Chapter Four #2
Aaron nodded. “That makes sense.”
“You don’t?”
“I like privacy.”
“But?”
“But I don’t like pretending not to care because someone might notice.”
Her grip tightened around the ball.
Rule six rose between them.
No feelings.
Aaron had agreed not to ask anything from her.
Apparently, he had not agreed to stop saying things that made her want to offer something anyway.
Tyler blew his whistle.
“Teams in. Short games to eleven. Winners stay for two rounds, then rotate.”
Amanda adjusted her sunglasses. “What team am I on?”
“Mine,” Jack said.
“You don’t make the teams.”
“I do now.”
Tyler checked his clipboard. “You’re playing with Hailey.”
Amanda stared at him. “Against Jack?”
“Against Jack and Leo.”
A broad-shouldered foundation volunteer waved from beside the net.
Amanda looked at Jack.
Jack smiled. “You’re going down.”
Her posture changed immediately.
“No mercy.”
Hailey moved beside her. “It’s a volunteer game.”
“Exactly. We volunteered to win.”
Tyler pointed toward the second court. “Aaron and Meagan against Paul and Cynthia.”
Meagan followed his gesture.
Paul was a foundation board member in his late fifties who had spent the previous ten minutes explaining serve strategy to anyone within hearing distance.
Cynthia wore a turquoise athletic set and a visor with FOUNDATION FRIEND written across it in rhinestones.
“This is balanced?” Meagan asked.
Aaron lowered his voice. “Paul has a bad left knee, and Cynthia refuses to move backward.”
“How do you know that?”
“I played with them last year.”
“So this is strategic.”
“Tyler is very serious about casual games.”
“I knew it.”
Aaron walked beside her onto the court.
Meagan moved toward the back left corner.
Aaron stopped near the middle.
“Where do you want me?” she asked.
His expression changed.
Only slightly.
Still enough that heat moved beneath her skin.
“On the court,” he said.
Meagan narrowed her eyes. “That pause was inappropriate.”
“I was considering the question.”
“You were enjoying it.”
“Also true.”
Paul called across the net. “Are we playing or socializing?”
Aaron lifted one hand. “Both.”
Meagan moved into position.
“Do you want front or back?” Aaron asked.
“Back.”
“You’re comfortable receiving?”
“Yes.”
He nodded once.
No warning.
No suggestion that he should take the stronger position because she had not played recently.
He simply trusted her answer.
Cynthia served first.
The ball traveled high and deep toward Meagan’s left shoulder.
She shifted, brought her arms together, and passed it toward the center.
Aaron moved beneath it.
“Here,” he called.
He set the ball high near the net.
Meagan realized what he was doing a fraction too late.
He was setting her.
She moved forward, planted in the sand, and jumped.
The jump was not impressive.
The contact was.
Her palm struck the ball cleanly, sending it into the open space behind Paul.
The ball hit sand.
Point.
Aaron turned toward her with a wide smile.
“There you go.”
“It was open.”
“You saw it.”
“Paul moved too far forward.”
“You noticed.”
“It was obvious.”
“To you.”
The distinction warmed her more than the compliment.
Cynthia retrieved the ball. “Lucky shot.”
Her smile was pleasant enough, but something dismissive sat beneath the words.
Before Meagan could decide whether the comment deserved a response, Aaron moved into serving position.
“Let’s see if she gets lucky again.”
His tone was easy.
Not defensive.
Confident.
He looked at Meagan instead of Cynthia when he said it.
As though the outcome were already settled.
Aaron served.
Paul’s return drifted toward the sideline.
“Out,” Meagan called.
Aaron let it fall.
Point.
“You didn’t try for it,” she said.
“Because you called it.”
“You trusted me?”
“Yeah, I’m your partner.”
The words entered her chest and stayed there.
He said them as though they were simple.
Obvious. Not a responsibility. Not a favor. But a fact.
The next rally lasted longer.
Cynthia sent the ball deep. Meagan passed. Aaron set. Meagan returned it with a controlled shot that forced Paul forward.
He managed the save.
Cynthia pushed the ball over.
Aaron dove and popped it back into the air.
Meagan moved beneath it. The second contact was too close to the net.
“Aaron.”
He was already moving.
She set the ball behind her.
Aaron jumped and struck it cross-court.
Cynthia reached and missed.
The ball landed just inside the line.
Aaron turned toward Meagan.
“That was perfect.”
“You were already there.”
“Because you put it there.”
“I called your name.”
“You trusted me.”
The repetition caught her.
She had.
There had been no time to decide.
She had simply known he would be there.
Across the sand, Amanda shouted, “You two are disturbingly coordinated.”
Meagan turned.
Amanda and Hailey’s game had paused.
Jack rested his hands on his knees across from them.
“It was a volleyball play,” Meagan called.
“It had emotional structure,” Amanda replied.
“No athletic play has emotional structure.”
Jack straightened. “That one did.”
“Why are you encouraging her?”
“I’m trying something new.”
Tyler blew his whistle. “Finish your game.”
Meagan turned back.
Aaron stood beside her, biting the inside of his cheek.
“You may laugh.”
“Thank you.”
He did.
Against every reasonable instinct, Meagan laughed too.
They won the first game eleven to six.
Meagan scored four points. Not that she counted.
Aaron counted.
“You had four kills.”
“One was a roll shot.”
“Still a kill.”
“Paul slipped.”
“You put the ball where he couldn’t reach it.”
“That sounds less fair when you say it like that.”
“It’s volleyball.”
Paul walked past the net. “We’ll take the rematch at the gala.”
“The gala does not involve volleyball,” Cynthia said.
“It should.”
“Not in cocktail attire.”
Amanda overheard from the other court.
“That depends on the dress.”
Meagan looked toward Hailey. “Control your friend.”
“She is also your friend.”
“I am reconsidering the arrangement.”
Aaron handed Meagan her water bottle. She accepted it, then paused.
“I left this beside the chairs.”
“I got it between games.”
“You were talking to Tyler.”
“I can do two things.”
The cap had already been loosened. The gesture was small. Barely worth noticing, but Meagan noticed it.
She drank while the next team entered the court.
Two foundation volunteers named Luke and Sandra.
Both wore knee pads.
Meagan lowered the bottle. “They appear prepared.”
“They play in the Thursday league.”
“You could have mentioned that before I agreed to stay.”
“You’re doing well.”
“That is not relevant to their equipment.”
“Are you worried.”
“I am assessing.”
“Your assessment face and your worried face are very similar.”
“You have known me for two days.”
“I remember things.”
The answer carried her back to the garage.
Her coffee order. The extra shirt. The opened water bottle.
The way his hand had accepted hers without hesitation.
Meagan looked away. “Do they have weaknesses?”
“Sandra commits early on blocks.”
“And Luke?”
“Likes power more than placement.”
“That is not a weakness if the power works.”
Aaron smiled. “It usually works.”
“Excellent.”
He stepped closer.
Not touching.
Near enough that his voice would not carry.
“We don’t have to stay on.”
The offer surprised her.
“You want to stop?”
“No.”
“But you’re offering.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re allowed to decide you’ve had enough.”
Something tightened beneath her ribs.
No suggestion that stopping would mean failure.
No attempt to persuade her through praise.
A choice.
He offered it as simply as everything else.
Meagan looked across the net.
Luke bounced the ball. Sandra adjusted her knee pads.
“I have not had enough.”
Aaron’s expression warmed. “Good.”
They lost the first three points.
Luke’s serve came hard and low. Meagan passed too close to the net, forcing Aaron to push it over on the second contact.
Sandra blocked him.
The ball dropped at Meagan’s feet.
“Sorry.”
Aaron retrieved it. “Nothing to apologize for.”
“My pass was too tight.”
“It happens.”
“It shouldn’t.”
He looked at her.
“Meagan.”
“What?”
“You don’t have to be perfect to be my partner.”
The words landed harder than the ball had.
She went still.
Aaron’s expression shifted as if he had heard the deeper meaning at the same moment she did.
Luke called, “Ready?”
Meagan faced the net. “Yes.”
She was not.
The next serve came toward Aaron.
He passed to her.
Meagan set.
Aaron attacked down the line.
Point.
He looked at her after landing.
No triumph.
Only a small nod.
We’re fine.
Meagan breathed.
The game changed.
Not because Luke’s serve weakened or Sandra stopped blocking.
Because Meagan stopped trying to prove she deserved to be on the court.
Aaron called for the ball, and she gave it to him.
When she called, he returned it.
They moved around each other without colliding. Covered open sand. Adjusted when the other stepped forward.
Aaron never took a ball simply because he could.
If Meagan called it, he moved aside.
If she missed, he covered behind her.
When she made a good play, he said so.
When she made a mistake, he treated it as one point rather than evidence.
By eight to eight, sweat gathered along Meagan’s hairline and sand clung to both knees.
She had stopped caring.
That was perhaps the most surprising part.
Her hair had escaped its ponytail. Her tank top stuck between her shoulder blades. One side of her shorts held enough sand to qualify as property.
She felt lighter than she had in weeks.
Luke served deep.
Meagan ran backward and passed on the move.
The ball traveled too far to Aaron’s right.
He chased it outside the court, sending a one-handed save high toward the net.
Sandra prepared to block.
Meagan ran forward.
She jumped and tipped the ball over Sandra’s fingertips.
It landed.
Nine to eight.
Aaron caught her around the waist when her feet hit unevenly in the sand.
The contact happened too quickly for either of them to prepare.
One second, Meagan was landing.
The next, Aaron’s arm was firm around her middle, her back against his chest, and his other hand held her forearm.
Heat moved through her.
“You okay?” he asked near her ear.
Meagan nodded.
“Yes.”
His palm rested against her side.