Chapter 18
"Ladies," Ben says, gesturing toward the court with that smile that used to make my day. Now I'd smash it.
I tighten my grip on the handle and step into the brutal sun.
Screw him, and those cherries. Summer-stained, sweet like youth, my most favorite.
He used to buy them for me every summer and the ritual was we'd binge-watch cult classics while I overate till I got sick.
Now they sit on the table, untouchable and glistening—like his stupid face. He knows I'll never win against him.
"Please, pick your side," Ben tells me brightly and I glare at him.
Lisa's already positioning herself so the sun is at her back.
"Can we get this one?" she asks sweetly.
I shrug. Don't care. Richard stands by my left, squinting, but doesn't say anything either.
We square off. The Lawsons versus the Bellinis. Sounds like a court case.
Ben wraps his sweatband, cracks his back and spins his racket like a revolver before he tosses at Richard, "Don't worry. I'll go easy on you."
Richard laughs it off. "First time really playing, but I'm tougher than I look."
Ben purses his lips, nods. "I like people who don't make excuses."
Then finally, he sees me.
Eyes. Hips. Legs. Back to eyes.
"No mercy for you, though," he says, pointing the racket at me and there's no humor in it.
I sneer-laugh. "If you need to demolish an amateur to feel better about yourself, be my guest."
He gives me a smirk that says he's planning to enjoy this no matter what, and slides into the trophy stance. Then he blasts a topspin, fast enough to zip behind Richard before Richard even jerks his racket.
Richard lets out a tight, annoyed breath and adjusts his collar on reflex.
"Point!" Lisa chirps, bounding over to Ben for a high-five. "Nice shot, partner!"
"That's fifteen-love." He grabs her by the shoulders and—that asshole—presses a kiss on her nose.
"Keep counting," he adds, loud enough for me to hear.
Great. That's how I wanted to spend my Sunday: get tortured by him one serve at a time.
I bite so hard I might taste blood.
Ben serves again—a fluid, effortless move toward Richard, who lunges for it and barely makes it.
"The wind's terrible," Richard mutters.
I whisper, teasingly, "Darling, this isn't badminton," but he looks at me like he's not having it, so I bite back that there's no wind either.
Lisa volleys like a ballerina. "It's the aerodynamics, actually. Don't worry, Richard, you'll get into it. Ben's not easy to play against, but he promised me no shenanigans, right?"
When Ben ignores her, she waves her racket at him, one brow raised. "Right, Ben?"
Ben brushes the ball and shoots her an exasperated look, throwing his arms wide out. "Why am I being lectured? I'm playing on ten percent."
"Really? You're sweating before we've even started," she says in her faux-joking tone, smiling too much.
I guess bodily functions aren't her thing. She must sweat La Prairie.
Ben shrugs and flaps his damp shirt across his chest. "I told you, I've been sweating like this since marathon training."
Before I can stop myself, right in the middle of my backhand, it slips out: "Marathon sounds great."
Damn it. I mean it, though. Always wanted to try it too.
Ben doesn't even smile though, too focused on the game, and making me run around.
Lisa isn't on board—surprisingly. She stops mid-rally and flips her ponytail, her tone sharp with irritation. "He tried it once in New York. Cracked his ankle thirty minutes in, then spent a month in bed. I told him he doesn't have to impress anyone—we're way past college."
Ouch. Right in the solar plexus. And here I thought Ben was on her team.
Richard muffles a chuckle into a cough.
Ben's jaw tightens, and he turns away from Lisa.
I'd say something, but the bag enters my peripheral vision and—yeah, hard no. He can enjoy his wife and the cherries. Pits and all.
"Can we just play finally?" Ben grunts. "Or did we come here to chat?"
Lisa makes a face. "Sorry," she says to us, all sugary, and floats her serve. Richard lobs it. The game finally clicks in.
Then—because of course he does—Ben peels off his shirt mid-rally, swiping sweat off his chest, all while nailing every backhand like he's bored of us. Hands gotta do something, right?
Internally, my mouth drops and I whip my head away before I look longer than is socially acceptable.
"What are you doing?" Lisa hisses with consternation.
"You know I overheat. This, or I pass out," he says unbothered and tosses the shirt out of the court to let her know there are no take-backs.
Richard edges closer, with his mimed mutter, "I get what you meant before. Who with manners does that?"
I swallow a laugh. One glance at Ben and it's obvious: Richard's jealous. Probably wishes he had the guts himself if he wasn't so reserved, even though there's no way he could compete.
Sure, Richard has a good build and arms, but there are men who look good, and then there are... gods.
Ben is definitely gods.
He lifts his arm, his torso splitting into that fierce six-pack, glistening with sweat under the sun, and I see it all in slow motion—the kind of body you don't just look at, but bow down to. Kneel for. Bend.
And, of course, that's when we lose the damn point. Then another. And then we start massively losing.
"You've got to aim at Lisa," I hiss at Richard. "I'm not leaving without scoring at least once."
"Relax," Richard snaps. "There's no trophy at the end."
I turn so he doesn't see my eye roll. For someone who's apparently tougher than he looks, he's playing like an old man. Or like he knows he'll lose anyway so the game has no meaning. I get it, but he doesn't.
Lisa keeps calling the score and Ben's too generous with the kisses—on her nose, cheeks, forehead, I think he even just kissed her neck.
I try not to look. Because if I do, I might incinerate.
Then there's the other part—if Ben plays ten percent with Richard, he cranks it up to sixty with me, and when he targets me, the balls come with loaded remarks.
"Come on, Emma. Stop being so predictable," he calls as I lunge forward like a rookie, nearly tripping over my own legs. Don't get it. Shit.
Ben smirks. "Didn't you use to run faster than this?"
I wish I had something clever to say, but I'm too busy swallowing oxygen, so I scrape myself together and stab him with my eyes.
I don't know how, but I swear he'll pay for all this.
"Slow down, cowboy," Lisa chimes, giggling, enjoying it too much. "Or Emma's going to think you've got a personal vendetta."
"Oh please," I pant. "I know Ben well enough not to take anything he says seriously."
Ben slows, his smirk tightening into something sharper, warning me, but I don't care. I step back into my position, waiting for Lisa's serve.
Then Richard leans closer and I nearly leap out of my skin when, out of nowhere, his fingers squeeze my butt-cheek under my skirt. I turn to him, shocked, but he smiles at me.
"Don't worry. You're actually pretty good," he says, both his voice and eyes purring. "I'm impressed."
Blink. Smile. Swing the racket, and pretend it didn't happen. But what the hell? Did he flag-plant his territory? Or did he think no one saw?
Well, Ben saw. And his retaliation is immediate. He fires a forehand that rips through the air like a gunshot. The ball hisses across the court and slams square into my shoulder. Doesn't really hurt, but it knocks the wind out of me, and I stagger back a step.
I whirl, eyes wide on the spot, then catch that self-satisfied grin stretched across his face that says: Yup, I meant it. Yup, you deserved it.
I stomp, infuriated. "What the ffffuuuu—!" Bite it back last second, my molars grinding.
Richard’s already rubbing my shoulder, face tight. His gaze flicks across the court at Ben, assessing him, glaring, before he turns to me.
“Em? Are you hurt?"
I shake my head, eyes flashing. “No. But I’m fucking pissed!” There. That feels better. Don't regret it one bit.
Richard grimaces, embarrassed now. Not for what he did—for me. For appearances.
"If you're not hurt, then what got into you?" he reprimands me, voice low, giving me those lecturing eyes I hate. "You have to learn to tame your emotions. It's just a game."
Game. Right. Relax. Giggle, maybe. But I'm not relaxed. I'm rage in sneakers at this point, and don't care what he thinks, so I push past Richard.
"Fine, Bellini." I stab a finger at Ben like I'm delivering a verdict.
"Bellini?" Ben echoes with a cocky flicker of a laugh.
Everyone spins like I've gone full lunatic. I might have, but I'll die on this court if that's what it takes to score on him.
Adrenaline surges, hot and sharp, tingling through my fingers.
Ben's hand is only halfway up before I'm at the baseline and I aim toward Lisa, because Ben's too close. My racket whistles through the air. Jump. Dink. The ball kisses her side of the net with a hard thunk.
"Yes!" I jump, swirling my skirt to the point Lisa scowls at me, but I'm watching Ben.
"My, my..." He arches one brow, surprised. "She bites back."
Face flat, I hold my hand up. "My serve."
He snorts. "Not how it works."
I look him dead in the eye. Nothing about this game was fair. "My. Serve."
He shrugs and chips the ball over casually, clearly humoring me.
"Em gets spirited when provoked," Richard says behind me like I'm some kind of spectacle.
Screw him. I keep running, eyes locked on the ball, hearing his apology or something about work emails as he leaves.
"I'm coming too. We should take a drink break anyway," Lisa says, running across the court while Ben and I play like it's a blood sport. "They say we should drink every thirty minutes in this heat."
The ball bolts across the net—fast, sharp, merciless.
"Are you guys coming?" she asks.
When none of us reply, she sighs loudly and walks away.
"You're holding the racket wrong," Ben calls out.
I sneer but adjust anyway. "Mind your damn business. Why do you care?"
He tosses the next forehand, racket swinging like an extension of his arm. "I like to do at least one good deed a day."