Page 71 of Trick Shot

“Or something.” He glances at me, brief and flat.

Oh.Oh.

The knots, the precision, the calm… This isn’t summer camp training. This is something else. Something that involves people and ceiling hooks.

He finishes the second knot and steps back. The ropes are tight, straight, and clean. The sheet hangs perfectly, not a wrinkle in sight.

“You’ve got skills.” I cross my arms.

He takes another step back, checking the angles like he’s done this before. Too many times before.

I clear my throat. “You and Dom played together, right? In juniors?”

Zed doesn’t look at me, but he nods once.

“He talked a lot about you. Said you were one of the best he played with and that you were everyone’s favorite.”

“He said that?” That earns me the smallest twitch at the corner of his mouth.

“Word for word.” I nod, pretending like I’m also inspecting the ropes.

“Dom’s a good guy.” Zed glances at the waves.

“You guys still talk often?”

“No.”

I wait, but nothing else comes. He doesn’t explain, just drops the rope in my hands and walks off. I scoff, eyes following him, pinned to his broad back inked with the battle of David and Goliath.

This guy’s a real piece of work.

By the time the sun sets, the clouds are already rolling in. They’re dark, slow, and heavy, with that eerie pressure that makes your skin feel tight.

The air smells like a summer storm, and movie night is officially on.

Dinner’s casual—plates balanced on knees, huge beach poofs, and little side tables. The makeshift sheet screen lights up from the projector, there’s a fire pit crackling in the center, and the air smells like woodsmoke, moisture, and summer.

Some of the guys have puck bunnies curled into their sides, giggling into red Solo cups and pretending to care about whatever’s playing next. Zed’s leaning against the outside bar, silent as usual. I’m off to the side on my own, and so is Dom.

Which is weird, because Dom usually… partakes in puck bunny activities. He’s not a slut about it, but he’s not exactly a monk either. But since Melody moved in—no girls, no flirting, not even a comment when one of them walked past in a string bikini and asked him if he wanted “dessert.”

He’s definitely putting up a front for his sister, playing the responsible big brother card.

My eyes flick to Melody. She’s across the circle from us, curled up on her own little poof, dipping fries into ketchup—which she makes look like the most important task in the world. She hasn’t looked at me once since we sat down, pretending she can’t feel me watching her like I’m trying to burn a hole in the side of her head.

“Alright, alright,” Dan, the equipment manager, says, waving a greasy pizza slice. “Vote time. Hereditary, Scream, Texas Chainsaw Massacre, or that one with the creepy clown.”

“It?” Dom asks.

“No, the other creepy clown,” Dan groans through the pizza in his mouth.

“There’s more than one?” Matt asks before shoving French fries into his waiting mouth.

“Terrifier,” Dom suggests, and Dan nods, mumbling something that might sound like “yeah, that’s the one,” if you let your mind fill in the blanks.

More shouting. Someone starts chanting,“Scream, Scream, Scream,”and everyone joins in. And the decision is made.

Scream. The very fucking movie with the very fucking mask I wore.