Chapter 27 #2
“Can we not do this right now?” He groans.
“I’ll just put these away and leave you two to your…” she says, gesturing at us, “that.”
When I glance at him, he’s already looking at me, smiling. My lips curve, too. I can’t hold back the burst of laughter, but try to hide it, burying my face in my hands.
Then I’m pulled into strong arms; Miles’s chest makes for a much better place to hide.
“Summer, can you give me a hand?” Tara’s voice cuts through my lingering giggles.
“I will—” Miles starts, but I tell him, “I’ve got it.”
Tara has always reminded me of my mom in that effortlessly caring, kind way. If she’s anything like her, she’s also got a reason for asking for my help instead of his.
With a small nod, he flops back onto the couch, and I round the island to meet Tara near the fridge.
She’s watching me with entirely too much amusement. “So,” she whispers.
“So,” I echo just as softly, though I’m not sure why we’re being so quiet.
“You’re good for him, you know.” She hands me the eggs, then opens the fridge and tilts her head, cold air leaking out of the open door.
I place the carton on the shelf and give her a questioning look.
She leans in and says even lower, “Be good to him, okay? He’s softer than he lets on.”
She’s not telling me anything I don’t already know. Since night one, I’ve clocked that there’s more to Miles King than the controlled, charming captain most people see.
She doesn’t give me a chance to respond, closing the door, then grabbing her purse. “I’ll get out of your hair.”
I pull her into a hug before she can make her escape. “I will.”
I return to the couch and squeeze into the space between the back cushion and Miles’s body.
He wraps his arms around me. “Wanna get ready?”
I nod, and he adds, “Wear athletic clothes.”
“Are we working out?” My distaste at that thought comes through in my tone.
He chuckles. “Trust me?”
“Yeah.”
Miles hands me a paddle, and I can’t stop laughing.
“What’s so funny?” he asks, but there’s that smile tugging at his lips again.
“You brought me to play pickleball.” I sound as amused as I feel. This is more perfect than anything I could’ve guessed. Not the pickleball part—I’m still deciding how I feel about that—but the thought behind it. Another quiet way he shows he cares.
“You said you wanted to join my league.” He smirks.
“I was right? You are in a league—” I break off, laughing again.
“Nah.” He bounces a yellow ball on his paddle. “But I need to redeem myself. Can’t have you winning everything.”
I turn the paddle over in my hands. “You’re finally admitting I’m the undefeated ‘Scrabbler’?”
“Sure, Starling.” He tosses the ball up and catches it, still grinning.
The indoor sports complex is massive, with courts stretching out in rows. Most are occupied by retirees who look like they could destroy us both. Miles reserved one in the back corner, away from the others.
“Have you ever actually played?” I ask.
“Nope.”
“So we’re both going to be terrible?”
“It can’t be that hard.” He gestures to the net. “What side do you want?”
I cross to the far end, testing the paddle in both hands. “I’m sorry in advance for the hit your pride is going to take when I beat you at this, too.”
He laughs, the sound swallowed by the rhythmic pings from the other courts. “Big talk, Starling.”
His first serve hits the net and bounces back to his feet.
“Nice start, Captain.”
He ducks his head, trying to hide his smile, but I catch it. “Warm-up shot.”
“Mm-hmm. Sure it was.”
The first few volleys are clumsy—both of us learning the rhythm, the bounce, and how hard to hit. By the second game, we’ve found our groove.
Miles is annoyingly good for someone who’s never played. Naturally athletic enough to pick up a new sport like it’s nothing, barely breaking a sweat. He doesn’t even look like he’s trying as much as I am; yet, to my disappointment, he’s winning.
But I think I’m holding my own. And even if I’m not, we’re both laughing hard enough that my abs will be sore tomorrow, along with the rest of my body.
I didn’t expect to enjoy this nearly as much as I do. Though it’s more about the company than any newfound enthusiasm for the sport.
“What’s the score?” he asks after a particularly long volley.
“You’re winning,” I admit begrudgingly.
“Really?” His lips twitch. He knows he’s kicking my butt, and he’s taking great joy in it.
“Don’t sound so surprised.”
“I’m not.” He smirks and serves again. “Just happy you’re admitting it.”
I miss the return by a mile. I scramble after the ball, and when I turn back, he’s watching me. His attention slowly drifts from my legs to my face.
“Like what you see?” I let the ball drop behind me, then bend to pick it up, making a show of it. At least, that’s the goal. I’m not above using every advantage I can to make a comeback here.
When I turn back, his eyes are still on me. I toss him the ball, and he catches it one-handed, laughing. Then he shoots me the full smile that makes my stomach flip before serving again.
By the third game, my legs are burning, my arm is sore, and I decide I definitely need to get to the gym more.
Miles, of course, looks like he could go ten more rounds. His eyes are bright, his face only slightly flushed from playing.
I swipe back the hair sticking to my forehead.
“Water break?” He walks off the court, and I follow.
We collapse. Well, I collapse. Miles sits down like a normal person on a nearby bench. He throws an arm around my shoulders, pulling me into his side. I’m sweaty and gross, but he doesn’t seem to care.
There’s two older couples on the court next to ours, playing doubles. They move like they’ve been playing together for years, anticipating each other’s movements and covering for the other when needed.
Miles follows my gaze, his thumb tracing circles on my shoulder, probably without even realizing it. But I notice. Goosebumps spread across my arms and chest.
“I like this,” I say, still watching the match. “Maybe we could find an outdoor court once it gets warm. Make it a regular thing.”
The words are out before I realize what I’ve said.
Once it gets warm.
I’ll be gone by then.
I wince, then watch as he realizes it, too. The way his smile falters slightly before he fixes it back into place. His arm tightens around me. “Yeah. Maybe.”
He stands, grabbing his paddle. “Ready to lose again?”
I can’t help applying those words to us, not the game.
A pit forms in my stomach, but I smile anyway. “Let’s do it.”
126 days, I remind myself.
126 times twenty-four hours to prove that we don’t have to end just because I’m leaving.
We play one more game, and I win, barely.
Outside, Miles opens the passenger door of his truck for me, and I climb in, my legs already protesting. Once he’s behind the wheel, he reaches across the console for my hand. “Rematch next week?” I ask.
His smile falters. “I’ll be in Edmonton—4 Nations.”
“Right.” I pinch the fabric of my leggings with my free hand.
He said he’d be gone for ten days… we’ll have 116 left by the time he’s back. Plenty. I can picture so many more just like this one.
“After, then,” I say.
But it’ll always be like this, won’t it? His schedule or mine. Something always keeping us apart. Still, we’ll figure it out.
Only one side of his mouth quirks into a smile. “Yeah. After.”