Page 8 of Trick Shot (Miami Blazers #1)

Chapter five

~JACE~

The rink’s colder than usual, but the sweat’s already gathering under my gear.

Dom skates up the wing, fires a wrister top shelf… denied. That’s not something you see often.

Zed tracks it like he’s got a sixth sense and swallows the puck into his chest.

I blow out a breath, gripping my stick harder.

“Jesus,” I mutter, skating to center ice. “No wonder the guy costs more than half of our team combined.”

“Told you he’s good.” Dom circles back, grinning.

Yeah. No argument there. The dude’s a wall. A brick house with reflexes like lightning.

Coach whistles again.

“Run it back! Tanner, shift wide this time. You’re pinching too early.”

I nod, repositioning.

Defenseman’s job is simple in theory—lock down the zone, read the play, break up the rush. But in reality, it’s war. Anticipate, hit hard, skate harder, don’t fuck up.

The puck drops again. Nate, our center, wins the face-off clean and swings it back to me.

I absorb the puck with a soft catch on my blade, read the ice, then fire a sharp tape-to-tape pass up to Aiden, our left winger.

Smooth transition. We break into formation.

I trail just behind the rush, scanning, protecting the blue line.

I feel that pull toward the bleachers again, where I know Dom’s little sister is standing, watching us. Watching me. We’ve been stealing glances at each other for the past twenty minutes. My eyes snap to her again for the fortieth time in the past twenty minutes.

She’s standing with her arms crossed, eyes tracking the play but flicking to me when she thinks I’m not looking.

She’s always looking. And I’m always noticing. Something about her pulls at me like gravity with a grudge. That damn yellow dress from the party still haunts me. But now it’s the hoodie. My hoodie. And I love that she hasn’t given it back.

Aiden drops the puck back to me as I cross the blue line.

I receive it clean, fake left, drag right, skate the line, then snap a slapshot on net from the point. Rocket, perfect elevation, but still—blocked.

Zed tracks it like he read my mind two seconds ago. It’s a glove save—lazy and effortless.

Yeah, the guy’s great for the team. Not so great for my ego.

“Precognition’s cheating, dude,” I groan, circling back.

He doesn’t answer. Just skates out of the crease, flips the puck at my stick like a silent try again, and skates back in like a dark omen.

Practice keeps going.

Dom lays a brutal hip check on Nate during a 2-on-2 drill.

Griffin, our rookie winger, tries to dangle through the middle and gets absolutely flattened by me because that’s my fucking house, and he forgot to knock. I don’t play soft, I don’t play stupid, and I don’t lose fights in the corners.

Except right now, my focus keeps dipping. Every pass, every block, every pivot, I’m there. But a part of me is still up in the bleachers, watching her watch me.

I need to get my head back in the game or I’m going to start making mistakes.

And in this league, mistakes get you benched. Or worse—replaced.

Practice ends with a final whistle and a collective groan from the team. Zed doesn’t even look winded.

Asshole.

I skate toward the bench, chest burning, thighs shot, adrenaline still jacked from trying to snipe a puck past that mutant of a goalie.

But just before I reach Coach and Dom, my eyes flick up to her once more. She’s pretending to be looking around for something, scratching her cheek—something I’ve noticed her do every time she tries to look distracted.

I swear to God, there’s something else there. This weird weight in my chest every time I look at her. Call it a sixth sense, call it delusion. But she’s too familiar.

My brain is spinning with every conversation I’ve had with Bunny over the past ten months. Every time she tilts her head or rolls her eyes or half-smiles at something… it feels like her.

Maybe I’m just projecting. Maybe I’m so obsessed I’m seeing Bunny in strangers now. But this girl doesn’t feel like a stranger.

I strip off my gloves and helmet, wiping sweat from my brow as I skate over to where Coach Bennett and Dom are already deep in conversation near the bench.

Coach is leaning against the boards, arms crossed, expression unreadable behind that permanent I’ve-seen-more-ice-than-Santa Claus face of his.

Gray at the temples, broad shoulders, still built like he could step onto the ice and wipe the floor with half the league.

That’s the thing about Coach Bennett—he’s not just some washed-up pro clinging to relevance. He’s a legend.

Three-time Stanley Cup champion.

Four-time Norris Trophy winner.

Ten All-Star appearances.

And when he finally said fuck it and stepped off the ice, it wasn’t because he couldn’t play anymore. It’s because he wanted to teach the next generation how to dominate.

Now he coaches like he played—ruthless, relentless, and with a glint in his eye like he’s always three steps ahead of the game.

Standing next to him is Captain Fucking America himself.

“Mercer’s fucking good,” Dom mutters, pulling his helmet off and raking a hand through his dark hair. One stubborn strand falls over his left eye like always as he scans the rink.

Dom looks like the kind of man who doesn’t lose arguments, games, or sleep.

And when he skates, it’s like the ice parts for him.

“No shit,” I reply, breathing hard. “Guy’s a fucking wall.”

“Told you he’s beast,” Coach Bennett throws, crossing his arms over his broad chest.

“Although, I’m starting to think the dude’s mute.” I take a swig from my water bottle, wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. “Which is why I had an idea.”

Coach raises a brow, and Dom turns to face me.

“Team bonding trip,” I say casually, leaning back like I’m not about to manipulate the shit out of this situation. “Off-season’s short, and if we’re gonna make the next run count, chemistry needs to be tighter. Especially with Zed being new blood.”

“You’re suggesting a getaway.” Coach tilts his head slightly, studying me.

“Just a few days. No press, no pressure, just us. Train, relax, and build trust. And hopefully, get Mercer to use his tongue for something other than eating pussy.”

“Brooks.” Coach levels me with a look.

“What?” I shrug. “Is it that bad I wanna get to know our new goalie a bit more?”

“And where exactly are you thinking of taking Mercer to seduce him?” Dom snorts, skeptical.

“My beach house in Ozona,” I say, already knowing the answer.

“It’s thirty minutes out of Ozona,” Dom protests.

“Exactly. Close enough to the city to bail if someone crosses Mercer and dies, far enough to disconnect.”

Coach strokes his jaw, mulling it over.

“Yeah, look,” Dom starts, already skeptical. “I can’t leave my sister alone while I go off-grid.”

Exactly what I was hoping he’d say.

“Then bring her,” I offer, trying to sound uninterested. “House is huge. She’ll have her own room, space to breathe. Plus, you won’t spend the whole trip worrying she’s getting kidnapped.”

“You want me to bring my little sister to a house full of… us?” Dom glares.

“She’s living with you. She’s already been around us. She’ll be fine.”

“You just want an excuse to party and fuck all week.” Dom throws over his shoulder as he grabs his water bottle from the bench.

“Not entirely.” I shrug. “I’m dead serious about the bonding thing. The guy barely talks to us.”

“He’s new,” Coach reminds me.

“He’s weird,” I correct. “And terrifying. That’s two kinds of mystery we need to solve before the new season starts. We need this trip, Coach.”

Dom still looks unsure, which is fair, because I’m full of shit. I couldn’t give a fuck if Mercer talks to me or not. I need Melody under the same roof as me, and if Zed decides to open his damn mouth in the process, it’s a win-win.

“I’m sold on the trip,” Coach nods, his sharp eyes scanning the guys. “Team needs it. Mercer might too.”

And that’s that. Coach just cleared the runway.

“Perfect!” I clap my hands together once, all innocent-like. “I’ll send out the group chat. We leave Friday.”

“You handle logistics, I’ll clear the schedule.” Coach gives one of his rare smiles, sharp and approving.

Dom doesn’t stop staring, like he knows I’ve got another reason. Because I do—his little sister. I want her in that house, I need her under that roof. Close enough for me to watch her, learn her, confirm what’s clawing at the back of my skull.

“I’m pretty sure your sister won’t mind a vacation.” I shoot Dom a look and make it casual as hell.

“You might be right,” he shrugs one shoulder, looking up at her.

I follow his gaze and find hers—brows furrowed, no doubt wondering why both of us are staring at her.

I’m already picturing her in a bikini on my beach deck. Let’s see how long I last before I lose my goddamn mind.

The locker room’s loud. Wet towels hit tile, jokes fly, and empty water bottles clatter to the floor.

I’m toweling off, jersey peeled halfway down my torso, when I see Zed stepping out of the showers.

Steam trails behind him, water dripping down his tattooed torso that looks like it could stop traffic and punch through brick. And yes, the tattoos definitely disappear beneath that towel. The fucker even walks intimidating.

He grabs his locker door, yanks it open, and starts dressing like the rest of us don’t exist. Like he’s never had a reason to talk and doesn’t want one.

I shake my head, leaning over to Dominic.

“Alright, Captain,” I say, voice pitched just enough to make a scene. “You gotta be honest with me.”

“About?” Dom doesn’t even glance up.

“I know you said you and Zed used to be friends back in the day, but are we sure he wasn’t created in a lab somewhere in D.C.?” I point toward the man-mountain behind us to the right.

“You’re obsessed with him.” Dom snorts.

“Not obsessed. Concerned. I just think the league should know if we’re harboring a one-man apocalypse.”