Page 5 of Trick Shot (Miami Blazers #1)

Chapter four

~MELODY~

The sun cuts through the curtains, hot and ruthless.

A sharp, golden beam slices straight across my face, burning through the thin fabric and landing directly on my closed eyelids.

I groan and burrow deeper into the covers, blindly scooting to the left, chasing shade.

But there’s only so far I can go. One more inch and I’ll roll off the side of the bed.

I peek one eye open. The other side of the mattress is glowing like it’s been blessed by heaven, and the AC remote is perched neatly on the dresser across the room, completely unreachable.

I groan again, louder this time, and dramatic enough for an audience I don’t have.

“Fine,” I mutter to no one, dragging myself upright to lean against the headboard.

I blink at the unfamiliar space around me. It’s only my third morning here, and I still half expect to wake up in my bedroom back home. But one look at the glass balcony doors and the ocean past them reminds me where I am.

I reach for my phone on the nightstand to check the time, but I’m not even surprised when the first thing that flashes on the screen isn’t the hour but a message from him.

GHOST: Dream of me?

I blink at the screen and smile before I can stop myself. He always texts first. Every morning, without fail. My fingers move before my brain wakes up.

ME: Did you?

His reply comes instantly.

GHOST: Every night. I might tell you about it if you promise to make it happen.

I drop my phone in my lap and cover my face with both hands, smiling into them. My chest warms the way it always does when I talk to him. Which would be fine if I hadn’t spent all of last night mentally undressing an NHL player in my brother’s house with my eyes.

A very real, very hot, very not-Ghost man.

What the hell is wrong with me?

I bring my phone back up and type out my reply as I chew the inside of my cheek.

ME: You’re not even going to wait until lunchtime before you start sexting?

Three dots appear instantly before his message arrives.

GHOST: And not have you pressing your gorgeous thighs together at breakfast?

My face hits the pillow as I groan into the mattress. And maybe whimper just a little.

I crack one eye open and peek at the screen.

ME: Already am.

I double-text before he has the chance to reply.

ME: But I’ll let you use your imagination for the rest. Time to go press my thighs together at breakfast.

One beat. Two.

GHOST: Want me to come and pry them open?

I choke on my own breath. My hand flies to my mouth like I can shove the gasp back inside. My entire face goes up in flames. The tight ache in my core only sharpens as my fingers fly over the screen.

ME: Isn’t that sexual assault?

I don’t even have to wait for his reply.

GHOST: No, it’s textual assault.

I can’t help the giggle that escapes me.

He does that—goes from filthy to funny in one text flat. From “press your thighs together” to a joke that actually makes me laugh out loud.

Still smiling, I text back, slowly inching closer to the edge of the bed until one of my legs swings over.

ME: Go take a cold shower while I file a report for textual assault.

I hit send and toss my phone onto the bed, but it buzzes before I even have the chance to get up.

I glance at the lock screen with the same giddy smile.

GHOST: You’re going to need my real name for that.

My smile falters immediately. Because that’s the thing, isn’t it?

I don’t know his name. I don’t know what he looks like, his address, none of it.

And that scares me. Because if I ask, if I push for more, if I meet him…

What if it ruins everything? What if he sees me and realizes I’m not what he imagined?

What if I see him and all of this magic collapses the second it has a face?

I pick up the phone slowly but don’t unlock it. I just stare at his message, heart ticking a little faster.

You’re going to need my real name for that.

Yeah. That’s what I’m afraid of.

I roll out of bed with a sigh, stretching my arms above my head until my joints pop, then pad barefoot toward the ensuite bathroom.

I’m still in my sleep shorts and a cropped tank top.

The mirror greets me with a sleepy, puffy-eyed version of myself that looks like she’s been through war.

Or in my case—a frat party hosted by an NHL captain who happens to be my brother.

I grab my toothbrush and start brushing, staring at myself as guilt slowly creeps into my reflection.

That man from last night floods my thoughts again.

His voice, his face, his energy that made my skin flush like I’d stepped too close to a bonfire—it all comes back.

Every time he spoke, my insides did this stupid flip thing, like I was in eighth grade and he’d just smiled at me during recess.

And the only other person who affects me like this is a man I’m too scared to see in person.

I rinse my mouth, spitting out my guilt with the toothpaste, but it clings to the back of my throat anyway. I wipe my mouth with the towel and head out.

I don’t even know who Ghost really is. He could be a 45-year-old guy with six kids and a neckbeard. But I know he isn’t. And I do know him. I know his thoughts. His humor. His pain. I know everything that isn’t visible on the outside or written on the dotted line on his birth certificate.

And yet, the man from the party invades my brain again. Mr. Abs McSmirky.

But the thing is... it wasn’t just the way he looked. It was the energy he carried. Cocky, flirty, sharp and teasing. It’s all a little too similar to Ghost’s, if I’m being honest.

But he’s not Ghost. Ghost is... words, wit, and late-night confessions. And this guy? That man looks like he’s never had a thought in his life unless it involved bench pressing or blow jobs. He looks like his deepest thought was probably whether protein pancakes count as a personality trait.

Still... my body had some thoughts about him last night. And they weren’t exactly rated PG.

I can’t think about this right now. I need coffee.

I open the bedroom door and step out into the hallway, the scent of fresh coffee instantly reaching me.

“Can you make me one too, Dom?” I shout as I hear the coffee machine finish.

There’s no answer, but I hear the hiss and hum of the espresso machine kicking on again.

“Thanks!” I call as I head toward the stairs, feet bare, the tile cool under my skin.

I move slow, stretching one arm over my head, yawning as I descend the first few steps. The house is spotless, with no sign of yesterday’s party. I know Dom has a cleaning crew, but I didn’t think they’d be this fast.

I round the corner, still sleep-heavy and nipple-forward, hoping Dom doesn’t have to leave for practice too early. I’ve missed my brother, so being able to have coffee with him before—

I freeze.

Dominic is outside. Through the glass doors, I can see him by the pool, phone to his ear, pacing in that I’m talking to a lawyer or the President way he does.

I furrow my brows.

Wait, then who the hell…?

My eyes shift to the kitchen where they land on him.

The man from the party is standing at the espresso machine—unbuttoned white shirt, abs out, tattoos like warpaint down both arms and his chest, hair a mess in the most intentional way possible.

And he’s smirking at me over the rim of a coffee cup as he makes the coffee I just very loudly demanded from upstairs. He’s watching me like he definitely just saw everything jiggling under this top. His gaze drags from my bare legs to the hem of my tank top, my lack of a bra very, very obvious.

I go still, my entire body locked. My brain does a hard reset.

“...You’re not my brother,” I say dumbly.

His mouth curves into a slow, filthy grin.

“Thank God.” He chuckles, his gaze unapologetically trailing down my legs, over my shorts, lingering a little too long at my chest before meeting my eyes again. “That would make the thoughts I’ve had in the past five seconds illegal in forty-nine states.”

My stomach does that thing again as he holds a coffee cup out to me.

“Your coffee,” he drawls, head tilting to the side.

I take the coffee he offers on autopilot. My pulse spikes as our fingers brush. He hands it over like the devil handing Eve the apple.

“I, uh.” I clutch the cup with both hands. “I’m gonna leave now.”

His grin deepens, eyes shamelessly dropping one last time to my thighs as he leans against the counter with zero shame and all the weaponized testosterone in the world.

“Only if you promise to walk slower on the way out.”

My mouth opens but no sound comes out. No smart-ass comeback, no only if you promise to go screw yourself. My brain short-circuits and immediately fires off three conflicting thoughts all at once. One—Ghost would totally say that. Two—this is not Ghost. Three—I need to put on a bra. Immediately.

I backpedal, half power walking for the stairs, gripping my coffee. As I reach the landing, I hear a little amused scoff, low and smug.

Who is this man?

And why does everything about him feel like someone gave Ghost a body, put it through a car wash of sin, and dropped him in my kitchen?

No.

I refuse to project Ghost onto this man just because I secretly hope Ghost looks like that too. This guy probably thinks emotional intimacy is a cologne. And I should most definitely stay away from him.

The house is quiet for once.

Dom left an hour ago for some team thing. Probably a strategy meeting or a gym circuit. Whatever it is, he took him with him. Thank God.

It’s not that I can’t be around him.

It’s that my body reacts like a fire alarm when he breathes within six feet of me.

And yes, I might be overreacting. But when your nipples say good morning before your mouth does, you start limiting your exposure to shirtless, tattooed athletes who look at you like they want to ruin your entire life.

So, I’ve claimed the living room.

Blanket burrito on the couch, coffee refilled, laptop balanced on a cushion.