Page 143 of Trick Shot
That’s it.
I can’t take another second. I step forward, and without another word, I pull him into a bear hug. Fists clench in the back of his jersey, shoulders tense, muscles locked. And it feels fucking good. Ten days of not seeing Melody, ten days of being away from my best friend, emotionally… it fucked me up. And I don’t ever want it again.
Dom claps my back hard before we pull apart, both our eyes red-rimmed. Dom sniffs and pushes me back.
“Don’t get sappy now. Go shower—we’ve got a press conference to attend,” he says, but his voice is filled with emotion the same way his eyes are glazed with unshed tears.
“Sure, Captain.” I salute him and turn with a chuckle.
“Jace. One more thing,” he calls after me.
“Yeah?” I turn around a second too late to see it coming.
Oh, fuck.
Dom steps forward and drives his fist into my face. The punch lands clean across my jaw—sharp, fast, with every ounce of meaning packed behind his knuckles.
I stumble back a half-step, flexing my jaw, immediately tasting blood in my mouth. He held back enough not to drop me, but it’s enough to sting like fucking hell.
“Jesus fuck, Dom!”
“Been wanting to do that since the party,” he says, shaking out his hand.
I swipe the blood off my lip with my thumb and spit into the trash can, grinning at him.
We’re so fucking back.
The music at Dom’s house is blasting. There’s laughter, shouts, heat, sweat, and celebration filling every corner.
Melody’s pressed up beside me on the couch with our knees grazing mine. She’s got a drink in her hand that we both share, and she’s absolutely glowing.
I don’t even realize I’m touching her until her fingers brush over my busted lip.
I flinch a little but don’t move away.
“Did he have to punch you that hard?” she mumbles. Her thumb traces the edge of the split, her brows pulled together with soft worry.
“He held back.” I grin.
She rolls her eyes, but I catch the tiny smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. Her hand drops, but I catch it and lace our fingers together.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Aiden slurs next to us, and I immediately sigh, already knowing what’s coming.
There’s always that one guy who gets sentimental when he’s drunk.
On our team?
It’s fucking Aiden.
He’s standing on one of Dom’s dining chairs with beer sloshing in one hand.
“I just wanna say a few words,” he slurs, dramatically wiping under one eye like he’s about to cry.
Groans erupt from the living room.
“Sit the fuck down!” someone yells.
“He’s hammered again.”
