Page 21 of Love, Take Two

"POINT WISE-KING!" the resort staff member serving as referee calls out after I spike a perfect setup from Emory right between Derek and Marcus, who are still arguing about who was supposed to cover that part of the court.

"Beginners luck," Derek calls out, though he's already breathing hard from chasing balls in the sand.

"Sure," Emory agrees with a grin, then turns to me. "Same setup?"

"Always," I reply without thinking, then catch myself using language that sounds more like established partnership than casual friendship.

We win the first match easily, then dominate the second against Jared and Erika, who are adorable together but have clearly never played competitive sports as partners. By the time we reach the finals, we've attracted a crowd that includes most of the wedding guests and several resort staff members who seem genuinely impressed by our athletic coordination.

The final match is against two actual couples who clearly play volleyball. They're coordinated, competitive, and significantly more challenging than our previous opponents.

"Okay," Emory says as we huddle before the final game, his hand resting on my lower back in a gesture that feels automatic and intimate. "They're going to target the middle and try to find the big holes."

"Got it," I say, hyperaware of his hand on my back and the way his attention focuses entirely on me when we're strategizing.

"Follow my lead," he agrees, and something about the intensity in his voice makes my pulse quicken. "Trust me?"

"Always," I say without thinking, then catch myself using that word again.

The final match is the intense.

When I dive for a difficult save, Emory is already moving to the perfect position for my return. When he sets up the next play, I'm exactly where he needs me to be. We're not just playing volleyball together; we're performing some kind of athletic dance that requires perfect partnership.

"MATCH POINT WISE-KING!" the referee announces after I spike another perfect setup from Emory, and the crowd erupts in applause.

"WE DID IT!" I shout, jumping into Emory's arms in a victory celebration that's pure instinct and zero thought about appropriate friendship boundaries.

He catches me and spins me around, both of us laughing and breathless and high on adrenaline and success. For a moment, we're suspended in that perfect athletic high where everything feels possible and nothing exists except the shared joy of winning together.

When he sets me down, we're standing close enough that I can feel his rapid breathing, smell the sunscreen and ocean air on his skin. The victory celebration lingers longer than necessary, both of us caught in the moment.

"That was incredible," he says, his voice slightly breathless and his hands still resting on my waist.

"We're a pretty good team," I reply, though my voice comes out more intimate than I intended.

"Pretty good is an understatement," Maya calls out, approaching our little celebration with obvious delight. "You two just dominated an entire tournament like you've been playing together for years."

Around us, other wedding guests are congratulating our victory and taking photos that will undoubtedly end up on multiple social media accounts. But all I can focus on is the way Emory's hands feel on my waist and the expression in his eyes that suggests he's thinking about more than just athletic partnership.

"CHAMPIONS!" Derek announces, arriving with what appears to be celebratory drinks despite the fact that it's barely five PM. "The dream team! The unstoppable force!"

"Derek," Emory says with remarkable patience, finally dropping his hands from my waist, "we're just good at volleyball."

"Right," Derek says with a knowing wink. "Just volleyball. Just wine tasting. Just yoga. Just looking at each other like you're solving the mysteries of the universe."

Before either of us can respond to Derek's latest over-analysis, resort staff members approach with a bottle of champagne and a small trophy that reads "Paradise Cove Volleyball Champions."

"Congratulations!" the activities coordinator says with genuine enthusiasm. "That was some of the best partner volleyball we've seen at the resort. You two could be professionals."

"This calls for a celebration," Erika announces once the official photos are finished. "Sunset cocktails and dancing!"

I choose my flowing sundress—photographsbeautifully in golden hour light but also moves well for dancing. Maya helps with hair and makeup, providing best friend commentary about how I should "stop overthinking whatever is happening with Emory and enjoy the fact that you two are obviously perfect for each other."

"We're not perfect for each other," I protest while she applies highlighter to my cheekbones. "We're compatible in some areas."

"Okaay," Maya adds with obvious amusement.

Before I can formulate a response that doesn't make my emotional confusion more obvious, Emory appears at the terrace door. Through the glass, I can see him waiting in slacks and a button-down shirt that makes him look unfairly handsome in the evening light.

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