7. Choppy Waters
7
Choppy Waters
Clayton
I t’s been three weeks since our cease-fire that day at the coffee shop, and I’m pleased to admit that it’s been relatively smooth sailing. Okay, maybe not smooth sailing… more like mildly choppy sailing.
So much so that, despite how bummed I am that I’m not playing with Jax this season, I’m actually pretty excited for today’s scrimmage in Destin. As long as the two of us play like we have been in practice, we should breeze through two sets with no problem.
To get in the spirit, I put on my pre-pregame playlist and turn the volume up as loud as it will go. I’m not even ashamed to admit that ?? “Pretty Girl Rock” by Keri Hilson is the first song that comes on. That song slaps, and you cannot convince me otherwise.
When I pull into the practice gym parking lot, because Rocky refuses to tell me where he lives—something about already having too much “Clay in his life,” whatever that means—I immediately see him leaning against the front of his Toyota Camry. His ever-permanent scowl is already in place and his uniform is on and ready.
Like an itch I have to scratch, I feel the need to fuck with him a little. Rolling down my window, I pull up directly in front of him, point my finger at his broad chest, and belt the song at the top of my lungs.
Shaking his head, he grabs his duffle off the hood of his car and walks around the front of mine to climb into the passenger seat. I don’t stop pointing and singing the entire time. Rocky opens the back door to throw his bag in, and he must think I’m not looking because my heart nearly stops in my chest as I watch a smile spread across his face.
Not the closed-lipped smile he gives everyone else when he’s trying to engage in conversation.
No. A real smile.
A beautiful fucking smile.
A smile so pure that I selfishly want to be the only one that ever gets to see it. And from now until the end of time, I’m going to do everything in my power to see it at least once a day.
Fuck. Me.
But just as fast as it spread across his face, it disappears as he closes the door and climbs in the front. He clicks his seat belt on, reaches for the volume nob, and turns it down so it’s barely audible.
“What, and I cannot stress this enough, in the actual fuck was that?”
There he is.
“Okay, rude. Never turn down a man’s music,” I reply impudently, putting my Mercedes in drive and pulling out of the parking lot.
“You wanted to drive, so that means I’m the DJ. Deal with it.”
He disconnects my phone from the Bluetooth and connects his own. Quickly glancing from the road, I look over to find him scrolling through his music. “Rocky, I swear on all that is good and holy, if you just turned off Keri Hilson to turn on some screamo-rock shit, I will pull this car over and—” 1 The opening chord of The All-American Rejects’ “Dirty Little Secret” sounds through the car, effectively cutting off my protests. “I take it back. Song approved.”
“That’s what I thought,” he grumbles.
An hour and a half later, and after Rocky complained several times about my driving, we pull up to the beach we’re playing at today. It’s one of the few times we get to play on an honest-to-god beach court during the season, and it’s one of my favorite games of the year. I don’t even care that it doesn’t count toward any standings. Coach Taylor isn’t even here today. He decided to stay on campus and run an extra practice with Chad and Prescott after saying they could “use some one-on-one time with him.”
I don’t think douchebag one or two are very happy with the fact that Rocky and I keep whooping their asses in practice.
Oh well.
I shift in my seat to look at Rocky. “You ready?”
“Ready.”
“Today will set the tone for the rest of the season. Everyone’s heard about us. They’re expecting us to fuck up. Let’s go out there and prove them wrong.”
Rocky’s eyes flash with a rare moment of admiration before he holds out his fist. “We got this. ”
After a brief moment of shock that he’s willingly initiating contact with me, I bump his fist with mine. “We got this, Campos.”
The two of us climb out of the car and I notice my bag slid across the back seat at some point during the drive; I walk around the back of the car to where Rocky is bent inside the back door, retrieving his bag.
Do not look at his ass, Clay. Do not look at his ass.
Fuck. I looked at it.
Feeling impatient and wanting to remove his impeccable ass from my line of site as soon as possible, I sightly bend over and reach around him to grab my bag. Rocky flinches in surprise and stumbles backward half a step.
The moment his ass comes in contact with the half-chub I got from looking at his ass, his entire body freezes.
Fuck.
As much as my dick would like me to stay put, my brain tells me to move. Following its wise advice, I promptly take a step back. Rocky stays still for a moment, and then, like something out of a horror film, he slowly stands and spins to face me. The entire motion feels like it takes five minutes when I know it was nothing longer than two seconds. When his face finally meets mine, I swallow hard. His glare quite literally looks like it would scare the devil himself .
Rocky takes a deep breath through his nose, and just when I think he’s about to chew my asshole a new one, he storms off in the direction of the court without so much as a word.
I look down at my dick. “Now look what you did.”
Remember when I said Jax and I were similar in the respect that I don’t get mad or yell often, but when I do, you better sit down and listen to the fuck up?
Yeah, now I’m fucking pissed.
We’re barely ten minutes into the first set, and we’re down one to six.
ONE TO FUCKING SIX!
Every ounce of progress we made over the last three weeks has seemingly evaporated into the humid, gulf air. Rocky is too busy acting like I stole his goddamn birthday, all because he accidentally backed his ass up into my minorly hard dick.
Whoopty-fucking-doo! It’s a dick. He has one. They get hard.
Get the hell over it.
Now he wants to stand out here and act like our futures aren’t on the line because he can’t pull his head out of his ass.
Destin serves the ball. Rocky has to dig for it but he manages to pass it to me. He’s up and out of the sand just as I’m about to set it back row, knowing he won’t have enough time to reach the net. But instead of doing the smart play and waiting for my set, he attacks the right side. I watch in mounting frustration as my set falls flat in the sand.
The ref blows the whistle and signals for us to switch sides now that we’re at seven points. And instead of acknowledging that he screwed up, he storms off the court, grabs his water bottle, and moves to the opposite bench.
Yeah, this is not fucking happening today.
Forgoing my much-needed water break, I make my way over to him in a few long strides, trying and failing to calm the rage bubbling inside of me.
By the time Rocky’s gaze meets mine I’m in front of him with his jersey fisted in both my hands before he has a chance to side-step me again. “What the fuck is your problem?”
He tries to push off of me, but my hold on his jersey only tightens. I’m more than aware of the ref and the spectators staring at us, but I don’t care. “Nothing is my problem, Aldrich. Get the fuck off of me.”
We’re back to Aldrich now? Cool. Great.
It’s like that day in the hallway all those weeks ago. I will not fucking stand for it any longer.
We’re supposed to be partners.
“I thought we were good? I thought we put all this bullshit behind us? So, what the fuck is the problem?” Without even knowing it, I realize I’ve pulled him closer to me. Our bodies are now only an inch apart, my face directly above his. I can see the sweat from the hot Florida sun dripping down his forehead.
A look of resignation crosses his face before he inhales a deep breath and says softly, “Nothing, Clay. I’m fine.”
I tip my head ever so slightly. If he moved even a fraction of an inch, our lips would touch. My voice is low now, practically a growl, as I answer, “If you’re fine, then fucking act like it. This isn’t a one-man show. If you want to be part of a team, then pull your head out of your ass and get it in the goddamn game. ”
He opens and closes his mouth a couple times as his green eyes wage war with mine, but before he has a chance to respond I shove off of him, retrieve the volleyball, and head to the back of the court to get ready for my serve.
1. “Dirty Little Secret” The All-American Rejects