Page 9 of Trick Shot (Miami Blazers #1)

Dom leans back, finally looking at me with a crooked grin. One strand of hair falls over his brow like it always does, and for half a second, he looks less like an NHL captain and more like he’s modeling Calvin Klein underwear.

“You sound like you’re in love with him.” Dom barks a laugh. But then his smile fades just a little.

“You know,” he says, quieter now, “he wasn’t always like this.” He pauses, pulling his sock straight. “Back when we played juniors together—like fifteen, sixteen—he was different. Always smiling, always too loud. Fucking hilarious, actually. You couldn’t shut him up.”

I blink at him. Hard to imagine that man cracking a single joke without it sounding like a murder threat.

“We used to room together,” Dom goes on, voice lower, more thoughtful. “He’d pull pranks, hide everyone’s gear, eat half the protein bars and blame the goalie coach. Everyone loved him, especially the girls.”

“Okay, that part I believe,” I nod, leaning against the locker.

“But now…” Dom shakes his head, like he’s still trying to make sense of it. “This isn’t the same guy I remember.”

“What do you think happened to him?”

“I don’t know,” he admits. “But it’s something that flipped a switch.”

I look back at Zed slamming his locker shut. He’s dressed now—black hoodie on, dark hair still damp from the shower. His light eyes sweep the room beneath thick eyebrows, and his expression is the same as always. It’s cold, borderline vacant.

And for the first time, I stop seeing him as a silent tank and start seeing something else entirely. Something tightly sealed. Like if you cracked him open, the shit inside wouldn’t be blood—it’d be glass shards and gasoline.

Yeah. Something definitely happened to that guy.

The night is warm, the crickets are buzzing from outside the glass doors, and the lights from the pool flicker over the patio, covering everything in lazy gold and blue.

Dom’s on the phone, talking with Coach about the headcount for Ozona. His voice drifts faintly, but I’m barely listening. I’m leaned back on the couch, phone in hand, beer balanced on my thigh.

Group chat’s going off with players excited about the trip, half of them already suggesting who’s bringing what liquor and who’s in charge of making sure Nate doesn’t forget underwear again.

Dom walks up to me, chuckling.

“Group chat’s on fire. You might’ve actually done something useful for once.”

I give him the finger and turn my attention back to the one thing I’ve been focused on all night.

She’s out there, sitting alone on the patio.

Her legs tucked up, glass of cold water sweating beside her phone on the table.

She’s reading, the soft book light reflecting off her cheekbones.

Her curls are pulled up, and my gut is fucking screaming.

It’s been a couple of days of watching her.

And every goddamn time she speaks, looks at me, tilts her head in a challenge—it’s like déjà vu.

That attitude, the rhythm of her sentences, the way she bites back. It all reminds me of Bunny.

Unless I’ve actually lost my mind and started projecting my wet dreams onto Dom’s baby sister.

Still, I need to be sure. So I open my chat with Bunny again for the fifteenth time this evening, finally deciding to do what I actually came here to do.

I type slowly.

ME: Missing me, Bunny?

I glance up and send it, holding my breath. A second later, her phone lights up.

Her eyes shift as she glances at it before picking it up.

She unlocks her phone, the soft light catching her face, and smiles.

A slow, curling smile. My chest tightens as I watch her type something out, fast. Then she sets the phone down again, casually.

I barely have time to blink before my own phone vibrates.

My stomach drops as my eyes flick to the screen.

BUNNY: Seems like you’re the one missing me.

The blood drains from my fucking head. My eyes snap back to her. She’s smiling to herself while adjusting her reading light.

And I’m about one second away from snapping the phone in my hand clean in half.

Dom’s still talking. His voice is somewhere behind me, something about room assignments or Coach’s texts or who’s in charge of groceries.

I don’t know. I can’t fucking hear a word because my mind is spiraling.

My foot’s on the gas, and every thought is a new exit ramp I blow right past.

It can’t be her. It’s too easy, too coincidental, and too fucking cruel.

My best friend’s baby sister? The girl I’ve been sexting and fantasizing about and carving fucking furniture for? Unless I’m so deep into this obsession I’m seeing things. Filling in gaps with shit that makes sense in the darkest, most fucked-up corner of my brain.

Dominic’s little sister. I shake my head.

I need more proof. I need something that can prove—

And that’s when I remember one of the photos she’s sent me. My thumb’s already scrolling through them until it lands on the one I’m looking for.

It’s a close-up picture of a tattoo—a small red heart right behind her ear. Her only tattoo. I’ve stared at that pic more times than I’ll admit.

And if this girl has it… no more guessing.

***

It takes five minutes for her to finish her water and walk in for another glass.

I have my nose buried in my phone, pretending I don’t hear her footsteps, the way they pause at the threshold like she’s deciding if walking into this kitchen is smart or suicidal.

She waits one beat before finally crossing the massive living room and walks toward the adjacent kitchen.

“Came to see if I left another hoodie lying around for you to steal?” I glance over my shoulder.

She halts halfway to the fridge, cheeks already going pink from my question. Yet, she straightens her spine and tilts her chin up like she’s got claws tucked under her ribcage.

“Might do good on eBay,” she fires back.

“You selling it or framing it?” I huff a laugh.

“Depends. How famous are you again?” She tilts her head to the side, her brows furrowed in fake confusion.

“More than you can handle.”

Her eyes roll, but the flush in her cheeks deepens.

And fuck if I don’t want to trace that heat down her neck with my mouth.

She opens the fridge and pulls out an already opened bottle of wine.

“Drinking alone?” I ask, already up on my feet and walking toward the kitchen. I can’t fucking help myself.

“Clearly,” she throws as she reaches up to open a cabinet.

Her hand stretches toward the wine glasses on the top shelf. She’s on her toes, arm reaching, fingers just barely grazing the edge of the glass. I move on instinct, crossing the space in a few easy strides and stop behind her.

She gasps the second she feels me behind her.

I reach up, easily plucking the wine glass from the shelf, chest grazing her back in the process.

She stiffens as she feels me behind her.

Every curve of her body molds against mine.

My pulse spikes from the way her body molds against me, the top of her head almost reaching my shoulders.

She’s barely breathing as I hold out the glass in front of her face.

“Here,” I murmur, leaning down.

She hesitates for a second before she takes the glass, her fingers brushing against mine.

“Thanks,” she whispers, barely breathing.

I release the glass and put my hand on the counter, half-caging her in.

“You can step away now,” she adds, voice still weak.

I stay put.

“Do you want me to?” I ask, letting the tip of my fingers trail along the curve of her arm.

She takes a sharp breath, her shoulders hitching in the process. But she doesn’t move away or shove me back.

I lean in, letting my lips hover an inch from her ear.

“I’m starting to think you like it when I corner you.”

“And I’m starting to think you like imagining things.” She bites out a sharp, nervous scoff. “Dom will be back any second. He’ll break your face if he sees what you’re doing.”

My smirk deepens as I lean lower, right against her ear.

“Why?” I murmur. “I’m just getting to know his little sister.”

She’s frozen in place, her hand still wrapped around the glass sitting on the counter in front of her, which I can barely see from her wild curls. So I reach up slowly. My fingers gently brush her hair behind her ear, pushing it aside.

I hold my breath as the delicate skin of her neck comes into view. And then… a tiny red heart, sitting hidden behind her ear.

Exactly where I knew it’d be. Exactly like the photo Bunny had once sent me.

My hand drops, and so does my heart. I stagger back one step, then another as everything tilts. Sound vanishes. The air thickens.

She turns her face, looking up at me from the corner of her eye, cheeks flushed pink, completely unaware of what just happened. Completely unaware that after ten long months, I finally found her.

And suddenly, the world is fucking sideways.

It’s 1:17 a.m.

My workshop smells like sawdust and bourbon and whatever desperation is dripping off me right now. Sweat clings to my skin, my hands are covered in sawdust, and there’s a half-carved rose blooming across the top rail of the chair I’ve been working on for months.

For her.

I run the sandpaper slower than I need to. I don’t need to sand it anymore, but if I stop moving, I’ll start thinking. And right now, this is dangerous territory.

Dom’s sister. The same girl I flirted with ten months ago in a mask. The same girl I’ve been texting day and night. The same girl I told things I’ve never told anyone.

It’s ridiculous how many things come back to me now that I know the truth.

She told me she was moving into her brother’s place to live with him for a bit while she figured shit out.

And me, the fucking idiot I am, pictured some suburban Pennsylvanian house in the middle of nowhere. Her brother just some normal guy with a golden retriever and a lawnmower.

Not Dominic fucking Moreal. Not my best friend and captain. Worst part is that he knows about the girl I’ve been texting. Hell, he’s seen some of our chats, completely unaware that his baby sister’s on the other side. He’d break my teeth if he knew what I’ve been doing with her over text.

I stop sanding and drop the tool, staring at the rocking chair. I thought knowing who she is would finally give me some relief. If she were anyone else, it definitely would. But this? It’s like getting your wish granted with a knife to the throat.

I pick up my phone, fingers twitching. I know she’s still awake. She always texts me goodnight before she disappears for the night. Her last messages stare back at me from the screen, letting me know she’ll be having dinner with her brother. I still haven’t replied.

But because I can’t help myself, I text.

ME: Where did you say your brother lives?

I drop my phone onto the workbench and grab my carving tools. The need to push the truth out of her itches under my skin, stronger than ever.

It takes five minutes for her reply to come through.

BUNNY: Why? You planning on kidnapping me?

My lips twitch upwards. God. Even now, through this, she still makes me fucking smile.

ME: That obvious?

Her reply lands like a jab to the ribs.

BUNNY: You’ll actually be doing me a favor by getting me away from my brother’s teammate.

I stare at the screen, trying to process that she’s talking about me… to me.

And the fact that she wants to get away from me.

But I play along, trying to see what information I can get out of her.

ME: Teammate? What exactly does your brother do?

The dots appear.

Pause.

Disappear.

Reappear again.

Then… nothing.

I wait, pulse kicking harder. She’s hesitating. Then it finally comes.

BUNNY: He’s a football player. Nothing big, he just does it as a hobby.

I blink a slow, stunned blink.

Oh.

So we’re lying now. We’re blatantly fucking lying. A football player as a hobby?

Dominic has more trophies than most people have fucking teeth. He’s on a billboard near the fucking arena. Her brother’s the team captain for a reason.

Jesus.

What else has she lied about?

I stare at the screen for a few more seconds before texting back.

ME: What about his teammate?

I hit send and hold my breath. I watch the typing dots pop back up. My hand’s gripping the edge of the workbench so tight I might crack the damn thing in half.

BUNNY: I can’t stand being around him. Absolutely insufferable.

My stomach drops as my eyes go over the words. Jaw clenched, I run a hand through my hair.

Is that what she thinks of me? That’s what she sees?

I drag a slow breath through my teeth.

Okay. Cool.

You can’t stand being around me but you can tell me about your day. About your dreams. About your fears, your thoughts, your goddamn fantasies at 2 a.m. You can ask me to describe how I’d undress you with my teeth. But you can’t stand being around me.

I start texting back, playing it off. Because if there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s smiling through getting emotionally curb-stomped.

ME: Want me to break his kneecaps or just dislocate his jaw?

I let out a bitter laugh. I’m threatening myself now. And for some reason, I want to push further.

I press my thumbs to the screen again and type.

ME: Sounds like I need to add him to my death note. What’s his name?

She leaves me on seen for a few seconds, no doubt wondering if she should tell me. The tension curls in my gut like a loaded spring as she starts typing, taking way more time than needed to type out my name. It finally comes.

BUNNY: Jason.

My mouth falls open and I almost burst out laughing. This girl really just butchered my name.

Jason.

The laziest, closest thing to my name she could’ve come up with. And I laugh, loud and cracked, finally losing it.

Jason? Sure, baby.

Insufferable? She has no idea how right she is, but she’s about to. Because if she thinks “Jason” is a problem?

She hasn’t met me yet.

And I’m just getting started.