Page 10 of Trick Shot

I cross my arms and glance toward the back patio, willing my heartbeat to chill the hell out.

I need to find Dominic, grab a drink, do anything else but stare at a random man.

But my body doesn’t listen. Something about him—his size, his smile, the energy coming off him… it pulls.

So I turn. Just one last look.

He’s still standing near the entrance, the blonde woman still talking, still laughing like she’s the only one in the room.

Right when I’m about to turn back around, he casually reaches down and removes her hand from his arm. No fanfare, no arrogance. Just a firm, polite brush-off that says “not interested.” And then he walks past her, right into the circle of guys calling for him with an ice-cold beer ready. He takes the beer and takes a swig before his eyes sweep the area.

And they land right on mine.

Chapter three

~JACE~

I’m halfway through my second beer, perched against the edge of Dominic’s kitchen island, talking shit with the guys as if I haven’t been glancing at my phone every thirty seconds like a middle schooler with a crush.

It’s loud—the music is booming, bottles clinking, laughter echoing off marble and glass—but even with a full house and half the team acting like they’ve never seen alcohol before, my attention keeps dragging back to the last message on my screen.

Bunny:Try to stop me.

My thumb is hovering over the keyboard, thinking of at least four different replies, all filthier than they need to be.

It all started last Halloween, with a single text, which turned into an all-nighter, which in turn became ten months of non-stop talking—and somehow, the highlight of my days. I still don’t know what she looks like under the bunny mask, still don’t know her real name—so I’m left with Bunny. It’s what I’ve called her since.

Someone’s arm locks around my neck and yanks me sideways. I don’t even need to look to know it’s Dom. No one else manhandles me like I’m still nineteen and crashing his couch after a bender.

“Get off your damn phone,” he says, his voice already hoarse from shouting over the music.

“Nah,” I scoff, shoving him off with a crooked smile. “Not until your mom texts back.”

That gets a laugh out of a coward of the guys and a hard shove to my ribs by my best friend. I pocket my phone and hand him the beer that might as well be piss water.

“Take it,” I mutter. “I need something stronger.”

He swipes the beer from me and takes a swig. I exhale, drag a hand down my face, and let my eyes wander the area.

Same shit, different zip code.

Puck bunnies in designer dresses, players already starting to take bets on who’s going to black out first, and a fully catered bar that looks like it belongs at a wedding.

“This all for the new guy, huh?” I ask, raising a brow as Dom reappears beside me with a glass of something dark, beer forgotten.

He follows my gaze and nods once, chin jerking toward the open patio doors.

I shift slightly to get a better look. Sure enough, standing at the edge of the patio like he’s sizing up every threat in a ten-mile radius, is a guy I’ve only met twice in person and heard about a million times as much.

Our new goalie, Zed.

The dude’s huge—and not just in a hockey-player way. I mean fucking huge. Built like a Goliath, tattooed from neck to knuckles and probably places I don’t want to imagine.

There are already four women orbiting around him, each one touching their hair, giggling, leaning in like they’re auditioning to be his next victim.

Yeah, judging by the looks of him, victim’s the right word.

“Christ. He’s been here ten minutes and they’re already trying to ride his face.”