shut it down at the blue line.

The horn blasts.

Game over.

Miami Blazers win.

The crowd erupts like the roof’s about to cave in. The jumbotron flashes the final score in massive red letters, and the team collapses into a tangle of arms and jerseys and gear. We’re grabbing each other, cussing, screaming, pounding each other’s backs. The crowd is shaking the damn arena.

The jumbotron flips to camera footage of us celebrating—to Dom’s crooked smile, Zed’s cold-blooded nod, Tanner flexing for no reason, me…

Melody.