Chapter Two
Calvin
The ball slapped against the pavement, then my palm, then the pavement again. I cut left, saw Trevor step in too late, and took the shot before he could crowd me.
It hit the backboard and dropped through.
“Lucky,” Trevor called, already jogging backward.
“Please,” I said, catching the bounce and tossing the ball to Marcus at the top of the key.
Sweat slid down my spine. My chest was damp, my shorts sticking a little at the waistband, and for once, I didn’t feel like the sun had personally declared war on me.
“That was skill. Try not to be threatened.”
Marcus snorted. His sneakers squeaked as he pivoted and passed to Jamal. “You say that every time one goes in.”
“Because every time one goes in, I’m right.”
Jamal shot. Missed. The rebound came long, and I grabbed it with both hands, more out of desperation than talent. Then I heard a motorcycle engine cut off somewhere near the parking lot.
The sound snagged my attention.
Holding the ball against my hip, I glanced toward the rec center entrance. Two men crossed the lot in leather cuts, moving like they belonged wherever they decided to stand. The morning light caught on metal and dark ink. One was broader, heavier through the shoulders. The other one—
Well. Great.
The other one was exactly my type, which was unfortunate for me and my blood pressure. Short black hair. Olive skin. Easy stride. He looked up as if he felt eyes on him, and I forgot I was on a court and technically meant to be participating in sports.
His cut shifted when he moved. Bottom rocker. Riot.
The other one read Mayhem.
I stared after them for one beat too long, because engaging men with those two names together felt like a decision no one sensible should make. Riot and Mayhem. Sounded less like men and more like warning labels.
“Cal,” Marcus said.
The ball hit my sneaker.
Blinking, I looked down, then back at him. “Sorry. Distracted by the leather-based mystery.”
Trevor followed my line of sight. “Bikers.”
“Thank you,” I said dryly. “I was worried they were nuns.”
Jamal barked out a laugh. He wiped his forearm over his face and pointed at the building. “They here for the fundraiser thing?”
“Apparently.” I bounced the ball once and rolled my shoulders. My shirt was still in a sad heap near the sideline. I had tossed it off ten minutes in and never looked back. “Good for them. Love civic engagement. Very wholesome. Very terrifying.”
Marcus grinned. “You checking one of them out?”
Heat prickled under my skin that had nothing to do with the weather. I shot him a look then took the ball back into play. “Mind your own layups.”
“That’s a yes,” Trevor said.
“It’s a maybe,” I corrected, dribbling hard and driving past him. “Some of us appreciate facial structure. I’m only human. Tiny. Fragile. Full of eyes.”
“Fragile my ass,” Jamal muttered.
I went up for another shot. It rimmed out.
As we reset, I glanced toward the doors again, but the two of them were already inside.
The place looked ordinary enough from out here.
Brick building. Glass doors. Flyers taped in the window.
Meanwhile, my brain had fully derailed over one handsome biker whose name sounded like he probably came with poor choices and excellent forearms.
That felt healthy.
For the next few minutes, I forced myself back into the game. My lungs worked harder. Sweat cooled where the breeze caught it. The ball slapped skin and concrete in a rhythm that helped settle me. Mostly.
Then the side door opened, and Marlene, the rec coordinator, stepped out with a clipboard tucked to her side.
She lifted a hand. “Calvin.”
I caught the pass one-handed and turned. “That sounded official. Am I in trouble?”
“Get in here a minute.”
Trevor made a face at me. “You probably are.”
“Jealousy is ugly on you,” I said, backing toward the sideline.
Dropping the ball to Marcus, I walked over and bent for my shirt. The cotton was damp where it had been sitting in the heat. I gave it a little shake then pulled it over my head anyway. Humiliating. Nothing said dignity like wrestling yourself into a sweaty shirt in public.
Marlene waited while I fixed the hem and dragged my fingers through my hair.
“What did I do?” I asked as we headed toward the door. “Because if this is about me sneaking extra crackers from the kids’ snack bins, I’d like to note that those cheddar ones are addictive and poorly supervised.”
Marlene didn’t even look at me. “You’re helping with setup.”
I blinked. “That was not one of the options I was expecting.”
Inside, cool air hit my skin all at once. My chest was still warm from the game, and the air-conditioning raised goosebumps on my arms. The lobby had that familiar smell of waxed linoleum and air that hadn’t moved in a while.
“For what setup?” Voices echoed from somewhere down the hall.
“The Howlers’ cookout fundraiser.” Marlene didn’t break stride, just shifted her clipboard to her other arm. “A few of them are here early to go over the space. I need extra hands.”
“Because I look like a man built for labor?”
“Because you’re standing here.”
That was annoyingly fair. She led me into the main room off the lobby. Folding tables were stacked against one wall. A couple of boxes sat near the kitchen doors. At the far end, the two bikers from outside stood with Marlene’s assistant, talking over a rough layout on paper.
Riot looked up first.
His gaze landed on me and held. Not in a weird way. Not in the way that made my skin tighten and my instincts start swinging knives. His eyes were light brown, warm, amused before he even smiled, and that did something strange low in my stomach.
Which was just what I needed. One more problem.
Marlene gestured with her clipboard. “Calvin can help move tables and whatever else you need.”
Mayhem gave me a short nod. Riot’s mouth tipped at one corner.
“Appreciate it,” Riot said.
His voice caught me off guard. Low, easy. Friendly. No push. No game I could detect under it. That alone made me suspicious, because clearly life had taught me all the wrong lessons.
I shoved my hands into the sides of my shorts, then pulled them back out because that made me look twelve. “Happy to be volunteered.”
Marlene snorted and handed me a set of keys. “Storage closet if you need more chairs. Don’t disappear.”
“I never disappear,” I said. “I linger. Like mildew.”
She walked away without comment.
It was just the three of us and the hum of the air-conditioning.
Up close, Riot was even better looking. He had a strong jaw, short black hair still neat despite the ride over, and the kind of face that made you think terrible thoughts in broad daylight.
The cut sat easy on him, leather worn soft at the shoulders.
His T-shirt pulled over his chest and arms in a way I made a point not to stare at.
I failed a little.
Mayhem folded the paper and tucked it away. “We need half of the tables outside by the side lot. Two by the doors. The rest stay in here until tomorrow.”
“Got it,” I said.
Riot stepped toward the stack of tables. “You know the layout better than we do?”
“Tragically, yes.” I moved beside him and reached for one end of the top table. My fingers brushed metal. His hand closed over the other side. “I’m sort of rec center adjacent. They use me when they run out of actual staff.”
“Lucky them.”
That came with a small smile, and I had to look down so he wouldn’t catch mine going soft and stupid.
Mayhem grabbed the other end before I could make a fool of myself standing there. We lifted together and started for the side exit.
The table legs rattled with each step. My shoulder bumped the doorframe on the way through. Grace was never really my ministry.
“Smooth,” I muttered.
Riot glanced over. “You do this a lot?”
“Embarrass myself? Constantly.”
Outside, the morning felt better than before. The breeze cut some of the heat, and the side lot sat mostly in shade. We carried the table over to where a grill would probably go later. I helped set it down, then straightened and wiped my palms on my shorts.
Riot looked at me for a beat. “I meant move tables.”
“Right. That makes more sense.” I pushed a hand through my hair. “Sorry. My brain likes to take the scenic route.”
Mayhem gave Riot a look that I didn’t bother trying to decode. Then he said, “I’ll grab the next one.”
He headed back inside, leaving me and Riot standing near the table in a patch of half-sun.
That should not have felt as noticeable as it did.
I shifted my weight. My heartbeat was still a little up from the game, which I was choosing to blame for all this. “So. Riot.”
He nodded once. “Calvin.”
“Those are both names.”
That got a laugh out of him. A real one, quick and warm.
“Last I checked,” he said.
I smiled despite myself. Then I looked toward the door, took a quick breath, and looked back. “I’m just saying. Riot and your friend Mayhem showing up together feels a little on the nose.”
He huffed another laugh and hooked his thumbs in his front pockets. “You worried?”
“About a cookout turning into an action movie?” I tilted my head. “A little.”
His gaze dropped briefly to my basketball shorts and sneakers then lifted again. It didn’t linger in a gross way. It just noticed. I noticed that he noticed, which was its own problem.
“You play out here a lot?” he asked.
“Whenever I can. It’s free, and it gives me the illusion of athleticism.”
“With that shot?”
I gave him a look. “You saw that?”
“I caught enough of it.”
“That was one good shot,” I said. “Please don’t build a legend around me.”
The door opened behind us. Mayhem came back out carrying another table on one side while I hurried to grab the other. We set it next to the first. Then we went back in for a third.
The work settled into a rhythm. Lift. Carry.
Set down. Go back. My skin cooled as the sweat dried under my shirt.
Riot stayed easy the whole time. He moved like someone comfortable in his own body, which I found deeply inconsiderate.
Every now and then our hands got close on the table edge or our shoulders brushed in a doorway, and each little thing landed way harder than it should have.
By the time we finished the outside stack, my breathing had evened out and my crush on Riot had gotten less manageable.
Inside again, Mayhem headed toward the kitchen to check something with Marlene’s assistant. That left me near the chairs and Riot near the boxes of paper goods.
Neither of us said anything. The room wasn’t loud, but I could hear a cart rattling somewhere down the hall and kids yelling faintly from the gym. Riot bent, picked up a box, then straightened and tipped his chin toward me.
“You helping tomorrow too?”
Interest sparked so fast it almost embarrassed me. Which was impressive, considering I spent most of my life in a state of low-grade embarrassment anyway.
I leaned a hip against the stacked chairs and folded my arms loosely. “Depends. Are you asking because I’m such a dazzling table mover or because you need someone to mock your setup technique?”
Riot smiled again. His eyes stayed on mine. “Could be both.”
I swallowed then made myself look easy about it. “Then yeah. I’m helping.”
He nodded once, like that answer pleased him more than he meant to show. That did nothing good for me.
“Good,” he said. “Thought I might see you here.”
My pulse gave a stupid little jump. Cute. Annoying. Uninvited.
I glanced down at the box in his hands then back at him. “That sounded almost like planning.”
“Maybe it was.”
The room suddenly felt a degree warmer. I wet my lips and pushed off the chairs. “Dangerous thing, assuming I’ll show up. I could be very booked and glamorous.”
“Laundromat glamorous?”
I stared at him. “That information feels illegally specific.”
He shifted the box against his hip, still looking amused. “Marlene mentioned you work there.”
“Good. For a second, I thought I had a stalker, and that would’ve really ruined the mood.”
He barked out a laugh. Then he shook his head and set the box down on the nearest table.
“With a line like that, I think you’d survive it,” he said.
“Survive, yes. Thrive, no.”
I would definitely find out tomorrow if I could survive Riot’s charm. Maybe even thrive a little.