Page 2 of Tequila Tuesdays

I dove under the ball and pancaked my hand out just centimeters from the dirt, hitting it up. Then I rolled up fast. Kevin got under the ball and gave me a decent set not too close to the net.

I bent my knees, pumped my arms, and engaged my quads. My vertical leap this one time was almost as good as it had been in college. I rotated my arm back and spiked the living shit out of that ball—right into Dimple’s face. He instinctively flinched, but the impact jerked his head back, and the ball bounced off the side of his nose and rolled off the net.

He wiped his hand under his nose and gazed down at the blood. Then he looked up and stared at me.

His teammates froze for a couple of seconds, then swarmed around him. I stood impassively with my hands on my hips, watching them fuss over him. Johanna glared at me.

The big player—I think his name was Zach or Zeke—glanced at me and smirked, then grabbed a towel off one of their bags.

He tossed it to Dimples. “Here.”

“Damien, are you okay? Your nose is bleeding!” Johanna fluttered around him.

One of their players with green shorts on shook his head in amazement. “Holy shit, man! That spike was like a rocket—right to your face. Good thing you turned your head. That was an amazing jump.”

Dimples gave him an exasperated look.

The green-shorts guy shrugged. “What? It’s true.” He looked over at me, his eyes traveling up and down my legs. I gave him a bored look.

Dimples pulled the towel from his face and watched me. A sluggish drop of blood oozed out of one nostril. “Anyone have any tissues? I need to stop the bleeding so we can finish.”

His friend cocked his head. “What’re you thinking? You gonna to pack your nose and keep playing?”

Dimples looked at me. “Yeah.”

“I’ve got tissues,” Johanna volunteered. Of course she had tissues.

He took the package from her but kept staring at me. I watched as he efficiently stuffed his nostrils. Then we got back into position, and we resumed play. We traded three more points back and forth, fighting to the death for every return.

We were finally up by one, but my team was breathing hard and fading fast. It was now or never. Finally, after a volley that seemed to last forever, Frankie put up a decent set—probably her first one of the season.

“All right!” Josh shouted in approval.

It wasn’t perfect, but I could work with it. I drew on the last of my reserves, jumping high and swinging my arm back again. Their front line froze for a millisecond, probably remembering my last spike. I pulled the hit at the last second and tapped the ball softly to the side of their left blocker. It landed inbounds with only centimeters to spare.

My team, who minutes before had been winded and tired, erupted into celebration.

“We won! We won! We won!” someone chanted.

Josh grabbed Frankie and spun her around.

“Gracias Dios!” Jaime muttered and flopped down on the grass.

Frankie looked shell-shocked. When Josh finally put her down, the others swarmed around her, patting her on the back and congratulating her.

“Nice work, lanky Frankie.” I gave her a hard slap on her ass and patted her shoulder. She smiled up at me with the most beautiful smile I’d ever seen.

While my team celebrated, I looked over at Dimples. He watched me carefully.

“Walmart parking lot,” I mouthed at him.

He tilted his head as if trying to understand what I’d said.

His big friend came up to him and patted his shoulder. “I think she mouthed something about Walmart.”

The noise from our side quieted down a bit, and Dimples walked over to the net in front of me. “Nice fake, Val. I’ll see you next season.”

“Yeah, you will.” I started to turn away, but turned back at the last second. “You can shit-talk me all you want. But don’t fuck with my team, Dimples.”

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