Page 6 of Trick Shot (Miami Blazers #1)

The soft hum of lo-fi plays from the speaker as I scroll through real estate listings, chewing absently on my thumbnail. I’m toggling between tabs—“Retail spaces for lease,” “Florist startup,” and fifteen more—when my phone buzzes beside me.

GHOST: If the dream I had of you last night isn’t the death of me, this fucking meeting will be.

My stomach flips the same way it does each time he texts me.

ME: I didn’t know carpenters had meetings.

A couple minutes later, my screen lights up again with his reply. It’s an image—a stock photo of a forest.

GHOST: My colleagues.

I let out a soft snort and move my laptop to my side, fully focused on my phone now.

ME: They look very down to earth. Are they pining for approval?

GHOST: Two puns in a row? Outstandingly atrocious work.

I smile. The kind of slow, involuntary smile that only he can bring out.

I type back.

ME: Should I sit in the corner and think about what I’ve done?

GHOST: Having you across my knee would be more effective.

I bite my lip, warmth spreading through me at the thought. Just a text from him is enough to make me ache in that soft, awful way.

ME: I’m looking at rental spaces for my flower shop, perv. Stop distracting me.

He doesn’t reply right away, but when he does, I can’t stop the smile from stretching across my face. He’s sent a few links to rental spaces in Pennsylvania.

GHOST: I could be more specific if you give me a city at least. I’d find you the perfect space with French windows and plenty of light.

I set the phone down for a second, chest a little tight now. I mentioned French windows once in passing months ago and he remembered. Just like he always does. Every small, quiet detail I never thought anyone heard.

I stare at the screen, thumb hovering.

I’m not used to being listened to. Not with parents who were always too busy winning elections. Not with a brother who’s too busy breaking NHL records for me to feel like my flower shop is important enough for his time.

But Ghost remembers everything, and he brings it all up so casually. Like it’s not a big deal.

He makes me feel seen. Not like some politician’s daughter with a pretty smile and “good breeding,” but like a real person. A whole one.

I glance back at another overpriced listing on my laptop. A shoebox in downtown Miami for a price that makes me want to scream. I exhale hard and close my tablet, letting my head fall back against the cushion.

This dream... it’s not just a hobby. It’s an escape plan.

I’ve loved flowers since I was a kid. Something about taking something and watching it thrive with just a little time and patience. I still remember the first time Dominic helped me plant seeds in the backyard. I was six and he was twelve. I cried when the daisies bloomed.

It’s always been that simple. I want to nurture and build.

But my parents don’t believe in flowers. They believe in power and legacy.

They believe in marrying me off to some senator’s emotionally stunted son so we can strengthen political alliances like this is Game of Thrones.

They gave me one year and zero dollars to start this business. To prove it’s real and viable.

If it fails, I go home and become a puppet in a Chanel suit. I smile at press events and pretend I care about zoning policies. I marry someone who probably refers to women as “females” and brags about crypto at dinner.

No. I won’t let it happen. But I’m scared of proving my parents right. Of letting Dominic down after he fought tooth and nail for his own escape and gave me the chance to make mine.

The sound of the front door closing echoes faintly through the upstairs hallway, followed by deep voices.

They’re back.

I freeze halfway through scrolling a real estate listing that’s almost in my price range if I give up food for six months.

I know one of the voices belongs to my brother. It’s confident, deep, and smooth. But the other? The one that’s more gravelly and rougher…

Of course he came back with Dom.

Of course they’re on the patio now, probably making drinks at the outdoor bar.

I crack the balcony door of my room and step out. Their voices get louder as I peek over the railing.

There he is, sprawled back in a chair across from my brother, tattooed arms relaxed over the sides. Head tilted as he says something that makes Dom laugh and shake his head.

And just like that, I feel it again. That low, slow buzz under my skin, like my body’s reacting before I can even think. It’s heat and guilt all at once.

I want to look away, but I don’t.

Because of course my plan to stay the hell away from this man was never going to work. Not when it looks like he’s best friends with my brother.

Just as I’m about to peel my eyes away from him, he lifts his chin and looks up.

Like he felt me watching him, like some sixth sense just gave me away.

Our eyes lock before I can react. My heart skips and slams back into my ribs at the same time. Those hazel eyes squint slightly, full of amusement and challenge. Slowly, his mouth curves into a slow smile.

I step back like I’ve just been burned, breath catching as I throw myself behind the edge of the wall.

Oh my God.

He saw me.

I wait five seconds as I press my back to the wall, heart still slamming.

Then count to ten before I slowly peek over the railing again.

But he’s not looking anymore. Dom’s talking now, animated and ranting about an article he read about their team yesterday.

And his teammate is still smirking, as if to himself.

It’s been an hour. He’s still here, still outside with Dom, probably talking plays and stats and whatever else hockey players talk about.

I sit on my bed, glaring at the time, my phone, the last message I sent to Ghost—which I still haven’t received a reply to. And I’ve been thirsty for the past thirty minutes.

This is ridiculous. I’m not going to tiptoe around my brother’s house. I didn’t move here to be a prisoner of the bedroom just because my brother’s teammate has dimples and the most symmetrical bone structure I’ve ever seen.

Screw it.

I’m getting a drink and going outside. And if I just so happen to be doing that while he’s still here… well, I just have to remind myself what kind of a personality sits behind that face.

I’m already making my way down the stairs, their voices becoming louder and clearer.

The glass doors to the patio are still open, letting in a steady drift of ocean breeze.

It’s crisp and way cooler than I expected for a Miami night.

I turn back for the stairs with a sigh, going back for something to throw over my shoulders.

I pause mid-step, spotting Dom’s black hoodie slung over the couch.

I quickly grab it and tug it on, the sleeves swallowing my hands as I walk into the kitchen.

The scent of the hoodie wraps around me—clean laundry with a hint of cologne underneath.

The hem hits the tops of my thighs as I make my way to the fridge and take the pitcher with the lemonade out.

The ice inside clinks as I set the pitcher down on the counter and look down at my phone. Still no message from Ghost. I stare down at the screen, fingers flying over the keyboard.

ME: I can’t sleep.

I glance out at the patio. He’s still there, smiling and looking like temptation and trouble incarnate.

I scoff, putting my phone away.

Why the hell am I doing this? Why am I staring at this man through the glass like I’m waiting for his phone to light up? Like I want it to be him?

But it’s not. Ghost makes me feel like I’m safe. This man makes me feel like I’m unraveling.

Still… the resemblance in the way they carry themselves is uncanny.

Same height from what I remember, same build, same way of talking to me like he knows me. Like he’s waiting for me to admit that I want to fall apart in his hands.

I pull my gaze back inside, staring down at the pitcher before turning around for a glass. I’ve got too much riding on this year to get distracted by someone like him.

I make my way to the cabinets when my phone buzzes. My pulse spikes as I fumble to get my phone out of my shorts faster. The screen lights up, but my hopes go out as I read a message from my friend from back home.

LENNIE: If money didn’t matter, I’d say number two. But just looking at those prices has me chewing my nails.

I’d sent her links to some of the rental spaces I liked. Apparently, I’m not the only one thinking the prices are ridiculous.

The click of the fridge behind me is soft but enough to startle me. I spin fast, hand flying to my chest.

The upper half of his body is hidden behind the fridge door, but I already know it’s him by the way my heart won’t calm down. He comes into view as he closes the door, a new beer in hand.

Our eyes meet and my heart tries to leap out of my chest and hide in the sink.

“You always this jumpy?” He cocks an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth twitching.

My stomach clenches. So do my thighs.

“Only with wild animals,” I force out.

That earns me a slow chuckle, lazy and amused. He takes a step closer, beer in hand, eyes still fixed on me like I’ve become far more entertaining than whatever conversation he left behind on the patio.

And I smell it. The hoodie’s scent hits harder now, only this time it’s not coming from the hoodie. It’s coming from him.

The realization slams into my gut.

Oh.

Oh no.

My fingers twitch at the hem of the hoodie.

“Shit,” I mutter under my breath, half to myself.

His eyes drop, tracking the motion. And then he leans in just enough to brush the words right against my skin.

“Quite snappy,” he murmurs, “for someone wearing my clothes.”

My entire body locks. Heat detonates in my stomach and pulses straight between my thighs.

I blink at him, then down at myself, like I need proof.

“I thought it was my brother’s. I didn’t mean to…” Panic flares as I scramble, grabbing the hem, trying to peel it off.

But he steps forward and tugs the hoodie down. A slow, deliberate stop.