Page 62 of Maverick

Nick gasps out a laugh, and stands, propping his hands on his waist. "I'll help you."

I straighten up, wiping my brow with the back of my hand. Nick and I are getting our asses handed to us by two eighty-year-old men. When they first stepped onto the court, I felt bad for them. They shuffled more than walked, knees barely bending. Their tennis whites were crisp and clean and they were obviously taking it very seriously, so I made damned sure not to laugh.

I'm not fucking laughing now.

Holy fuck, can these geezers hit. The moment the game started, they transformed. Their paddles became extensions of their arms, whipping through the air with a speed and precisionthat left us holding our dicks in our hands. They placed the ball exactly where they wanted it, sending Nick and me scrambling from one end of the court to the other. Yeah it's a small court, but it's still a fuck of a lot of running. Just when we'd return a serve on one side, they'd hit to the other.

My knees fucking hurt.

Meanwhile, these old assholes haven't broken a sweat. They're not even breathing hard. It's like they're taking a leisurely stroll in the park while Nick and I are running a fucking marathon. Their feet haven't fucking moved. At the most, they've leaned from side to side.

"This is embarrassing," Nick mutters as we regroup for the next serve. "I thought we were in decent shape."

I nod, still trying to catch my breath. "Apparently not pickleball shape. These guys are machines."

One of our opponents, a wiry man with a shock of white hair, grins at us from across the net. "You boys ready for another round?" he asks, bouncing the ball on his paddle.

I glance at Nick, who shrugs. "Bring it on, old man," I call out, trying to sound more confident than I feel.

The serve comes fast and low, and I lunge for it, barely getting my paddle on the ball. It pops up, an easy shot for our opponents. The other man, built like a tank despite his age, smashes it back at us. Nick dives, but the ball skids past him, bouncing twice before he can get to it.

"Nice shot," I say grudgingly as we rotate positions.

The white-haired man chuckles. "You kids are putting up a good fight. We haven't had a workout like this in years."

"You're not even breathing hard," Nick says, his tone dry.

The old guy winks. "I get my cardio horizontal, son."

Both of us freeze, looking back at one another. "Did this fucker just tell me his cardio is fucking?" Nick asks, eyes wide.

"Yeah, he did."

"Jesus. I want to be him when I grow up. If I survive this, that is."

The game continues, and despite our best efforts, we just can't seem to gain any ground. These men move like they're half their age, anticipating our shots and countering with a finesse that's both impressive and really fucking infuriating.

As another ball whizzes past my ear, I can't do anything but laugh. We're fucking pathetic.

"I can't go out like this," Nick wheezes, glaring at the men. "Come on! We’re forty years younger than them. This is fucking pathetic."

I grit my teeth as Nick slams the ball back over the net with a grunt. The old guys' eyes widen, and then narrow. Oh shit. He just poked the bear.

The taller white-haired man returns Nick's shot with a vengeance, sending the ball rocketing toward my face at breakneck speed. I throw my paddle up just in time, but the force of the impact sends shockwaves through my arm. The ball ricochets off my paddle, and the paddle slams into my forehead. Fuck, that hurt. I swear I see little cartoon birds flying past my eyes.

The men across from us don't skip a beat. I'm in no position to return the serve, but Nick decides to be a fucking hero, diving for the ball like he's in a damn action movie. But he launches himself too far, and instead of hitting the ball, it slams right into his crotch with a sickening thud.

"Fuck!" he howls, dropping to the ground like a sack of potatoes. He curls into a fetal position, clutching his junk and whimpering.

"Ah fuck," the shorter one mutters. "Does he have kids yet?" he yells over at me. I shake my head as Jonas barks out a laugh behind me.

"He's not having any now, that's for damn sure. Nice hit Joe." They pat each other's backs, and shuffle toward the net, looking down at Nick with slightly sympathetic smiles. "You kids did okay. Next time, you'll do better."

"Next time?" Nick wheezes, laying his cheek on the gym floor. "I'm never coming back here. Now get me up. I need a doctor to extract my testicle from my lung."

"He sure turned that around quick,"Nan says, coming up beside me. She's still breathing hard from her match, but there's a twinkle in her eye as she surveys the scene.

She chuckles as we watch Nick milk his injury for all it's worth, soaking up the attention from the gaggle of older ladies surrounding him. He's got a shit-eating grin on his face as one particularly bold woman hand-feeds him a bite of cinnamon bun. Another is running her fingers through his hair, and I swear I can hear him purring from here.

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