Chapter 21 #2
Head tipped up, a big smile kicking across his face, Davis waves at me. “Hey.”
“Hey.” I wave back, my timbre breathy.
For just a moment, our stares tether with one another.
The resultant heat sends a tingle across my body.
That big smile still beaming, he slips his glasses off, and the image of him taking those off before tugging off his shirt, pushing me onto a bed, and prowling up my body causes me to let out a quiet moan.
“Shit,” he groans, his face twisting with surprise, as one of the balls slams into his stomach.
“Dreadfully sorry,” James says, pressing the paddle against his chest. “I must be more out of practice than I thought.”
Was that on purpose?
James’s quick shrug before returning to his practice with Jackson and Lars telegraphs that it may have been just an accident. Not to mention my perceptive brother or his werewolf’s continued volley of the ball shows no indication of concern.
After changing into a pair of goggles, which somehow only heighten his hot nerd aesthetic, Davis is introduced to James.
While he’s met Owen and Lars, this feels different.
With Owen and Lars, the concern swimming in my belly with their meeting had more to do with how to explain their mere existence.
With James, it’s less that, and more an uneasiness for these two to meet. Davis shared that he doesn’t like James’s character in my book. While we weren’t a couple, I pretty much just broke up with James for Davis. Although, I wasn’t with James, nor am I technically with Davis.
Girl, you’re a mess. I shove the rest of the breakfast bar into my mouth to hide my cringe.
The four of them split into teams. Lars partners with Davis. Between the sounds of the games from the other three courts visible from my vantage point, I only hear their grunts as they hit the ball, James’s bloody hells with missed shots, and Jackson and Lars’s playful taunts.
As much as pickleball may not excite me, watching Davis play skyrockets my internal temperature.
Despite the cool air from the above vent blowing down on me, heat crisscrosses along my spine with his cat-like grace and periodic grunts while in play.
If this thing with Davis happens, Hope and I may need to move our regular brunch date to Sundays because I plan on spending a lot of time at the pickleball court.
“Yes!” I hoot and whistle after Davis scores, tying the match.
Peering up at me, he hoists his paddle in the air. “Thanks, Peach,” he shouts, his sweat-dampened face lights up like the Fourth of July.
“Does our lady have a preferred champion?” Annoyance bolsters James’s tease.
Guilt and mortification flushes my cheeks. While I have been honest with James, I still shouldn’t be so obvious in front of him. As much as I believe his feelings for me may just be misplaced or a projection, it’s not fair to him for me to gush openly over Davis.
I clear my throat and holler down with an apologetic smile. “You’re all my champions.”
“Don’t worry about making Lord Short Breeches feel better. This isn’t a ‘Everyone Gets a Trophy’ game, so go ahead and cheer loudly for me and Goggles. We’re dominating Pretty Boy and Lord Sour Puss,” Lars snarks, slapping Davis’s back.
“Dominating?” Jackson straightens. “You just tied it.”
“You should know better than anyone that I enjoy the chase.”
“That I do.”
“Enough flirting! Get back to the match,” James shouts, gesturing at Jackson with his paddle.
They continue to play. While James and Lars are new to pickleball, their athletic prowess matches Davis and Jackson.
In fact, at times James and Davis appear to go head-to-head.
Each time Davis hits, James seems to hit back.
Even jumping in front of my brother from time-to-time.
Grunted curse words accompany each thwack of the ball against a paddle and the squeak of sneakers on the court’s floor.
I may be new to the rules of pickleball, but I’m pretty sure it’s supposed to be more of a team sport.
As the game goes on, Lars and Jackson almost fade into the background.
With Davis, it appears more involuntary.
No matter his movement, the ball is always aimed his way by James’s relentless play.
He jumps after the ball, cutting my brother off each time, and smacks it towards Davis.
My pulse kicks up with each hit. This isn’t just James’s fierce competitive spirit. He’s gunning for Davis, just as he’d done with the marquis during the horse race in his book.
“Got it!” James calls out, lunging in front of my brother.
Jackson lurches back just as James’s paddle comes into contact with the ball. He’s hit it with so much anger that the whiffleball whizzes towards Davis with the intensity of a missile. Face scrunched into a steely expression, he volleys it back toward Jackson.
James jumps in front of him. His wild swing sends the ball out of bounds. Leaning forward, he lets out a growl.
“What the fuck, man? We’re supposed to be a team!” Jackson yells, his hands on his hips.
James tips his head up and mutters something to my brother that I cannot make out. His face is sweat-kissed as he looks up at me, a scowl twisting his features.
“Shit,” I mutter to myself.
He’s pissed. It’s something I forgot about James’s character.
He hates to lose. I could offer false comfort that the game he’s angry about losing is what he plays on this court, but I know that’s only a lie I’m telling myself.
Somehow in the brief interaction with Davis—even from up here—James clocked my feelings.
“One more and we win,” Lars shouts, plucking up the ball and tossing it toward Davis.
“Okay,” he says, catching it.
“Do not be too quick to count me out. I never lose.” James’s glare flicks between me and Davis.
Again, my understanding of the rules is minimal, but I know to win, you need to score eleven points and be up by two.
Right now, Davis and Lars are one point away.
Curling my fingers around the metal rail between the balcony and the court below, I suck in a deep breath.
The initial excited crackle within me about the game sours with the anger radiating from James.
I just want this to be over. The game. My book boyfriends. All of it. I especially want the little voice hissing inside me that this is all my fault to shut up. Though, isn’t it?
“Shit!” Davis grunts, swinging and missing.
“Our serve,” James shouts, his tone taunt-filled, and rushes to scoop up the ball.
Jackson’s head shake communicates that what he’s muttering is, no doubt, a sarcastic “Our?” Over the last fifteen minutes of this game, he’s spent more time just standing there than playing.
It’s not like my ultra-competitive brother to just stand by.
As competitive as Jackson is, he never pushes out a teammate. He’s more the type to push them along.
A queasy familiarity envelopes me. As if I’ve somehow experienced this scenario before.
They volley the ball back and forth until we return to the match point or whatever it’s called in pickleball. Only this time, it’s James and Jackson’s team. At this point, I should just refer to it as James’s team.
James bounces the ball and tosses it into the air. With one smooth swing, he sends the ball sailing towards Davis. Lars lets out a growl while his teammate hits the ball back. It ping-pongs back and forth until…
“Damn!” Davis skids to a stop. The ball, still in bounds, slams to the ground at his feet.
My stomach drops with his visible disappointment. Shoulders hunched and paddle by his side, he shakes his head.
I want to shout, “You did so good” or some equally stupid form of comfort. But what I really want to do is run down there and wrap my arms around him.
Instead, I clap and cheer, “Nice job, guys. You all played awesomely.”
James stands tall, his chest a little puffed out. “Some of us played better than others.”
“You’re a terrible winner, Lord Smug Bastard,” Lars grumbles.
“Apologies. I just get a little carried away in competition.” He huffs a laugh and strides towards Lars with his hand extended. “No hard feelings, old chap.”
Carried away? I bristle.
Those four syllables trigger a memory of excuses from Will.
I just got carried away by your excitement about moving in together.
We just got carried away, and one thing led to another.
Lars begrudgingly shakes James’s hand before he saunters to Jackson.
The two men shake hands but then embrace, their laugh-filled conversation drowning out the exchange between James and Davis.
Taking Davis’s outstretched hand, James says something and then peers up at me, an expression I can’t read covering his face.
Davis’s head tips my way and then back to James. Shaking his head, he lets go of James’s hand and steps back. Ripping off his goggles, he looks back up at me, his face twisted with pain.
I shake my head. I don’t know what James told him, but whatever it is, it’s not good because the way Davis peers up at me guts me.
“I…I gotta go,” he says loudly, spinning.
“What?” Jackson turns to face him.
“Something came up,” he shouts, scooping up his bag.
“Davis, wait!” I call.
He looks up at me, his typically boyish smile replaced by a firm line. With a slow shake of his head, he hoists his bag over his shoulder and walks out the door.
I spin on my flip flops, cursing that I didn’t wear sneakers, and run toward the stairs. My heart races with each slap of the sandals against the steps to the first floor, hoping I don’t fall.
“Davis!” My shout is breathless, as I push through the doors that spill out into the corridor that runs along the courts and locker rooms.
He stops, his back towards me. Shoulders squared, he faces me. “Is he why your life is messy?”