Page 35 of Trick Shot

Heads turn, conversations falter, even Jace stops mid-laugh. Crawling into view like a threat made of metal and malice is a black McLaren, polished and gleaming. The engine throbs under the hood, and the windows are tinted dark enough to be illegal.

It pulls into a spot near the edge of the lot, away from the other cars like it doesn’t want to be touched, seen, or acknowledged. It doesn’t shut off. Nobody gets out.

Through the dark windshield, I can barely make out the silhouette behind the wheel—one hand draped lazily over the top of it. Two fingers lift. That’s it. A slight, effortless flick off the steering wheel meant to be a greeting.

“Jesus.” Jace exhales slowly beside Dom.

“Still not used to this new version.” Dom rubs the back of his neck.

“Who is that?” I glance at them through my open window.

“The reason for our trip.” Dom says, still watching the McLaren.

Ah. The new goalie.

“He’s not getting out?” I squint toward the car.

“Zed doesn’t do social anymore,” Dom says simply. “He’ll follow us there.”

The SUV rolls to a stop in front of a massive store in Ozona. It’s somewhere between a mega gas station, a grocery store, and a place that sells coolers big enough to hide a body.

Dom shifts the gear into park and twists in his seat. “Supply run. Grab what you want. Food, drinks. Last pit stop before the house.”

Jace stretches with a groan, his massive forearm almost hitting me in the face, before he opens his door and hops out. It’s fascinating to see how well he can act like he didn’t corner me against the kitchen counter while my brother wasn’t looking.

“Aren’t we staying in Ozona?” I look out the window as all the doors swing open almost at once like a synchronized exhale.

“The house is thirty minutes out,” Dom says, popping his door open.

“I thought you said we were staying in Ozona.” I frown.

“I said it’s around Ozona,” he corrects me.

“Now you sound like Jace.” I narrow my eyes.

“Don’t insult me this early in the trip,” he deadpans over the slam of his door.

I grumble and follow him out, squinting under the blazing Florida sun. The parking lot starts to flood with players—loud, sweat-slicked men who move like it’s spring break.

“Go get what you need.” I know Dom meant it as a suggestion, but he makes everything sound like an order. “You’ve got twenty minutes before Jace starts filling the cart with nothing but jerky and Red Bull.”

Dom heads toward the store, and I follow.

I grab a basket and trail in behind him, the AC blasting me in the face as soon as the automatic doors open. The store is massive, yet old-school and weirdly charming. Shelves are packed tight with everything you could think of—and a few things you probably shouldn’t.

I begin filling my basket with things I might need while stranded in Jace’s frat house. I look down at the contents of my basket—razors, magazines, a couple of books, travel-size toiletries, and a hat with cherries on it. I’d do great in a zombie apocalypse.

I need some snacks and drinks.

I round the corner toward the refrigerated drinks, where two of Dom’s teammates are getting circled by a cluster of women. I look around, noticing more of them coming into the store, phones in hand, looking around. They’d look like normal women on a girl trip if it weren’t for the way they light up as soon as they see the team. All long legs and shiny hair, crop tops and smiles way too big for this time of morning. Like moths to flame—or sharks to blood.

I’ve heard Dom talk about “puck bunnies” on several occasions. The term flashes through my brain—a joke I’ve heard tossed around a thousand times. The girls who hang out near the arena, know practice schedules, who the single players are, and somehow a few of the players’ addresses. According to Lennie, they’ll sniff out a jersey faster than a bloodhound on meth.

I’d never really seen one in the wild until now.

My gaze moves instinctively, scanning for Jace. Why? I’ll ask myself that same question once I find him. Because all I can think of right now is one of them around him.

My legs start moving through the aisles, my eyes absently scanning the shelves, not focusing on anything. That’s until I spot a large silhouette from the corner of my eye and turn toward it.