Page 23 of Trick Shot

My mind tries to focus on Ghost—his words, his hands. But every time the pleasure rises, the face is his.

Jace.

My stomach knots, and I suddenly snap out of it. I yank my hand back like I’ve been burned, covering my face with both palms as if that’ll undo what I just did. But it’s too late.

I’m not just wet—I’m soaked. And all I can see when I close my eyes is him.

The same man who saw my nipples poking through my tank top. Who caught me in his hoodie. Who looks at me like he wants to watch me fall apart.

The same man who just invaded the one place that belonged to Ghost.

I’m in trouble. Big, stupid, irreversible trouble.

Chapter five

~JACE~

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

It’s just practice, but nobody’s coasting. Not when there’s a new variable on the ice. Zed fucking Mercer. Our brand-new, 6’6" mutant of a goalie. The guy is a beast in net. A massive, murder-coded beast.

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 beenstealing 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.