Page 45 of Trick Shot

Oh God. Here we go.

“But these guys? They’re not… look, they’re my friends, but they’re not exactly saints.”

I blink. “Wow. Big brother finally admits his friends are feral.”

“I’m being serious, Mel,” he says, straightening up. “They’re hockey players. Most of them are walking sex drives with skates. They’re not thinking about feelings. They’re thinking about... whatever fits between games.”

“Gross.”

“Exactly.” He points at me. “That’s why I need you to stay away from them.”

“You realize you’re talking about people you hang out and train with every day, right?”

“That’s exactly why I’m saying it,” he mutters. “I know what they do because I…” He pauses, and I get his message immediately—I know what they do because I do it too.

I shake the mental image out of my head before I throw up.

“I’ve seen the trail of blondes and broken hearts,” he says instead.

“Blondes and broken hearts,” I snort. “You should put that on a throw pillow.”

He doesn’t laugh.

“No flirting, Mel. No drunken beach make-outs. No sneaking into bedrooms.”

I roll my eyes so hard I nearly see into the next dimension.

“I’m not an idiot,” I huff.

“I know you’re not,” he says. “But you’re also not used to this.”

I stare at him, biting back every smartass comment in my head.

Because if only he knew what happened in that hallway. If only he knew what his best friend did.

“Thanks for the talk, Dad.” I nod.

Dom exhales, gives me one last big brother look, then opens the door to leave.

“We’re eating in twenty.” Just before he does, he adds, “And if I ever find out one of them’s been sniffing around you, I’ll break his face.”

My stomach twists.

Too late. He already sniffed. He already touched. He already almost kissed me.

“I got it,” I call sweetly as the door shuts behind him.

I flop back on the bed and groan into my pillow. If Dom’s worried about someone getting too close?

It’s already too late.

The ocean breeze curls in off the shore, sticky with salt and sweet with blooming jasmine.

Waves crash faintly in the distance, and laughter spills from the guys. Music thumps from the speakers as the handful of girls already start staking their claim. They laugh too loud, touch too often, and giggle like they’re on ecstasy every time someone with abs walks by.

The outdoor table is massive—carved wood, long enough to seat half a football team, which is basically who’s here. String lights hang from the palm trees overhead, flickering golden across everyone’s drinks and tan skin. The smell of grilled meat drifts through the air, smoke curling around lazy conversation and laughter.

I sit near the middle, my legs curled under the chair, Coke sweating in my hand. Across the patio, Jace flips burgers at the grill, his back turned to me.